Under a War-Torn Sky (8 page)

The old nurse repeated her question in French: “
Qui êtes-vous?
” Who are you? she asked.

Henry couldn't pretend to be French with her. Be honest, Henry. Hope for the best. He fumbled around his collar to pull out the metal chain of his dog tags. “American flier,” he muttered. His voice sounded miles away. “Plane down. Hurt leg. Serial number 092…”

With that, he crumbled to the ground and lost consciousness.

“Make sure you drain that foot. The nurse told me the break wasn't bad. It's just the possibility of gangrene to worry over. Give him penicillin. If you don't have any, I can get some into the country. President Roosevelt will be most unhappy if an American boy loses his foot when you can easily save it. So would your chief of surgery. He and our ambassador are very good friends. Do you understand?”

A woman's voice translated in German. Henry heard the crisp crinkle of new money.

He forced his eyes open against the glare of hot lights. He found himself in a starched white world. White walls, white sheets, white lights. A face popped into his vision – a pale, bald, and flaccid face with reflective glasses. Henry couldn't make out the eyes behind them.

“Hello, son,” said the face. The voice was kind. “Don't worry about a thing. Uncle Sam's here.”

Henry felt himself rolling. “They're taking you to surgery. Nurse Weir tells me the fracture is a clean break. That's excellent news. But they need to drain your ankle of blood and pus. Nasty wound, son.” The round face came within an inch of Henry's and whispered, “How did you get here?”

Henry looked at the bespectacled face, looked at the white masks blocking the faces of the other people surrounding the gurney. Instinct told him never to reveal the old schoolteacher, not even to another American. “I flew, sir,” Henry answered.

The round face smiled. “Good man. You remember that, son. I'll be waiting for you when you get out.”

Huge white doors slammed behind Henry's gurney and shut the American voice out. A rubber mask came down over Henry's face and gassed him to sleep.

Henry awoke in a cold, stark ward that reeked of antiseptic. In twenty other beds men slept, groaned, or played solitaire. There was a man sitting in a white iron chair beside him. A briefcase was on his lap. He sifted through a huge pile of papers, which kept cascading to the floor. The sound crashed through the ward.

“Ah, Lieutenant Forester. Feeling better?”

Henry was groggy, but the fever was gone and his head was clear. He propped himself up on his elbows to check the bottom of his bed for the lump of two feet. His left leg swung above the sheets in a sling. A cast reached up his shin. Thank God. Only then did Henry turn to the man. “Do I know you, sir?”

“We've met, son. Saw you as they wheeled you into surgery. Your dog tags let me trace your name. My name's Samuel Watson. Special assistant to the US Ambassador here in Bern. But most of the fliers call me Uncle Sam.”

He tucked his papers together. “We'll only have a few moments to talk. Do you want to get home, son?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Then let me tell you a few things. Officially, the Swiss are neutral. American and German fliers are equally safe here. The Americans are interned in Adelboden. There are about five hundred Americans in the camp there now. It's a good deal – in the mountains, beautiful. You can play baseball, tennis, even attend college classes until the war ends.”

Watson scooted his chair closer.

“But here's the thing. We've learned a lot in Bern. Everyone has a consulate here – Germans, Italians, Spanish, Russians. It's a real hotbed of gossip. I work with Allen Dulles, sent here by OSS, our office of strategic services. Mr. Dulles is quite talented at gleaning information. Can't get into all the details, mind you, but we worry that the neutrality of Switzerland's government may be somewhat questionable. Nazi trains pass through Switzerland on its rail lines, transporting coal through the Simplon Tunnel into Italy. In Milan and Turin the coal's used in Nazi-controlled war plants to build tanks, which are then returned through Switzerland to Germany to be used against the Allies. Even though we've got the toe of Italy's boot now, it's going to take a while for the Allies to reach northern Italy. We don't know what Hitler will do as we move in or when Eisenhower eventually invades Europe. It would be very easy for Hitler to take over Switzerland. What would happen to our boys in Adelboden then?” He shrugged, leaving the question ominously unanswered.

