THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel (14 page)

Anna was about to object, but decided to keep quiet. She needed to get out too, and it was much too late to think of joining her colleagues; they would have long since left Poznan. Anna knew that their security people had drawn up emergency plans. If Germany invaded, the codebreakers were to move to the southeastern corner of Poland, taking their precious equipment and records. In the event of an imminent German victory, they would destroy their equipment and burn their records, then cross into Romania. From there, they would attempt to get out to London or Paris, and put themselves at the service of the allies. She wondered where they were now.

“Anyhow,” Ryk retreated, “that's probably not a good idea. I don't know how much gas you have, and Romania's a long way to go.”

“You can forget Romania,” said Anna's mother. “The Russians have invaded from the east.”

“Then I'll have to move to Plan B. The time has come for the Red Baron to make one last flight.” The Red Baron was Ryk's nickname for his old German Fokker triplane, which had been repainted red—complete with black German crosses—to make it look like the famous World War I fighter of Baron Manfred von Richthofen. “If I hadn't been wounded, I would have asked Josef to help me with repairs, and offered him the back seat. But it's obviously too late, now he's left to help in the defense of Warsaw.” Ryk gazed at Anna.

“I might be able to help. Provided I could have that back seat.”

“No you don't,” interrupted her mother. “The skies are full of German fighters. It would be suicide.”

“I think it might just be done,” Ryk responded to Anna. “With luck. We need three things. To get the engine running. I think that's possible. Second problem: we need gas. A hundred and fifty liters, at the very least. Third, and biggest problem. Your mother is right. Normally the skies would be too dangerous, with enemy fighters on the prowl. But if we could get our hands on an artificial horizon, we could fly at night or through clouds. You could use your weather forecasting skills to figure out when the cloud cover was thickest.”

Anna looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Where, pray tell, would you get such an instrument?” asked Anna's mother frostily.

“The most likely source would be a plane—Polish or German—that has crashed.”

“I hear that a Messerschmitt crashed somewhere to the North,” Anna reported. “Perhaps Zambrowski could find out where.” Zambrowski was part of the chauffeur's fraternity. They kept in touch, and were great sources of information and gossip.

Ryk warmed to his subject. “That would be great, if you could check with him. Find out if he knows about any downed plane—one that has a horizon. It's an instrument mounted on the panel, with a horizontal line across it—that's the artificial horizon—and a wing that tilts whenever the plane does. There's a ball attached to the back of the instrument's face. It's essential; it makes the thing work. In most planes, the apparatus can be taken out by unscrewing the facing on the instrument panel and then pulling out the assembly from the back. It's important not to cut the electrical leads too short; we'll need them when we reinstall the horizon.”

Meanwhile, Ryk would busy himself trying to get the engine running and seeing if he could scrounge up enough gas.

An hour later, after talking to Zambrowski, Anna returned to the mansion. Her mother was in the kitchen, preparing lunch. Except for Zambrowski, the servants had returned to their families, to help meet the wartime disruptions and crises.

Anna picked up a knife and began to peel potatoes. Her mother said nothing; the air was electric. Anna broke the silence.

“I know you don't want me to fly out, mother, but I don't have any choice. I just have to get out.”

“What good will it do, if you just get yourself killed? Then you won't be of any use to anybody—to Poland, Britain, or anyone else. Just think of Kaz.” The knife flashed as Mme. Raczynski sped up her task of slicing carrots.

“You don't need to remind me of Kaz,” said Anna, tears welling in her eyes.

“You'll never make it. If the Germans don't shoot you down—which they probably will—that old rattletrap will fall apart. It's made of rotting wood, rusting wire, and torn cloth. How can it stand up to a long flight?”

“It's remarkable what wood and wire can hold together.”

“Well I don't like it. The risks. And you a married woman. Running off with another man.” Her mother's knife slashed even more rapidly; she was setting a speed record for slicing carrots.

Anna was taken by surprise. The danger of getting killed was all too obvious. But this other bit. Was her mother serious? Not likely. In her terror over a flight in an ancient airplane, she was probably clutching at any argument she could make.

