Under a War-Torn Sky (21 page)

The hair on Henry's neck bristled as he listened to the gags and wrenching coughs of the Russian in the next room. What were they doing to that poor guy? Grimly, Henry recognized he'd probably find out firsthand.

Only Henry and this one Russian had been caught alive. Billy, one RAF flier, and the other Russian pilot were left dead and unburied on the Pyrenees. One German soldier and the guide who had betrayed them lay rotting there, too. One among them, a Brit, had managed to escape. He had probably made it to the Spanish frontier within a few hours. They'd actually been very close to Andorra when arrested – a point the Gestapo officer had delighted in taunting Henry with.

Henry was now back deep inside German-occupied France, near Toulouse, in a chateau converted to a prison. He'd been left for a day, in an unlit, subterranean chamber, most likely a root cellar when the mansion had been a home, now fittingly like a tomb. At first Henry had edged his way around the cell, hands to its dirt walls, counting the perimeter. Six feet by five feet.

What would the area be, Mr. Forester?
Henry tried to remember the sound of his maths teacher's drawl, the big open windows in his elementary school, days when Henry had felt he would live for ever.

Before long the terrifying reality of his situation began to seep through Henry, strangling his resolve. He sank to the floor to recite Sunday school prayers, there in the damp blackness. But the words wouldn't come. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Pray for me, Ma. I know God listens to you.” His teeth chattered. He wondered how much death could hurt.

By the time his captors dragged him out and up to this stark room for his first interrogation, Henry was already terrified – an effect he realized had been the purpose of leaving him in the dark for so long.

Henry was tied down to a chair. Two guards stood by the door. There was one table, one chair behind it, and a tin washtub in the corner. The Gestapo officer could tell Henry was unnerved by the sounds coming through the wall. He came to the front of the table, sat against it, and said with chilling sarcasm, “Goodness, what's that? Sounds like a man drowning, doesn't it?” He pointed to the deep washtub. “See that over there? We call that the bathtub. Your head goes in it – over and over and over again – however long it takes for me to get the information I want. How long can you hold your breath? A minute? Two minutes? The Slavic pig next door is not looking very well. It is becoming harder and harder for him to catch his breath.”

The Nazi circled Henry as he talked, that cold voice in Henry's left ear, behind his skull, now to his right ear. “I would hate for you to have to go through that. All I need is the name of your French contacts. Their whereabouts. Even a description of their captain. It is no use pretending that you know nothing of what I am talking about. The guide the French assassins hired to take you into Spain – he was one of our agents. So, what will it be, American?”

Henry ground his teeth and reached inside his soul for courage. He thought of the times he felt like Clayton had yelled at him just for fun, how he'd stuck out his jaw and taken it then. Henry struggled to lift his face and open his bruised and bloodied eyes to glare back at the Gestapo officer. “Henry Wiley Forester, second lieutenant American Air Forces, serial number 092 –”

The Gestapo officer smiled wickedly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick fistful of American dog tags. He rattled them in Henry's face. “I should have told you – what did you call yourself? Second Lieutenant Henry Wiley Forester? – you won't be needing serial numbers or dog tags. I've collected so many from dead Americans already. Souvenirs of my work.” He threw the tags into the corner with a clatter.

“The Geneva Convention will do nothing for you here. You have been with the
maquis
, therefore I am free of restrictions. Your government, your family, will never even know what happened to you. Now, shall we try again? I want the whereabouts of your French contacts.”

Henry said nothing.

“Oh, good,” sneered the Nazi. “I'd hate for our games to end prematurely.”

He snapped his fingers. Two guards dragged Henry and his chair to the tub.

It lasted two days. At first, when they shoved him down into the dirty water, Henry closed his eyes and tried to pretend it was his swimming hole back home. He tried to imagine the sound of Patsy's laugh as they splashed and dived in the clear, sweet coolness. He tried to imagine the smell of summer in Virginia.

Each time they jerked him back up and Henry fought to swallow air, he wondered if the next submerging would kill him, if this breath would be his very last. But he refused to cry out. He barricaded himself with anger. These men weren't human. These men were enjoying this. He hated them as he had hated nothing before. No matter how mean his father had seemed at times, he'd been nothing like this. Nothing.