“You've got an advantage, Lieutenant. Because you just showed up on the hospital's doorstep, you're not yet classified as a prisoner of war. You can wear civilian clothes as they transport you to Adelboden. It'd be easy for you to get misplaced on a train. Catch my drift?”

“Yes, sir. But what would I do then?”

“I'll have to work out the details of how, but we'd get you into France. We've done it before. The Swiss people are far more pro-Allies than the country's official economic actions might suggest. We have a good network here. They'd get you into France and hooked up with French Resistance fighters, who'd get you to Spain. From there you'd head to Portugal to find a boat bound for England.”

Henry shook his head, trying to connect all the dots. “Boy, that's complicated, sir. Anyone ever made it?”

Watson sat back in his chair and pursed his lips. “Honest? About half of our interned boys have been willing to try it. Most are still in transit somewhere. A handful of them have made it all the way back to England. Some were caught before crossing the Swiss border and sent to a pretty tough prison camp called Wauwilermoos. But it's not like Americans to just sit out a fight if they can escape and help, now is it? We'd hope all officers would at least make the attempt. We need all the good pilots we've got. You game?”

Henry tried to size up Watson. Easy for him to shuffle his papers and encourage a guy to walk across France. He'd bet those soft leather shoes hadn't ever walked a mile except on the dance floor. Henry had had a taste of hiding and giving up his life to strangers and pure luck. It wasn't fun. And hadn't he flown enough missions through hell? Hadn't he seen enough blood and explosions? Tennis and starting his college education sounded pretty darn good.

Henry crossed his arms and frowned. Watson just waited, watching him.

But he'd be a coward, wouldn't he, if he didn't try this. Henry shifted uncomfortably. What would Ma want him to do? Probably be safe. But she also taught him to help everybody that he could. How many times had she endangered herself taking food and nursing people sick with polio, typhus, TB? Patsy would do it. She always took a dare, even diving off a quarry cliff into water twenty feet below. And what about his old man? What about Clayton? Escaping would be one way to impress that old jerk.

Finally, Henry thought of Dan. Dan would do it. Dan was willing to explode with his plane to give every living member of his crew a chance to bail out.

Henry could feel himself making a decision. This way he'd get home faster, right? Who knew how long the war might drag on, how long those guys would be sitting, waiting, in Adelboden? It could be years. How long could it take to get to Portugal, anyway? A month? He'd made it into Switzerland within a few days.

Henry sighed. “Okay, sir. Tell me what to do.”

Watson smiled. “I'll be in touch.”

He started to get up, then sat down, spilling papers again. As he leaned over to pick them up, he whispered, “One other thing. You can't write your parents. We can't notify them. If we do, and the Gestapo catches you, you'll be classified as an escaped prisoner. Then they're free to shoot you. If your whereabouts, your very existence, remain a mystery, there's a chance that they'll assume you've been wandering around by yourself if they do pick you up. Then you should be sent to a POW camp. The Red Cross keeps tabs on whether POW camps abide by the Geneva Convention. Most do. Our only risk will be Swiss records. There will be one about your being here. But hopefully that won't matter.”

“You mean Ma can't know I'm alive?”

“No. She'll only know that you're missing in action. She can hope.”

Henry was filled with pity. It would be so awful for her. But he held by his decision.

“Then I guess we'd just better hurry, sir.”

Four weeks later, Henry sat, rattling, on a train to Adelboden. The doctors had cut off his cast the previous morning. His ankle was paper white, his calf thin, but his leg had held his weight. It was stiff, but solid. They'd ordered him to internment.

Next to Henry sat his escort, an aging Swiss soldier, reading. He seemed to Henry to be studiously inattentive. All that identified Henry as a transporting prisoner was a white tag around his wrist. He wore a civilian suit of clothes that had arrived at the hospital from the American consulate. But Henry hadn't talked again with Uncle Sam about his escape. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. The train had just passed through the city of Thun. Adelboden was only two stops away, at most an hour's worth of travel, maybe two. Henry wiped beads of sweat from his upper lip.