“Do you really think I don't care about Kaz? I've tried to find out where he is. All I know: he survived the early battles, but he's no longer near Poznan. Don't you realize, mother, that the army is collapsing? Any survivors that don't head for the hills will be taken prisoner. Visitors not permitted. Whatever happens, I won't see Kaz 'til the war is over.

“Mother, we have to face it. The Germans will be here within a week. At the most. If we don't get out in the next few days, it will be impossible. Also, to put it bluntly, the Germans may torture me.”

“Going off with Ryk. Don't you know what a daredevil he is? Don't you realize that he's been in love with you ever since you were fifteen? That he's quite prepared to risk
your
life as well as his own, just to be with you.”

“Oh, mother.” Anna spoke softly, with pain in her voice. Her mother
was
grasping at straws.

“You mean you really don't know that he's still in love with you? Ask Sisi. She can see what's obvious.”

Anna paused, thinking back two weeks to the dinner party, and to earlier years. Her mother was right on one thing; Ryk certainly was a daredevil. But in love? Maybe—just maybe, at one time. But mostly, wasn't that just fun? And yet....

Anna suppressed the thought. She would try to get out. The sooner the better.

Ryk was anxious to get started and asked Zambrowski to take him home. As they were starting out the drive, Anna hailed the chauffeur. As he stopped, she jumped in the back seat beside Ryk.

The old Fokker triplane was in a shed and was in surprisingly good condition; it had been used regularly by Ryk's uncle until shortly before his death the year before. Rummaging around among the tools, Ryk found an extra set of spark plugs, and within a few hours, he and Anna had the engine running. A bit roughly, but it was running.

As instructed, Zambrowski returned at 8:00 p.m. to pick up Anna, and brought her home for the night. She would return early the next morning, when work would begin on the difficult problem of fuel storage. The gas tank in the old Fokker would hold only 90 liters, enough for its designed task—an hour and a half of violent combat—and probably enough for three hours' cruising. They would have to find some way of storing another 60 or 70 liters to give them a sporting chance to reach Sweden. As she left, Ryk asked her to start making weather forecasts; they would need them before they took off.

Anna wondered how she had gotten herself in this box; she knew nothing about forecasting. But she quickly figured out the next best thing. She listened to the German-language short-wave broadcasts from Sweden, which included detailed forecasts for the Baltic. Much of the weather came from that direction at this time of year, giving her the beginnings of a forecast. Before leaving for Ryk's, she checked by with Gwido, the supervisor of farming operations. He had a knack for forecasting, developed over the years—he was the one who decided when it was time to make hay. She combined the forecasts for a report to Ryk; he was duly impressed by its accuracy.

Within two days, Ryk had solved the fuel storage problem—or, at least, so he hoped. When the machine guns were removed from the triplane right after the Great War, the ammunition boxes were left. He welded these shut and ran a short copper tube down to the main fuel tank; gravity would drain these two supplementary tanks before the main tank. But this was not enough. Each of the boxes would hold less than 15 liters; they would still be at least forty liters short.

To make up the deficit, they briefly considered mounting a 50-litre can on top of the fuselage where the machine guns were originally located. But that would be too risky. If they were intercepted by a German plane, the pilot would immediately be suspicious; a supplementary tank could have only one purpose, to increase the range so the Fokker could flee the country. They rigged the can inside the fuselage, directly behind the passenger's seat.

In that location, it was too low for the gasoline to be fed to the engine by gravity. Ryk solved this problem by inserting the stem from a bicycle tire in the top of the can. Anna's job—at least during the early part of the flight—would be to pump air into the tank, forcing the gasoline up into the main tank as fuel was consumed. When the tank was empty, Ryk would close a valve to prevent gas from running back into the can.

Zambrowski did his magic, obtaining an artificial horizon. After installing it, Ryk flew one quick circle around the pasture to make sure that it worked. A longer flight was out of the question; German forces were already in the area.

The time had come. They would leave as soon as weather permitted.