The last hour of the second day, Henry was sure he was going to die. The guards held him under longer and longer, until Henry began to black out each time. They'd yank him back up into oxygen at the very last moment before his heart was going to explode. But finally, Henry could tell his body was giving out. The guards thrust him under as he coughed and gasped, no time to take a breath and hold it.

Under the water he could hear Patsy calling him. He saw her swimming towards him and motioning for him to follow her somewhere. Henry no longer felt the arms holding him down. He drifted through the water, up towards the sun.

Henry became conscious in a different room, lashed to a different chair. His hair and clothes were still wet. He coughed and coughed and coughed.

The door opened and in strode the Gestapo officer. On a leash he led a huge dog that strained against its line, snapping and snarling. It seemed to have no hair, no tail. Its muzzle was massive, grotesque, lathered with angry slobber. Its ears were cropped into thin points.

In one hand, the Nazi carried a large bone grizzled with raw meat. He sat down opposite Henry and smirked. At that level, Henry could see the Gestapo officer's face. It was fair, sleek and sharp. His eyes were almost colourless, their blue was so light. His mouth was thin and twisted with hatred. Henry could never imagine that face smiling a genuine smile. Could never imagine it as a child's face.

“This is my Doberman,” said the Nazi. He gave the leash a sudden jerk. The dog sat and became motionless. “He has been trained very, very well. He will kill on command. Would you care to see what he can do with a bone?”

He threw the meat shank into Henry's lap. The dog followed it with its eyes. Hungry drool dripped from its mouth. But it remained motionless.

“
Nimm Futter!
” the Gestapo officer ordered quietly, letting go of the leash.

The dog lunged with a snarl at Henry's lap and snapped up the bone. Growling and slobbering, it tore the leg apart at Henry's feet. Henry's heart raced as he listened to its powerful jaws crack the thick bone and rip off the flesh. Within ten minutes the dog had consumed almost all the shank. Speed would have worked on a bone that size for days, thought Henry. He looked back up at the Nazi, his eyes narrowed, waiting.

The Gestapo officer nodded. “Your courage is impressive. But ultimately it is pointless. I will break you.”

He stood up and leaned over to whisper in Henry's ear. “At the last moment you American boys always sob for your mamas, just like babies.”

He straightened up. “For now, I am going to leave you to think things over. In fact, I think I'll take off those ropes. They look so uncomfortable. But first,” he whistled one short blast and commanded, “
Pass auf!
” The Doberman jumped away from its bone and sat down directly in front of Henry.

The Gestapo officer untied Henry, cautioning, “He is on alert now. He will kill you if you move from that chair. Don't doze off either, because he may interpret any kind of movement as an attempt to get up. And we have seen how much he enjoys ripping things apart.”

The Nazi opened the door. “I don't think I'll even bolt this. An escape would be exciting revenge on me, wouldn't it? The guards will probably be asleep at their post later. My, my, it is tempting, isn't it?”

The door slammed shut.

Escape. Was it possible? Had the bastard really left the door unlocked? Or was it just a trick?

Henry assessed the Doberman. How'd that Nazi train this dog to be so vicious? His body didn't look broken from beating. Was he starving him? Or was the dog really the devil hound that it looked, simply born evil?

Still, there hadn't been an animal around the farm – ornery mule, stupid cow, or fusspot rooster – that Henry hadn't been able to tame by talking to it right. He'd give it a go. What did he have to lose?

Escape. Just a few feet away from him, down the hall, and out into air. Was it really possible?

“Hey, boy, nice boy, you want to be friends?” Henry asked in a smooth, low voice.

The dog growled, deep in its throat.

Henry frowned. He shifted his foot, just an inch, to see what the dog would do.

The growl grew louder. The dog curled its jowls back over his teeth, so they all showed, gleaming, sharp, and lethal.

“Okay, fella, okay. Easy. Easy, now. That's a nice boy, handsome boy,” Henry kept crooning at the dog, his voice soft and soothing.

