Shoes for Anthony (39 page)

‘No harm?' I laughed. ‘You've shot me brother, you've kissed me sister and you've punched me tooth out.'

‘Sorry about that,' said Gerhard, pulling on Captain Willis's jacket. ‘Think of it as a battle scar. You'll be able to tell endless tales about it.'

A fury raged through me. He was being calm, normal, as if this was of little importance to him, as if he didn't care. I wanted him to feel the pain inside of me; I wanted him to burn with it. I tried to kick against the side of the jeep, but every movement was agony.

‘Don't fight it, Anthony,' said Gerhard, pulling out the papers I'd placed in the inside pocket of the jacket. ‘Resistance will tighten the knot. You'll hurt yourself more.'

He stood up straight and cast a quick glance through the wad of documents. He pulled out one that was a faded yellow, threw it down onto the passenger seat then tucked the rest back into the inside of his jacket. He looked back towards me. ‘I have to do something to you now, Anthony,' he said. ‘Try and stay calm.' He reached down and picked up the shirt he'd been wearing. Taking a firm hold of it, he grabbed one sleeve and ripped it from the shoulder.

A stab of panic surged through me. I felt clammy, nauseous, but he was right: every time I struggled, the pain intensified. My eyes were wide and staring, fear blazing out. He reached into his pocket. He was getting the gun. This was it. I closed my eyes.

I was pulled upwards, his hands deep in my armpits. He pushed me into a sitting position, my back resting against the side of the jeep. I couldn't look at him. I wouldn't look at him. I buried my chin into my chest, my eyes clamped shut.

‘Open your mouth, Anthony,' I heard him say.

I shook my head.

‘Please,' he said again, ‘it will be easier if I don't have to force you.'

I shook my head again.

His hand gripped me under my jaw, tight like a vice, his other hand pushing back against the tip of my nose with the flat of his palm. Oh! The pain! Instinctively, I arched backwards, my head turning upwards, and as it did, I felt his fingers creeping over my bottom lip and onto my teeth. I opened my mouth a fraction and bit down hard.

‘Aaaargh!' he yelled. ‘Anthony! The more you fight, the more I have to hurt you!'

He pinched my nose hard and yanked my head backwards. I let out a cry of pain and as my mouth opened, I felt something being shoved into it. I choked.

‘Breathe through your nose, Anthony,' said Gerhard. ‘Don't panic. You will be able to breathe, even if you can't make a sound.'

The material in my mouth hardened into a wet ball and before I could spit it out, he had taken the torn sleeve and tied it tight over my mouth. He stood back and shook out the hand I had bitten. His eyes narrowed. ‘Bethan said you were like a dog. You can stay sitting up or I can lie you down. Which would you prefer?'

I tried to yell at him but all that came out was meaningless muffles. I kicked out in anger, forgetting that every strain pulled the ropes tighter. I buckled with pain.

‘Anthony,' he said, his voice tinged with frustration. ‘If you lie still, it won't hurt. Do you want to sit up? Or lie down?'

My eyes were red and swollen from crying. The despair that coursed through me felt like poisoned blood. It was grief, an ache of sorrow that consumed me. I let my head fall back onto the wall of the jeep behind me and sobbed.

‘Stay sitting up, then,' said Gerhard, reaching for the rolled-up tarpaulin that was tied above me. ‘I haven't got much time left. I'm putting this over you now. You'll be perfectly safe where I'm taking you. You won't see me again, Anthony. I wish you well.'

I watched as he unrolled the green canvas and looped small rope ties through its holes. Bit by bit, the sheet tightened down. He didn't look at me until the very last. I was staring up at him, lost, bewildered. He met my gaze and in that moment, we saw each other.

And then he pulled the rope tight.

It wasn't entirely dark. Small beads of sunlight were shining down through the holes in the tarpaulin. The engine rumbled back into action and my body was flung roughly as the jeep reversed over uneven ground. There was a bump, then a crunch of gears and we were moving forward. I blinked, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. I looked around me. I couldn't wriggle myself free, that was clear, but perhaps there was something else? Something I could use?

I could guess where we were going: RAF St Athan. He was going to steal a Mosquito bomber. That was clear. Was Captain Willis right? Was he going to bomb Allied Command?

