Under a War-Torn Sky (20 page)

At the third day's dawning, they came to an abrupt halt beside a tall, stone wall. The driver kept the motor idling. Another man entered the back of the van. He was British, a Special Operations agent, parachuted in to work with the French. He quickly briefed them: “We are waiting for two more pilots they're bringing on the night train from Lyon. We are in Narbonne. Usually we would take you through Perpignan to Céret. But our contact there has disappeared. We think the Gestapo got him.”

“How is the invasion going?” interrupted one of the RAF pilots.

The British officer answered crisply, “Best not to think about it. They're not much past the beaches yet. You're on your own for a bit longer.”

He gave out hand-drawn maps, rough squiggles of compass-point directions through mountain passes.

“We will drive you to Carcassonne. You'll walk from Carcassonne to Quillan. Then from Quillan you will cross the Pyrenees through Andorra to get into Spain. This is our longest but safest ratline. It will take six to eight days to cross. The hardest part is from Quillan to Andorra. Some of that march is snow covered, even now.

“Your guide is new to us. Be careful. He is Basque, more Spanish than French. He was a smuggler during the Spanish Civil War. We think he carried mostly for the Republican side, so he shouldn't have too much love for a Fascist like Hitler. He's also been well paid by His Majesty to guide you. But do keep an eye on him.”

The officer distributed small knapsacks containing food and lanterns.

“It is most dangerous at the Spanish frontier. It's crawling with German patrols. No fires. No matter how cold it is. No talking either.

“Mind that you don't get caught. If you are, you will be tortured to reveal everything you can about our French friends. Then you will be shot. Good luck.”

With that he closed the doors.

Ten minutes later, two new men hopped into the van. It roared off. They barely spoke English. They were Russians, shot down in Italy. Resistance workers there had gotten them into France. They were husky and strong-looking. They might not speak English worth a lick, thought Henry, but he was glad to have some guys with brawn joining them. He and Billy had always been slight because of their youth, but now they were winnowed down to complete lightweights. Billy's arm was still in a sling. He couldn't tell about the muscle power of the Brits. None of them had weapons. What were they supposed to do if challenged?

It took the day to drive to Carcassonne. At twilight, they got off the van at a farmhouse next to a river. Their driver left them beside a haystack. The Brits and Russians paced, unused to the torment of waiting, waiting, without instructions or any idea of what was coming next.

At least I've gotten more used to that, thought Henry. He recognized that he was again the youngest of the young men. But in this situation, for the first time since being shipped over to England, he had the advantage of experience on them. “Relax,” he said. “Save your strength. They'll come. They always do.”

Around midnight, a man materialized out of the shadows. He was small, wiry, with a craggy face and few teeth inside his grin. Henry was certain he saw a smile creep over the man's unattractive face as he counted them up and muttered, “Six,” in French.

“
Allons-y
.” He motioned for them to follow.

They walked, single file, with Henry repeatedly dragging Billy into the cover of shadows.

Within an hour, the land began to surge upward at a steady incline. Henry could hear the others begin to breathe heavily in the thinning air. They tripped on rocks and stumbled with resounding thuds and curses to the rocky ground.

“Shhhhh,” Henry cautioned.

They climbed all night, resting only once. By daybreak they were atop a horizon of billowing peaks. To the south they could see snowcapped mountains jutting brutishly up into the sky, thousands of feet higher than where they now stood, winded and bruised.

Billy whistled. “You've got to be kidding me. They think we can walk over that? Isn't there another way to do this?”

“No, there isn't, Yank,” snapped one of the Brits. His pants were torn, his knees bloody from the falls he'd taken in the dark.

“You sure know how to make friends, Billy,” Henry said. “Sit down and be quiet.”

Squeezed between boulders to shield them from view, they slept through the day.

The next night winds attacked them. Blasting down the slopes, gales scraped their faces and pushed them over. Henry bent forward, virtually crawling up the rocky trail, to brace himself against their force. Only when the group travelled through the sparse pine groves did they get any relief from the roaring winds.

