For Malice and Mercy, page 30
Hank sprinted with every ounce of remaining energy, exhaustion weighing him down between every breath. Within a foot or two of a flatbed car, he reached out, straining his arm forward as he ran still faster. A chain dangled from the car, rattling and shaking with the movement of the train. Hank grabbed at the chain until his hands latched onto it. The speed and strength of the train jerked him off balance, jostling him about. He tightened his grip and clenched his teeth.
The train’s speed increased with a jolt, yanking Hank’s arm. He cried out in pain. The chain started to slip from his hands. Gasping for breath, he lunged himself forward, throwing his elbows and chest onto the bed of the car. Using all the upper-body strength he could muster, he lifted one foot on the bed, but it slipped off. His feet dangled inches from the rushing wheels below. Somehow, he found one last ounce of strength to swing his leg around. It landed right atop the flatbed. For an instant, he stopped to catch his breath before finding the strength to pull the other leg up.
Hank started to roll back away from the edge, but his shoulder blade struck something hard and metal. Lifting his neck, he twisted around to peer into the darkness at the large shape, following its silhouette down to floor. He knew from the rattle of chains that it was fastened to the bed of the car. He reached out and found thick tank treads. Focused so intently on the ground, he hadn’t seen what the flatbed was carrying, but with his first glance up he caught the outline of the tank’s long barrel and realized what it was.
He scurried around to the front to crawl under the belly of the tank. The bed of the car vibrated with the movement of the train and, lying still, he could finally feel his racing heartbeat. Hidden under the tank, he peered out at the passing landscape and watched for any landmarks or signs. The train engineer wasted no time to regain full speed.
The light of a train station twinkled in the distance. He knew the track made a sharp right turn after the town of Gross Mackenstedt. He reasoned this would be the best place to jump off to avoid being found.
A few moments later the train made a sharp right turn and passed through Kirchseelte, then it lumbered past the tiny hamlet of Burstel. After ten more minutes, the train approached Gross Mackenstedt, and to Hank’s surprise, it started to slow down.
Dread settled in his stomach. Would they be checking for stowaways? His stomach churned, and he fought the urge to vomit.
The train entered the brightly lit railyard at Gross Mackenstedt, and the hissing wheels lurched to a stop. Hank tucked himself under the tank as far as he could, but with the lights that beamed across the train and into every dark crevice, anyone who so much as glanced under the tank would see him.
As the rumble of the engine and squeal of the brakes died down, the voices of two shouting men filled the silence. The sound seemed to be coming from the front of the train, but Hank couldn’t understand what they were saying. From the rear, he heard footsteps in the crushed stone ballast that supported the rails and ties.
Two men approached, walking without any sense of urgency. The beams from their flashlights bounced across the train in rhythm with their footsteps and conversation. They groused about their work and made snide remarks about their boss. If they were looking for a downed American crewman, they didn’t seem too determined. Hank pushed that thought out of his mind, held his breath, and listened. They lingered by the bed with the tank, pausing to murmur complaints out of earshot of their boss. Hank could see them from only their waists down, watching as their arms hung by their sides and their flashlight beams dropped toward the ground. After an eternity of griping, one of them finally sighed and turned away. The other followed, passing Hank’s hiding place without a second glance.
The train inched its way out of the railyard. When Hank was sure it was out of sight of the switchmen, he poked his head out from under the tank. The train began to pick up speed, and then made the sharp right turn he had been waiting for. He would have to jump now, or he would never make it. Hank crawled to the far edge of the train car. As he rose to his feet, he put his arms out to keep his balance. He inched forward, step by step, watching to place his foot on the coupling between his car and the trailing one. He wobbled, but once he stood with both feet on the coupling, bouncing and jostling with the movement of the train, he crouched low. He scanned the passing countryside to the left of the train, dark and empty of houses or barns. All the muscles in his body tensed, ready to spring. The wind roared passed his face. As the train drew near a patch of grass, he jumped.
The tall grass cushioned his landing, and he let his body roll with the momentum into a thicket of weeds. He waited, motionless, while the train passed, before poking his head up.
Clouds obscured the moon, its faint white glow just visible behind them. It was dark enough. Hank could keep moving without being seen. He stood, the grass rustling with his movements, and brushed dirt and leaves from his clothes. Beside the tracks, several yards away, a road wound through the land like a dark ribbon. This one was broader than the road he’d crossed before. It was a main highway for busy daytime traffic. It was empty and silent now, but even at this time of night he had to be careful. Hank spotted a ditch and crawled into it, hoping its path led underneath the road. The culvert was small, but not so small that he couldn’t fit inside and crawl to the other side. He lifted his head to try to see the other end of the culvert across the street, but in the dark, everything blurred together and he couldn’t tell whether the other end opened on the opposite side of the road. He lay still for a moment, glancing in both directions. All was silent. He dashed across the street and dove into some bushes.
Rolling over, he yanked his map and compass out of his pocket. Stuhr was northeast of his position. He searched around him, spying here and there for a lonely farmhouse on a distant ridge or hillside. Nothing remarkable matched anything on his map. He folded it and exhaled with frustration. He had no choice but to trust his map to get him to his Oma’s house. If it was accurate, she was just a kilometer away.