He'd need to wait a few hours anyway. Until the guards were sleepy. Wouldn't do any good to charm the killer dog to walk straight out to watchful Nazi guards. For all he knew that Gestapo sadist was sitting right outside the door.

Henry's body ached. His lungs burned from inhaled water. His head and eyes throbbed with pain. His stomach growled with hunger. But he didn't move, not a flinch. He couldn't, if he wanted to live. Not until he had mesmerized the dog with his voice.

Henry talked to it and talked to it. All the while the Doberman rumbled with a threatening growl.

Finally, when the room had greyed then blackened with nightfall, the dog had stopped snarling. In the dimness, Henry could see the Doberman begin to prick up his ears at his voice. Was it beginning to trust Henry?

The remains of the bone still lay at Henry's feet. He nudged it towards the dog. It snapped and barked at Henry, but it also foamed at the mouth with anticipation of tearing into the fatty gristle. He is starving, thought Henry. If I can get him to go for the bone, as if I'm rewarding him, maybe he'll let me get up.

“It's okay, boy. Go on, eat it. It's for you,” Henry encouraged. The Doberman grew more and more agitated. But it whined more than it snarled.

He's frustrated, thought Henry. He's dying to eat. “Go on, fella. Eat it.”

The dog moaned and growled and whined and snarled.

Finally, Henry realized that the dog would only go for the food at a German command. What had the Nazi said? Henry racked his brain. The words had sounded like “name foot”. No, that wasn't quite right.
Nim footer.

Henry took a deep breath and spoke aloud, “
Nim footer
.”

The dog lunged forward. But not to Henry's throat – to his feet. He ripped into the bone, cracking and crunching.

It's now or never, thought Henry. “Good boy. I'm just getting up. You keep on eating.” Slowly, slowly, Henry eased himself up and out of the chair.

The Doberman growled, but held his head over the bone, possessive, preoccupied with his food.

Henry inched towards the door, crooning, “Easy, boy, easy. It's all right. Everything is all right.”

The dog watched him but didn't move.

Henry's heart began to pound with hope. A little more. Just a little more. His feet reached the end of the room. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his hand to the door. Quietly, Henry warned himself. Don't set off the dog. Don't let the door click loudly.

His fingers curled around the latch. He squeezed. It opened!

Henry could have cried with joy. He pulled the door open just wide enough for his body to slip through. The hall was dark, silent.

Freedom! Henry felt afire with the idea, ready to run, run all the way across France. He could see his farm. See his ma. Her arms were open.

He tried to steady his adrenaline. He needed stealth, not speed. He took a cautious step, then another. He reached out to find the wall, to slide along it.

He touched air. Air again. Then something solid – solid but soft – like the material of a uniform.

Henry recoiled.

Lights flashed on like fireworks.

There stood his Gestapo tormenter.

“Did you really think I'd allow you to escape?” The Gestapo officer shoved Henry back through the door as he jeered at him.

Henry stumbled and slammed against the wall. He crumbled to the floor and hid his face, hid his tears of frustration.

The officer kicked him. “Get up.” He grabbed Henry by the collar and dragged him up the wall. Only when he had Henry by the throat, crushed flat against the ancient plaster, did the Nazi glance over at the dog.

The Doberman cowered by the chair.

When his captor's face turned back to Henry it was so full of rage, it froze Henry's breath. The Nazi ripped his pistol out of its holster and pressed the barrel hard against Henry's forehead.

You're going to die now, Henry told himself, because you ruined the Gestapo's pet killer. At least he won't be able to terrorize another American with that dog. You gentled him. A quiet smile of satisfaction crept across Henry's face. At least he'd accomplished that. He closed his eyes and said in a steady voice: “Go ahead.”

Bang!

Henry clutched his head. But there was no blood, only the burning stench of the pistol's explosion. He opened his eyes.

By the chair came a sharp, pained yelping. The dog sprawled on the floor. Underneath him a pool of black-red blood was slowly spreading.

Henry looked back to the Nazi, whose eyes were again controlled blue ice. “Once a thing is no longer of use to me, I rid myself of it.” He turned on his heel, and locked the door behind him.