Their guide seemed unperturbed by it all. He often stood on a crag, waiting impatiently for them to scramble up to him. More than once he spat in contempt, watching them struggle.

Their line straggled now. The Russians went first, the Brits following at a considerable distance. Even farther back, Henry waited for Billy. Many times Henry half lifted Billy along. By night's end, he no longer could spot their guide. He kept his eye on the back of the slower RAF pilot.

The third night, melting, muddy snow added to their miseries. The rocks were icy and slick. Once one of the Brits fell and skidded down the ridge, taking Henry and then Billy with him in a tumble of pilots. Billy finally stopped their slide down the mountain by crashing into a boulder.

“Jesus Christ!” Billy cried, clutching his arm. “I can't do this any more, Hank. I can't. I've got to rest.”

Henry stood up and saw the guide making his way down to them.

“He's got to rest,” Henry explained. “He's hurt.”

The guide shook his head and growled at Henry to move on, to leave Billy if he couldn't hold up: “
S'il ne peut pas tenir le coup, abandonne-le.
” He pointed to the crest of rocks above them. “
Marchez maintenant.
”

The British pilot picked himself up and said to Henry, “Come on, Yank. Leave him. We can't jeopardize five because one gent can't hack the climb.”

Henry looked at Billy and lied to encourage him. “The guide says we're almost to the safe house, Billy. It's just a little further. There will be food and a warm bed there. You can do it. I'll help you.”

“I can't, Hank. I can't do it. Can't we rest a little while?” Billy's voice cracked.

“
Allez. Vite,
” snarled the guide.

Henry stood his ground. Billy was a complete pain in the neck. They were all tired, weren't they? But Henry couldn't abandon him. He'd never find his own way. He'd eaten all his food. He'd die in the mountains. “I'm staying with him. Go ahead. We'll follow.”

The guide stepped towards Henry threateningly. Then he laughed and called them dead men. He turned and climbed away.

The RAF pilot hesitated. “I'll slow him down, if I can, Yank. Try to catch up. Follow our tracks in this mess. See you in Barcelona.”

Only the wind kept them company now – wind and the black night and the fear of a Nazi patrol. Henry fought the urge to slap Billy into action. He waited half an hour, then he whispered, “We've got to go, Billy. If we leave now, we may be able to catch up with them.”

“A little longer,” moaned Billy.

“Look, Billy,” Henry tried logic, “their map only shows where the passes are. It doesn't tell where to pick up the next contact. If we lose this guide for good, we may never find the person to take us to the US embassy in Spain.”

Billy dropped his head on his knees and said melodramatically, “You go on without me, farm boy. I won't live to tell anyone you deserted me.”

Henry saw red. “Get up off your sorry ass, you stupid piece of dirt. I didn't have to wait for you at all. I'm not about to die here after what I've been through and after all that people have sacrificed to save me because some lazy, spoiled Yankee good-for-nothing hasn't got the guts to get up and walk.”

Billy's head popped up.

Henry gasped. He sounded just like Clayton. But it was working. He'd gotten Billy's attention all right. Henry went for it: “
Get up now!
”

Half dragging him, Henry forced Billy up the mountain. He hissed stern encouragement, “One step at a time, White. One step at a time. We'll make it. You and me. Then when we get home I'm gonna take you to the farm and whup your butt to make you a real man. Introduce you to my ma and Patsy, women worth knowing. One step at a time, Billy. You and me.”

Billy said nothing. He just clung to Henry and climbed.

When they reached the top of the ridge, Henry let go of Billy. He was exhausted from pulling himself and Billy up the rocks. He bent over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. Both of them were heaving, making great clouds of mist in the frigid air.

As their breathing slowly quietened, Henry could make out voices down below on the other side of the ridge. The guide and other pilots must have stopped to rest. “Come on, Billy. They're waiting for us. Betcha that old guide has pulled out some food he stored up here. Let's go.”

In the moonlight, Billy smiled weakly. “Okay, Hank. I'll follow you.”

