Across a War-Tossed Sea (14 page)

“Amen,” murmured Charles, Wesley, and the Ratcliffs, along with millions of other Americans that night.

A
few days later, Freddy put his pencil on a map and traced a line northward along the crinkly paper. “Just up Willis Church Road a mite, over White Oak Swamp, across the railroad tracks, to Portugee Road.”

“How long do you suppose it'd take us?” Wesley whispered. He and Freddy were lying belly to the ground under a persimmon tree, some distance from everyone else. But he still felt the need to keep his voice down for secrecy. The POWs were back on the Ratcliff farm, now helping to plant the cornfields. It was a sweltering day—already 103 degrees at noon. Mr. Ratcliff had shooed them all into the shade for a lunch break. Everyone lay in grumbling clumps, fanning themselves.

“On bikes? About an hour,” Freddy reckoned. “Maybe less.”

Wesley nodded.

“But Daddy has my bike down in Newport News.”

“That's all right,” Wesley answered. Now that he and Ron had become brothers-in-arms, he'd already talked to Ron about being part of this adventure. Every detective needed a strongman. “Ron can carry you on the handlebars of his bike. He's done it plenty with the twins.”

“He won't carry a Negro boy on his bicycle.”

Wesley thought on that a moment. “He will. He's a better guy than you think. He just needs a little encouragement to know what's right.”

Freddy made a face.

“No, really. I think he just needs to feel he's needed somehow. Ron's rather proud of how strong he is. He really wants to know what mysterious secret project the army is working on up there at Elko. He really likes to think you Yanks come up with all the best ideas. I'll remind him that you're the only one who knows the way.”

“I'm telling you pure and simple it's some kind of airfield,” said Freddy. “I saw something with wings under that netting.”

“But why would they have more planes so close to the Richmond Air Base?” puzzled Wesley. “Oh, oh, oh!” He could hardly contain his excitement with the new suspicion he had. “Maybe they've designed some new kind of aircraft. The newspapers have reported our airmen seeing new Nazi planes with strange looking engines and no propellers. Maybe we Allies are developing a rocket ship like Flash Gordon's!”

“Well, whatever it is, they sure don't guard it much,” said Freddy. “I swear I could have waltzed right in and made off with one of them planes, easy.”

“Maybe we need to let the authorities know that,” murmured Wesley. It was like the guard watching over the POWs. He hardly paid any attention. Charles complained the Germans could wander off and escape if he didn't keep a sharp eye out. Wesley rolled over to check on the camp guard, who'd been propped up against a tree trunk, snoozing and snoring, not even pretending to do his job.

As Wesley turned, he startled in surprise. A few feet from him were the boots and blue jeans of a POW!

Wesley scrambled to sit up, shoving the map to one side, his heart pounding. What an idiot he was! What if the Jerry had overheard about Elko?

It was Günter. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to frighten you.”

Günter watched Freddy hurriedly fold up the map. Was the POW waiting to speak out of politeness? Wesley wondered. Or had he heard everything and so was trying to spot the location they'd been discussing?

When Günter did finally speak, it was haltingly and with embarrassment. “I do not know whom to ask,” he began. He held up a large paper sack that contained the lunch Mrs. Ratcliff had made for the POWs. “They will not eat.”

“What?” Wesley didn't quite understand what the young German was getting at.

Günter blushed. “They do not like American peanut butter.”

Wesley gaped. What a lot of nerve! He'd heard Nazi POWs refused to eat corn, too, saying back in Germany corn was only fed to hogs. Wesley had to admit some American food—like grits—had seemed quite odd to him at first. But he would never have out-and-out refused any of it, even as an invited guest. And these chaps were prisoners!

Günter hurried to add, “I think the peanut butter brilliant.”

“Where did you learn to say that?” Wesley asked, irritated to hear a German POW use a favorite British adjective for something being good.

“My father studied at Cambridge.”

“Really?”

Günter lowered his voice. “He quite liked his time in England. We are not Nazis. My family never joined the party. In Hitler's Germany, one fights for the Reich or is executed.”

He plopped himself down beside Wesley and quieted his voice even more. “Actually, I am relieved your D-day has come. I hope the war ends now. Hitler is destroying the Fatherland. The other prisoners”—he tipped his head toward the beefier Germans—“were in North Africa. They have not seen the destruction of our cities by your air forces. They only witnessed the parades, the speeches, the excitement Hitler made before they left Germany to conquer Africa. They have not seen mothers die in fires”—his voice cracked—“or children crushed in rubble.” Günter stopped and looked away.