I let my head rest against the backboard. It was hard to swallow with the ball of cloth in my mouth, and the muscles around it were starting to ache. I thought about Emrys, wondered if he was all right. I thought about Alf, running as fast as he could as the jeep sped away from him. I thought about Bethan and Mam. They'd be worried sick.

Maybe they'd fetch the Americans, try and rescue me? But the only Americans not up the mountain were peeling spuds. They couldn't catch him with a vegetable knife. I thought about Hughes the Grocer's delivery van. They could use that, if Gerhard hadn't thought to sabotage it. He'd thought to cut the phone line from the cop shop, so the chances of the van being driveable were slim. He must have done everything he needed when he was sent to fetch Mam, including fetching the pistol I had given him. I had given it to him! He was one step ahead of everyone. He always had been.

My body slid over to the right. We were turning. We must be at the base. The jeep slowed to a halt. I heard a voice.

‘Hello,' I heard Gerhard shout, ‘flight order. Been sent over by Strategic Command. What about this weather? Fine day for flying. You can almost imagine there isn't a war on!'

‘Ha!' I heard a voice replying. It was coming closer. ‘That'll be the day. Strategic Command, eh? Here, you got wind of when it's all kicking off, then?'

I realised why he'd sat me up. I couldn't kick the side of the jeep. I needed to make my presence known. I had to stop him.

‘All hush hush, I'm afraid,' he said, in a cut-glass English accent. ‘But it won't be much longer, I can tell you that.'

‘It's worse than waiting for a baby,' said the voice. ‘Making the lads proper edgy, like.'

I had one chance. If I slid myself downwards, I could slam my feet against the side of the jeep, and if I did that loud enough, then maybe the sentry at St Athan would hear it. The thought of a German in a British bomber allowed to fly unchallenged to his target was unthinkable. I tried to stretch my leg but my wellington couldn't reach. It was no good.

‘Anyway,' said the sentry, ‘you'll be wanting the airfield. Follow the road round; you can leave your jeep near the squadron huts. Anyone there will direct you to Operations.'

‘Thank you, Sergeant,' said Gerhard.

I had to make a noise, any sort of noise. I tensed my stomach muscles and flipped myself upwards from my buttocks, raising myself no more than an inch from the jeep floor. I let myself drop and a small metallic bang shuddered through the jeep. I stared upwards, straining for a response from the sentry, but the noise had been masked by a crunch of gears and the gravelly roar of the engine. We were on the move again. It hadn't worked.

And then I realised how stupid I was.

I was wearing wellingtons. He had tied my wrists to the ankles of my boots. If I bent towards my ankles rather than trying to pull back, then I was able to provide a little slack, enough slack to allow my foot to try and slip out. If I could get onto my knees, I might have a chance. I rolled onto my side, pressing the top of my head into the wall of the jeep behind me, but the exertion was taking its toll, a dull ache beginning to throb through the centre of my neck, a warm, clammy film of sweat creeping its way around my body. In order to maintain the slack long enough for me to wriggle my foot out of the tethered wellington, I would have to lower my shoulders and push my hands towards my shins. The effort was excruciating.

It wasn't working.

Don't give up, man. I said it to myself again and again. Sweat from my forehead was dripping down my nose. I bit down on the cloth in my mouth, the stale saliva bitter on my tongue. I pressed my eyes closed. Sucking air greedily through my nostrils, I pushed my bound wrists down towards my ankles. The muscles in my shoulders and upper back screamed in protest, and, taking my weight on one knee, I tried to raise the other so that I could lift my leg out from the wellington. My body, contorted and throbbing with pain, was begging me to stop. I had one chance, I kept telling myself.

Managing to lift my left knee high towards my chin, I could feel the wellington wanting to slip in the other direction. I could feel the grip on my ankle loosening. The further I pushed my wrists towards my feet, the easier it became. The tension across my back was unbearable. One more push and, suddenly, my foot slid up from the base of the boot, my toes wriggling past the knotted ankle. I brought my knee up until it touched my chin. My left foot was out.

I felt ecstatic; adrenalin surged through me. Shifting my weight onto my left leg, I repeated the process. With one leg free, my right foot was out from the wellington in a matter of moments. I turned onto my backside and ripped at the torn shirt sleeve tied about my mouth. The jeep was slowing. The knot was unyielding and I couldn't get my fingers into it. I tried pushing the sleeve upwards. Too tight. The jeep came to a stop and I heard the door open and close.