A crowd of passengers had boarded at Thun and elbowed their way down the aisle, looking for seats. All were already taken. One after another, people lined up, squared their legs to brace against the train's swinging, and opened their newspapers. Henry noticed a delicate pregnant woman enter the car, lugging a hatbox and small suitcase. She sighed and shielded her round tummy as she tried to slip past the standing passengers, their newspapers, and bags.

What kind of men are they, thought Henry, who wouldn't give up their seat to this woman? She obviously didn't feel well. Henry stood and motioned to her. He looked down at the soldier, who assessed the woman, and then nodded to Henry. The woman smiled gratefully.

It took her a moment to wade through the passengers to him. “
Danke,
” she said. As she brushed past him to the seat, she seemed to stagger. She clutched Henry's sleeve and whispered in his ear, “Leave your crutches. Go to the toilet one car back.” Then the woman sat down with a plop and “
Tut mir leid,
” to the Swiss soldier.

Had Henry heard right? The words had been breathed so quietly. Had he imagined it? He stood, hesitant, swaying with the motion of the train. A small foot began to nudge his. He looked down. It was the woman's. He must have heard right.

Henry leaned over and said to the soldier, “Toilet?” He pointed to the back of the car.

The soldier grunted, annoyed, and closed his book. As he started to get up, the woman piled her hatbox and suitcase onto her knees. The soldier would practically have to pole vault to get out into the aisle. He scowled and waved Henry on. “
Schnell,
” he ordered.

Henry nodded. He'd hurry, all right.

Henry lurched down the aisle to the back door of the train car. He opened it to wind and racket. He watched trees and scrub whisk past. He'd break his leg all over again if he tried to jump. He opened the next car door, passed a row of private sleeping compartments, and found a narrow toilet door at the very end of the car.

It was open just a crack. As Henry approached, the door swung open. A fat, middle-aged man pressed past.

Henry slipped into the tiny bathroom. He only had to wait a moment before an envelope slid under the door. Hands shaking, Henry opened it. Inside was a ticket to Montreux plus a note. It read:
The train will stop in ten minutes. Remain in the toilet until you feel the brakes. Step off the train quickly. Walk into the station. Cross the street to Café Spiez. Destroy this note.

Henry reread it three times, memorizing the sparse thirty-four words. He tore the note into bits, ripped off his wrist tag, and flushed them down the toilet. He crammed the ticket into his pants pocket.

SQUEEEEEEEAKKKK!

Henry fell against the bathroom wall as the train began to brake. He took a deep breath and walked out. People were crowding out the back door onto the black steps between train cars. Henry lost himself among them and quickly hopped to the ground as the train stopped moving.

Keep your head, now, Henry steadied himself. Don't look around like you're lost. Walk like you know exactly where you're going.

He spotted a pair of Swiss soldiers idly propped up against the wall, watching the push and hurry of passengers. Henry stepped beside an older couple to block himself from view. He entered the small station through ornate doors, passed rows of wooden benches, and emerged on the other side. Across the way was Café Spiez, its door open to the warming spring air. Waiters were setting tables outside for lunch.

Henry's heart was pounding in his head. But so far, so good. He checked for traffic and jogged across the street, limping only slightly. Where to now?

A waiter looked up as he smoothed out a tablecloth and fussed at Henry. “
Schon wieder spät! Ab in die Küche. Schnell!
”

Henry had no idea what the man was saying. But he could tell it was part of some play-acting. He fought the instinct to look back over his shoulder to make sure the waiter wasn't really talking to someone else.

Henry skittered into the café. There was a huge curved bar inside, its wooden grain carefully polished and shining. On the back wall, large bevelled mirrors reflected the scene outdoors. A thick, bald man stood behind the bar. Several people sat at the scattered tables. At the sight of Henry, the bartender slammed his fist to the counter and threw up his hands. He hurled a torrent of angry words at Henry, “
Noch einmal und du bist deiner Stelle los! Ab in die Küche!
”

He came out from behind the bar to hustle Henry through swinging doors to the kitchen. Hastily the man yanked off Henry's coat and wrapped a huge white apron around him. “Off tie,” he whispered to Henry. “Up sleeves.” Henry ripped off his tie and handed it to the man. He rolled up his sleeves.