Were those tears in the Jerry's eyes? Wesley was amazed. He had to blink away the image Günter painted, knowing well the type of horrifying scene he described. Wesley had never thought much before about German families suffering the same kind of terror he and Charles had.

Well, they started it, Wesley thought. If Hitler hadn't decided to gobble up Europe, no Allied planes would be flying over Germany dropping bombs. He squirmed and shifted to sit cross-legged.

His movement pulled Günter's attention back to Wesley and seemed to spark an idea. Günter shifted to sitting cross-legged too, as a child might follow the lead of another to make friends. Günter pulled a book out of his pocket. On its worn, faded cover was an illustration of an American Apache in fringed buckskin, holding a long rifle.

“Do you know the books of Karl May?” he asked. “I grew up reading about the American Wild West through the stories of Old Shatterhand. He is a German engineer who helps build the transcontinental railroad. He befriends an Apache prince named Winnetou. At first they are enemies. Then they become comrades. May wrote many books about their adventures. Together, they fight injustice and corruption. They are my favorite stories since I was your age.”

Wesley couldn't help himself. He reached for the book. Günter handed it to him, smiling.

“Blimey!” Wesley tipped the book so Freddy could see the picture of Winnetou as well. “Looks like Tonto, doesn't he?”

“I had hoped to be sent to a POW camp in the west, perhaps Nebraska,” said Günter wistfully. “Then I might see a real Indian.”

Freddy laughed out loud. “Dang, Wes. This boy sounds just like you!”

Wesley grinned.

Günter brightened and grinned back.

“Actually, there are Indians in Virginia.” Wesley pointed east. “Just down the river was the Powhatan Confederacy. You know, Pocahontas? And there is a Chickahominy native living right now on…”

“What's going on here?” Charles interrupted as he and Bobby hurried up behind Günter. “What the deuce are you doing getting friendly with this Jerry, Wes?”

Wesley's smile vanished. “The POWs won't eat the sandwiches Mrs. Ratcliff made,” he defended himself.

Bobby flared up first, saying to Günter, “You insulting my mama's cooking?”

“Oh no! Not I!” Günter protested. “I ate my sandwich. With gratitude.” He stood up and nodded respectfully to Bobby. “I beg your pardon for my countrymen's…” He hesitated, his expression hardening. “My countrymen's…” Again he searched for the English word he wanted. “
Hochmut
…mmmm…feeling of importance.”

“I suggest you tell them to take what they get, mate,” Charles said coldly.

Günter's face flushed with embarrassment. “I did. I told them they were lucky to be given such food. As we cross the ocean, in the prisoner ship, I expected to be beaten and starved. I thought Americans would put us into slave labor when we arrived in the States like…like
der Fürher
did to the Poles and…” He trailed off.

He tried to smile as he continued, but his lips quivered with nervousness. “Instead, the Americans have been very good to us, I tell them. They give us soap and clean clothes and magazines to read, I say. In American POW camp we play football and chess. Some men paint pictures. Some learn English. I tell them, we should accept American food with thanks.”

He looked over his shoulder to where his fellow POWs sat, watching him, scowling. “But they say I better watch out for saying such things. There is punishment for disloyal Germans in camp.” He quieted his voice to a whisper: “The
Lager-Gestapo
, the Holy Ghost they call themselves. They drag soldiers they think are not true to
der Führer
into the latrine and beat them. Just like the SS at home. They hurt one of my friends because he likes American jazz. You know, Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey.” Günter imitated playing a clarinet and a trombone as he said the legendary names. But then he grew very serious. “They think I spread American propaganda when I translate Richmond newspapers and radio broadcasts, telling of Allied plans and advancements. They have left chicken bones in my bunk to warn me of…”

Now Mr. Ratcliff walked up and interrupted. “There a peace conference going on here, boys?” he joked.

“Just about the opposite, Dad,” Bobby blurted out. “The jerks are saying our peanut butter isn't good enough for them.”

Günter looked down sheepishly, as Mr. Ratcliff crossed his arms and squared his feet. Wesley and Charles recognized that stance—he was mad, but trying to be patient, waiting to hear an acceptable reason for bad behavior. “Care to explain that, son?” Mr. Ratcliff asked brusquely.

“I apologize for my rudeness.” Günter took a deep breath before continuing. “They do not like peanut butter. They ask for bologna or cheese.”