Henry and Billy hurried down the other side of the ridge more on the seats of their pants than their feet. Henry's relief made him reckless. He followed the sound of voices without really listening to them. He was just a few pine trees from the group when he recognized what he was hearing. There was the French guide's voice. But what answered it was not English. It was German.

Henry froze and dropped to the ground, yanking Billy down beside him. From the ground he squinted into the gloom. There were four German soldiers, guns up and pointed. There were the other pilots – one, two, three, four – hands on their heads.

There was the guide. A fifth Nazi, an officer, was handing him something. Henry gasped. It was a wad of money. The bastard had turned the pilots over for a nice fat reward.

Now the guide was talking. Henry could just barely hear him, “
Et encore deux autres,
” he pointed back towards the ridge, back towards where Henry and Billy hugged the ground.

The officer dispatched two of the soldiers.

“Billy, they're coming for us. Crawl that way, quick.” Henry pushed Billy hard.

The two of them shimmied across the ground, fast as lizards, terror finally invigorating Billy. They scooted under one tree then another then another. Henry shot in front to lead them.

Behind him, he heard something catch on a low branch. Must be Billy's sling. Henry turned around to tell him not to struggle, that it would make too much noise. But he was too late.

Panicked, Billy yanked hard. The sling held tight, the branch rustled wildly, then cracked.

The sound led the Nazis right to them.

Bullets exploded in the trees nearby as the German soldiers shot into the grove of pines. Henry put his hands over his head to protect himself against the
whizz
of bullets.

Henry heard shouts, more gunshots, then the sound of men struggling. He looked up and saw the Russians striking the Nazis, grabbing at their guns.

“Come on, Billy! Now's our chance.”

Henry and Billy crawled, lunged, threw themselves through the underbrush.

“
Hier entlang!
” German voices yelled.

Henry could hear feet running after them.

“Hurry, Billy,” he urged. “Move!”

There were more shots, too loud, too close, and then Billy screamed and collapsed, writhing. “I'm hit, Hank. Oh, God. Hank, help me!”

Henry grabbed Billy around his chest. He pulled, pulled hard, and dragged Billy through the thicket. Henry could hear the running feet nearing.

“
Hier entlang!
”

Billy was dead weight, getting heavier each second.

“Leave me, Hank,” Billy's voice gurgled. It sounded like he was choking on something. “Go on, I mean it.”

“No,” Henry answered, grunting and lurching. “We're both going home.”

If he could just make it to that slope over there, they could slide down on their backs and lose themselves in the rocks below. He could hide Billy and try to jump one of the soldiers. He could bash in a Nazi head with a loose stone. The Russians looked to have killed at least one. The Brits had to be fighting as well. They could do this. Just a little farther.

“Hank,” Billy reached up and grabbed Henry's collar. “Leave me. I'm dying.” Billy's voice was calm.

“No,” Henry gritted his teeth. He hadn't saved Dan or Pierre's mother. He would be haunted by them the rest of his life. Come hell or high water or Hitler himself he was determined to take Billy with him.

Concentrating on the ledge ahead of him, Henry lost his footing. He fell on top of Billy. As he pushed himself up he saw that Billy's face was awash in blood that flowed from his mouth. Billy still gripped his collar. Henry could tell that even though his eyes looked up, Billy could no longer see him.

“Hank,” Billy's voice was no louder than a breath. “Let go of me. Get home to that pretty girl of…” Billy's hand fell away.

He was dead.

With a sob, Henry tried to lift himself up to run, run for his own life. But something cold on his neck stopped him – something cold and sharp.

It was the barrel of a German gun.

Henry stared at the stiff upright collar of the Gestapo officer standing in front of him. His eyes were so swollen from the beating he'd received from the border patrol that he couldn't lift them to assess the man's face. His voice was cold, though. Cold and frighteningly amused by Henry.

He laughed when Henry had frowned, confused, at the clip of the Gestapo's British accent. “Four years at Cambridge,” he informed Henry. “So you see, you cannot hope to play word games with me, American. My English vocabulary is probably better than yours.”