Hurry, Anthony!

My fingers scratched at my face, pressing into my cheeks so I could drag the sleeve downwards. I tugged at it violently, an edge came over my ear, and in that split second, I yanked the bind downwards. I clawed at the mass in my mouth, spluttering and retching as it came out. I gasped, sucking in deep gulps of air, and then, with my chest heaving, I threw back my head.

‘HELP!' I screamed. ‘HELP!'

My hands were still tied together, the wellingtons dangling. I had no idea where Gerhard had parked the jeep. For all I knew I was in the middle of a field. I turned myself around and started scrabbling at the small rope ties that held down the tarpaulin. I had to get out, find someone.

‘HELP!' I yelled.

My lungs were still adjusting and my chest convulsed, bending me over with a sharp, agonising pain. I waited for the spasm to pass and then lifted myself up again. Gerhard hadn't taken his time with the knots and I found that once I had managed to pull them through the hole, I could undo them quickly. Four ties undone and I pushed the tarpaulin up with the flat of my hand.

‘HELP!' I cried again.

I forced myself upwards, fighting the cramp in my lower legs. The jeep was parked against the wall of a building with no windows; ahead of us lay grass, and beyond that a hangar. I swung around, desperate to see someone, but there was nobody. I let out a small, pained moan, lifted my right leg up onto the lip of the jeep and swung myself out, stumbling over the dangling wellingtons as I landed. Scooping the wellingtons into my arms, I ran, barefoot, towards the hangar.

There had to be someone, anyone! I glanced to my left as I crossed a thin gravel path. Wincing as the stones bit into the soles of my feet, I could see a green hut about 200 metres away. I stopped and looked back towards the hangar. The sound of a thick, heavy throbbing was coming from it and, to my horror, the nose of a Mosquito bomber began to emerge. I ran towards it, Gerhard clearly visible in the cockpit. I tried to run with it, the wind from the propellers slicing through my hair.

‘STOP HIM!' I yelled into the wind, my voice evaporating in the din.

I looked back into the hangar. Empty. Gerhard was taxiing down to the runway. I'd have to make a dash for the green hut. I kicked down, my legs carrying me as fast as they were able. I glanced back over my shoulder. He was almost at the end of the runway. Where was everyone?

I reached the hut, my chest bursting. Grabbing the knob, I flung the door open. A group of men, sitting, relaxing, reading papers, smoking pipes, all stopped and looked up.

‘Please,' I panted. ‘Help me. The plane. The plane on the runway. There's a German in it.'

‘What?' said a man in full flight gear, getting to his feet. ‘What the hell has happened to you?'

I'd forgotten what I must look like. The right side of my face swollen, eyes crimson with tears, drenched with sweat, a shirt sleeve hanging around my neck and my wrists, bound with rope from which hung a pair of dangling wellingtons.

‘Please,' I said, near collapse. ‘He's been sent to bomb something. You have to stop him.'

The man cast a puzzled look over to the others. ‘How did you get in here? Call down to the sentry hut, Hutchins, see what's what.'

He looked back down towards me. ‘Who tied you up like that?'

‘He did!' I yelled. ‘Please! You have to believe me! He's taking a Mosquito!'

Another man behind him ran to the window and shoved it open. In the distance, there was the sound of propellers.

‘Christ, sir, there's someone on the runway!'

‘Sentry hut says fella presented flight papers. RAF, he says,' shouted a man in the far corner, hugging a telephone to his ear. ‘Looks legit.'

‘He's not RAF! He's a bloody German!' I yelled.

‘Morse code just come in, sir,' said another man, running in behind me. ‘Captain Willis in Treherbert. German on loose. Taken boy hostage. Sent to steal a Mosquito. Kill on sight.'

‘Jesus,' said the officer in front of me.

As one, the men leapt to their feet and pushed past me. Gerhard was on the runway, the Mosquito picking up speed. I turned and ran out after them, watching as they sprinted towards gun posts at the edge of the field. A wind blew across my face, billowing down from the mountain, the hint of heather still dancing at its edges. Leaping over sandbags, the men swung machine-gun barrels skywards. My eyes darted back to the runway. The front wheels were lifting, the deep, heady pounding of the propellers pulsing through the air. He was up and climbing.