The boys waited for Mr. Ratcliff to speak. Charles bit his lip, wondering how long it'd been since his parents had had a decent bologna sandwich in bomb-riddled England.

“They can eat the peanut butter sandwiches or not eat them,” Mr. Ratcliff answered, his voice steely as he contained his anger. “But that's all they will be given. Peanut butter is good enough for me. Good enough for my sons. It is good enough for soldiers who have made war against my country.” He put his hand on Günter's shoulder, the way he always did when emphasizing a point with his own sons and the Bishop boys, usually one that required their facing up to doing the right thing, even if it was hard or intimidating. “You tell them that. Exactly as I said. Word for word. Understand me, son?”

His forehead crinkled with worry, Günter nodded.

“No sweetening what I said. I know enough pidgin German to know you soften what the guard says as you translate. I want them to get this message straight up.”

“
Jawohl
. I understand.”

“Take the bag back to them, then.” He patted Günter's shoulder.

Wesley handed Günter his book. Silently, Günter pocketed it. He turned and marched himself back, like he'd just received a sentence to be whipped.

His fellow POWs stood up as he approached. Slowly he recited Mr. Ratcliff's words, “
Der
Herr sagt: Sie können
die
Erd
nussbutter Sandwiches essen
oder nicht
essen.
Aber das ist
alles, was
Sie bekommen werden.
Es ist gut genug
für die Soldaten, die den
Krieg gegen mein Land gemacht haben.
”

The other young, quiet POW took the bag and pulled out a sandwich, dutifully sitting and eating. The others defiantly rammed their hands into their pockets. The man who'd kicked Günter for praying along with the American radio on D-day, stepped toe-to-toe with Günter, looming over him. His voice was too low for Wesley or Charles to hear his words. But the threat in them was obvious.

“That boy isn't going to last among these dyed-in-the-wool Nazis,” worried Mr. Ratcliff. “I'm going to tell the guard to keep an eye out for Günter. You boys do, too, when he's here on my farm. There'll be no monkey business on my watch. You hear?”

“Yes sir,” Bobby answered.

But as Mr. Ratcliff strode away, Charles couldn't help muttering, “Why should I care if one Nazi bumps off another? If I had my way, I'd take them all out and drop some bombs on them, just like they did to me.”

T
he rest of the afternoon everyone worked the fields in a tense silence, speaking only when necessary. They finished plowing the earth into furrows, two feet apart, and fertilized them with manure. Through Günter, Mr. Ratcliff instructed the POWs to make eighteen-inch round mounds of dirt, into which they tucked four corn seeds. It was painstaking work, even with that many men.

Prodded by Mr. Ratcliff, the American guard now paced among the POWs, watchful. Wesley noticed, though, that when the Nazi bully discovered a stone in the dirt, he would dig it out and chuck it at Günter when the American soldier's back was turned.

Ron, Wesley, and Freddy were in charge of filling buckets with water from a vat beside the fields and ladling a bit of it onto each freshly seeded mound. As Wesley passed the POWs, he heard their stomachs rumble hungrily. But they didn't open the bag of sandwiches.

The only people who seemed unaware of the friction and fragile truce among all the workers were the twins. Their chore was to carry tin cups of well water to the thirsty men. But mostly the two boys darted along the fields' edges, laughing and chasing little cabbage white butterflies.

Wesley straightened up and fanned himself with his hat, watching Jamie and Johnny tumble over each other. How could they play like that in this heat? he wondered. All he wanted to do was crawl into the shade and sleep. Standing there, sweating, Wesley was the first to hear a distant spluttering of an engine. He turned toward the river.

A single-engine plane was weaving and staggering through the clouds. Another pilot trainee trying to figure out how to fly, thought Wesley. They'd seen dozens of clumsy flights like this come up the James and turn right across Curles Neck and the Ratcliff farm, as new pilots took off from the Richmond Air Base and then circled back to land on the same runways. Wesley put his hat back on and returned to ladling.

Günter stood near him.
“Das Flugzeug
ist in Schwierigkeiten,”
he murmured.

“What?”

He repeated in English. “The plane is in trouble.”

“Oh, it's just a rookie pilot,” Wesley said absentmindedly, thinking what he'd really like to do would be to stick his whole head into the bucket of water to cool himself down. “They fly over all the time, looking just like that.”

The plane coughed and farted a little trail of smoke.

“Nein,”
Günter spoke sharply. “I know the sound of a plane going down. My father took me flying. And,” he added grimly, “I shot down enough Allied bombers to know.”

