The wounded Lanc labours along the breathless sky, flames raging on the portside wing. Captain David Robertson, face flame orange, tugs on the control column to hold her steady; his crew evacuates over enemy territory. His flight engineer, the last to go, throws him a thumbs up and he drops into the bomb-aimer’s position and out the narrow hatch. David unbuckles, dons his parachute and, losing his balance, exits head first. Plunging, the early morning air fierce on his face, he yanks the rip cord and floats down towards earth.
Surging pain, rig taut across his chest, feet dangling, his chute snagged a tree. Pulling out his knife, he cuts through the rig, falls, lands hard. One leg useless, he drags himself to the base of the tree and scans the terrain: silhouettes of haystacks jagged on the horizon, woods at the edge of the field, maybe a farmhouse, maybe a village. Can’t be sure. It’s blackout conditions.
He shuts his eyes, leans his head back against the tree, recalling the day he met his crew. All younger than him. All ready to get into the fight. No quandaries about their missions. No quandaries about their payload. They were all good men, ready to avenge their dead and defend their country. But after twenty-seven sorties, dropping thousands of tons of bombs, repelling hostility, they were weary and counting down. Evenings in the pub had slowed as did their fervor. Three more operations to go and they caught flak. Now scattered, they have to fend for themselves.
He starts at the sound of gunshot in the distance. He looks to the forest, readying himself to move, but then two streams of light emerge, combing the field. He draws out his pistol. Sits motionless. Their voices drift to him on the breeze. A beam of light strikes his face. He cocks and points his pistol.
“Nicht schießen! Freund!”
A dog emerges from behind the light, tail wagging. He sniffs and licks David’s face, disarmingly. A slight smile surfaces, then recedes.
“Brutus! Kommen!” The farmer calls off the dog, who rushes to a young boy, maybe 6 or 7, David figures, about the same age as his own son. The farmer, tall and thin, hair pulled tightly across his skull, rushes over and kneels down. He points beyond the woods to a diffuse trail of smoke, rising with the early dawn. “Flugzeug.”
“My plane.” David nods.
“Plane, ya,” the farmer repeats. “Kannst du laufen?” David looks at him without responding, but senses his haste. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
“Ein paar wort,” David says.
“Walk?” The farmer gestures with his fingers.
“Nein. My leg.” He rubs his right leg.
“Ah, leg, ya. Kommen. Kommen.” The farmer places his arm around David and helps him to his feet. He stumbles and winces in pain — bloody jerry, he thinks — and with that, they set off. The boy leading the way with Brutus, looking back from time to time, the farmer supporting David across the uneven field.
They reach a farm yard. Loose chickens and a few pigs in a pen. David makes out a small town a little further down the hill, a church steeple cuts through the purple morning sky. They enter the farmhouse; kerosene and coffee aromas circle the room. A woman, who is working at the sink, turns and wipes her hands on her apron, looking at David and then back at the farmer. She too is tall and thin, rosy skin, hair drawn back in a tousled bun. David is lulled by their soft, calm voices.
But then, the sound of an approaching vehicle. David’s hand reaches for his pistol. The woman looks out the window and says, “Schnell! Schnell!” The farmer helps him through a dim hallway, up some worn stairs and into a bedroom that has a single bed pushed against the wall and a desk and chair opposite it. At the end of the bed is a wardrobe. The walls are patterned with blue striped wallpaper. It looks like the room has stood empty for a long time. David turns and looks at the farmer, who draws a sigh the length of the war and points to the bed and goes out, closing the door behind him.
David limps to the bed and sits down. He sees a small picture frame on the desk of a young man in uniform. He leans closer, a face staring back at him — Hugh, Glenn — could be any one of his crew. Shoulders heavy, he slumps back and looks out the window, the warm morning light gathering in the farm yard. He sees the farmer hurrying to the fence entrance to intercept the bucket car. When it arrives, two soldiers hop out and approach him. Their grey uniforms too big for their growing frames, but voices firm and direct, machine guns at their sides, they begin questioning. He hears the farmer say, “Nein, Nein,” matching their firmness. The soldiers look around the yard and farmhouse. David sits back out of sight. He hears more muffled voices before the car doors slam shut. He looks out and sees the car roaring down the hill towards the town with urgency. David can’t be sure, but he thinks the farmer spits on the ground as the soldiers drive away.
A few days later, another vehicle comes barreling up the road and out jump two sturdy Americans. “We hear you got a Tommy hidden away here that needs some medical attention,” one bellows. The soldiers help him into the jeep and they drive to the hospital, the farm fading from view.
David remains in Germany for another week before he is shipped back to England. He returns to this same village forty years later at the pleas of his son. They have beers and schnapps and tears and laughter in the twilight of the church steeple with the farmers who helped him so long ago. David no longer refers to German people as “Jerry”.
M Harvard is a Guelph based writer. He has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine and The Mole River Review. He is working on his first novel.
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