“I'm afraid I haven't exactly told the whole truth.” Anna realized that Ryk needed to know. “I really know nothing about weather forecasting; I just work on theoretical models. I got my forecasts from Swedish short-wave broadcasts and the farm foreman.”

“But that's great. It means we'll have information on the weather over the Baltic. What's your best forecast for cloud cover tonight?”

“Scattered clouds. Small risk of storms. I can check the radio again this evening when I'm home.”

“Too late. We have to make a decision now.”

“It's up to you; you're the pilot.”

“Tonight it is. At night, German fighters will be on the ground. With the artificial horizon, altimeter, and compass, I'm reasonably confident I can make my way to the Baltic. Even if we have trouble with the horizon, there probably will be enough lights on the ground to help me keep my wings level.”

“I trust you, Ryk.” Anna felt she had little choice.

“The big trouble starts when we get to the Baltic. Night flying over water can be tricky. If there are clouds—or even a light fog—you're in the pitch dark. You have no idea which way is up. Even on a clear night you can run into difficulty. The stars are out, but they also glitter off the water.”

“You really can't tell which way is up? But you know even in a completely dark room.”

“Ah, but a plane's different. It's treacherous. When you're in a turn, the lift from the wings keeps you pressed straight down in the seat. If it's dark, you'd swear you were still flying level, even if you're banking quite sharply.” Ryk illustrated by holding his hand out flat, palm down, and then gradually tilting it. “Without realizing it, you can continue to bank, and slide into a spin.” When his palm became vertical, he ended with a circling, sinking motion. “That's why the artificial horizon is so important. In the dark—or in the clouds—your normal senses betray you. You've got to trust your instruments, even when the readings seem preposterous.
Particularly
when the readings seem preposterous.”

“So what happens when we get to the Baltic?”

“German fighters may be out. We could risk crossing the sea at night, hoping our instruments are still working. We'll need daylight to land, but we could aim for Sweden at dawn.”

“Or?”

“Or we can try to arrive at the southern coast of the Baltic about dawn, so that we won't be flying over the water at night.”

“And you suggest?”

“I suggest we leave tomorrow morning around 3:00. According to my calculation, that should take us over the coast right at dawn.”

“Fine by me. I'll be back by 2:00.”

“Dress warmly. Especially around your head. It'll feel like the North Pole when we're up in the air. No luggage. We'll have trouble enough getting off the ground with the extra fuel.”

That evening, her mother was in an especially grumpy mood, complaining about her daughter's plan to fly off. With “that swashbuckler.” Anna was torn; she felt she couldn't tell her mother that this was the night, that she would be gone long before dawn. She was already half sick, worried about Kaz, and, when she was honest with herself, about the dangers of the flight. She just couldn't stand a scene.

She turned to her father, asking him to join her for a walk in the cold, clear evening air.

Just one-on-one, he could hear her, at least when she spoke slowly and directly to him.

“Tonight's the night. We'll be leaving shortly after 1:00.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I may be hard of hearing, but I can still sense how you feel. Those sixteen years at home count for something. I guessed you would be leaving tonight. And I noticed that Zambrowski left the Mercedes out at the end of the drive. Why would he do that, unless he wanted to be able to start the car without waking your mother? I asked him straight out; he admitted he would be taking you tonight.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Anna threw her arms around him. “I love you so. And Mother.”

“No matter what happens, remember how much we love you. How much joy you brought into our lives. How proud we were when you got that scholarship to the University. How happy we were when you married Kaz.”

“Mommy. She's in such a mood.”

“I think she suspects that tonight's the night, too.”

“You told her?”

“No. But when you've been married as many years as we have....”

“I don't know if I can tell her.”

“You don't have to. I'll do it tomorrow morning. Just be sure you give her a big hug and kiss before you go to bed. A warm last memory.”

Anna hugged her father. As they stood there, she could feel him silently crying.

10
In Honor of the Red Baron

There are old pilots. There are bold pilots. There are no old, bold pilots.
An American pilot, World War I