That got Wesley's attention. He watched Günter look from the plane, coming closer and closer, to the men in the field, back to the plane—gauging something. The plane's motor hiccupped, off-on, off-on. “He hopes to emergency land here.”

“What are you talking about?” Wesley asked.

Günter answered by grabbing Wesley by the arm. “Run!” he warned. He darted to Ron and Freddy, shoving them, too. “Run!”

“Get your mitts off me, you Nazi a-hole!” Ron shouted.

But Günter ignored him. He waved his arms, shouting at the other POWs at the far end of the field.
“Achtung! Achtung!”

The POWs paused, hoes in hand, looking first toward Günter and then up toward the plane that was clearly in trouble. Wesley knew that he would never, ever, forget their reaction.

They cheered.

Looking horrified, Günter let his arms drop to his sides.

For a moment, everyone froze, not sure they were reading the POWs' reaction properly. But most Americans knew the German word
“dummkopf”
for “idiot” from Hollywood movies. So they could translate what the bullying German said next,
“Dummer Amerikaner!”
His companions laughed.

All hell broke loose then, starting with Charles. “You bloody bastards,” he screamed, rushing the first POW he could get to. Bobby dashed to help him. So did Ron. Mr. Ratcliff ran to stop them.

The guard shot into the air, shouting, “Hold it right there! All of you!”

In the fray, no one noticed the plane's engine cut off altogether and the smoke streaming from the engine—no one except Günter and Wesley.

They spun around as the plane started whistling and dipped sharply on one wing. The pilot was clearly trying to bank away from the field where he could now see all these people, fighting and shouting.

In the same agonizing instance, Wesley recognized where the plane was pointed—straight at the twins!

It was another nightmare, it had to be, Wesley thought. This can't be happening. “Johnny! Jamie!” he shrieked.

At Wesley's call, they looked up from their butterflies. They stopped and stared at the plane.

Wesley forced his legs to run. “Johnny, Jamie!”

Günter was already sprinting flat out toward the children, shouting, “Look out!
Raus aus dem Weg!
Move!” But they didn't. They just stood, holding hands, little statues of confused fear.

Somehow Günter managed to scoop the twins up and dive out of the way, just as the plane hit the ground and started skidding out of control—right toward where Johnny and Jamie had stood just moments before.

Bouncing and lurching, the plane slid across the field. Then it tore through brambles, wheels squealing. It smashed into a walnut tree. The old tree heaved to one side with the impact, and an enormous branch cracked off to crash down onto the plane's nose with a thunderous bang.

Little licks of flame popped out of the engine. If it really ignited, it could set the tree ablaze, maybe even the entire grove around it.

Behind Wesley, Freddy started shouting. “It's gonna catch fire! Grandpop! Get water! Quick!”

“Dear God,” murmured Wesley. He knew there were no fire trucks to contain a forest fire this far in the countryside. Last summer, a house near them had been struck by lightning and burned to the ground.

Then he had another sickening thought. The pilot!

Again, Günter was way ahead of Wesley, ahead of everybody. As the Ratcliffs rushed to lug buckets of water to the plane, Günter scrambled onto its running board. Yanking and tugging, he dragged the unconscious pilot out and onto the ground.

Just as the plane engine exploded into flames.

It took quite a while for the fire to be put out completely and for the air force ambulance to retrieve the pilot, who miraculously woke up with only a bad bump on his head. Only then did things calm down enough that Wesley could explain to Mr. Ratcliff that Günter had saved Johnny's and Jamie's lives. He and Freddy had been the only ones to witness it.

“I can't thank you enough, son,” Mr. Ratcliff said, shaking Günter's hand over and over, gratitude softening his usual authoritative voice.

“A small act to balance out others,” Günter answered quietly.

When Günter climbed up into the truck's flatbed with the other Germans to return to their POW camp for the night, Mr. Ratcliff closed the tailgate behind him. “I won't ever forget what you did here today,” he said.

“Wir auch nicht,”
muttered the hulking Nazi sitting next to Günter.

Wesley waved as the truck pulled away. Günter had been the hero of the day. The air force captain who'd come to assess the plane's damage had even said he was going to write a story about Günter for the
Stars and Stripes
newspaper. He should be very proud of himself, thought Wesley. But all Günter seemed to be was nervous.

“Hey, Wes?” Freddy came up beside him as the POW truck disappeared around a bend. “You seen my map? I can't find it anywhere. I must have dropped it in the excitement.”