The temperature was dropping, and Hank realized he needed to find some place to stop for the night. He crawled through the grass alongside the road, until a dark opening in the ground caught his eye. The other end of the culvert lay hidden behind thick weeds. He stood, hunched in a crouch, and dashed over to it. Before jumping, he stopped. A glimmer of water and ice covered the bottom of the ditch, just a few inches deep, but he would regret spending the night in ice and water. Just the thought made his teeth chatter, and already he was rubbing his hands to keep them from getting numb as the night grew colder. He looked around again, and there, a little distance from where the road curved and dipped over a hill, stood a small farmhouse surrounded by trees. Near the house, but still a short distance away, the corner of a second roof stuck out from the trees, its dark angle visible like a sharp blade against the grey shadows of the sky. It had to be a barn or shed. If all was as quiet as it seemed, everyone had turned in for the night. He could hide there until morning.
Hank felt his way through the ditch, crouched over with his hands running alongside the bank beside him. Slowly, he trudged through the muddy ditch, following its length through the field until he came within fifty feet of the barn.
He smelled stale hay in the cold night air. In a corral close to the barn, two horses breathed softly, heads bent in sleep. Hank crawled out of the ditch, and crouching low, he dashed between the trees to the side of the barn. Stopping, his back to the barn’s wall, he caught his breath before inching along to the barn door. He listened. The horses didn’t stir. He gave a gentle push on the door, the old wood creaking and groaning under the slightest movement. Easing it open just enough for him to slip through, Hank peered through the opening. He ducked in and found himself inside a large, cavern-like building covered in loose hay. High above, moonlight streamed in from a small window, illuminating the scattered hay on the ground. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he found a ladder leading up to a loft filled with hay. Among the smell of hay and earth, the musty scent of feathers met his nose. Hens rustled somewhere in their nesting boxes, but he couldn’t see them.
He climbed up to the loft and looked around for an escape route. The only way out was the same way he had entered. That was not ideal, but he had no alternative. Inside the barn, blackness shadowed every corner, but outside, the sky was already beginning to lighten from black to gray. With dawn approaching, he would have to stay until the sun went down again.
Hank settled on top of the hay on the far side of the loft, hoping he was out of view of the door. Exhausted and hungry, he fell asleep. He dozed at times but was awakened by the slightest sound. After an hour, he jolted awake. A dog barked just outside the barn. Hank lay still, listening. Soft sunlight filtered through gaps in the barn wallboards and knotholes in the wood, illuminating the dust around him. The dog’s bark grew louder and more frantic, until an old man’s voice shouted in German, “Milo, get over here,” he grunted.
Hank detected a Swiss accent in his words. The dog quieted for a moment but began barking again. The man’s voice drew closer as he yelled at the dog. Hank buried himself deeper into the haystack. Through a small opening, he watched the barn door.
“I’m coming, Milo. Hold on. I’m coming.”
The barn door swung open. Two shadows stretched across the floor in the morning sunlight. The dog bounded into the barn, thrusting his nose to the ground and running about, following a scent…Hank’s.
Hank’s heart was in his throat. He parted some hay to create a small tunnel to peek through, holding his breath. The old man tended to his chores but glanced up now and then with a frown at the dog’s antics.
The man’s tattered overalls and shabby coat hung about his thin frame as he moved about, in no hurry. The brim of his hat drooped over his eyes. Even the scarf tied around the dog’s neck was faded and ragged. Hank remembered he needed to steal a coat or some clothes for a disguise. He swallowed, wondering if this was the right place to take something that didn’t belong to him, no matter how desperate he was. For that matter, were any of the small farms or homes around here the right place?
Something moved near the wall just a few feet away, startling Hank. The outline of the man’s arm reached for a pitchfork hanging on the wall.
Hank reached for his pistol on his leg, the feel of the cold metal at his fingertips bringing a sense of relief even as dread filled him. He didn’t want to face that choice, not here. The dog leapt over to the man’s side. Its whole body shuddered with each fierce bark.
“There’s nothing in here, Milo. Just be quiet,” the man said.
The farmer stuck his pitchfork into the hay, the sharp prongs slicing into the pile just inches from Hank’s side. He lifted the fork and carried the load over to his horses, spreading the hay in the manger. The man’s footsteps then carried him to the other side of the barn, and at each squawk of a chicken, Hank could count how many eggs he collected into his basket. He turned to the barn door and called for the dog to follow as he hung the pitchfork back in its place on the wall.
Hank kept still as the dog took one final lingering sniff in the air, then ran to catch up to the farmer. The man shut the door behind him.
After a few minutes, an odd squeaking sound rang out from the corral, muffled by the barn walls. Then came a splash of running water, its stream pounding into the metal bottom of the horse’s trough. As he imagined the clear, cool water he realized how his dry tongue stuck to his mouth and his throat burned. Hank listened as the trough filled higher and higher, and from the sound of it, he guessed the farmer used a hand-driven well pump.
The noise stopped and the dog’s bark receded as they walked back to the farmer’s house. Hank breathed in deeply, letting go a big sigh of relief as he settled back into the hay. Within minutes, he fell into such a deep sleep, he didn’t wake until afternoon.
As he awoke and looked around while he came to his senses, he scolded himself. He shouldn’t have slept so soundly. He couldn’t afford to be so careless if the Gestapo was on his trail–especially since the dog knew he was here, and the farmer realized the dog was on to something.
Hank wiggled his way out of the hay and looked out from his perch into the cavernous barn. The bright daylight exposed a treasure trove of tools and other items he could use to his advantage. Hanging on the wall was a bridle, a saddle blanket, and saddle, along with a shovel and the pitchfork. In the corner near the door, a pair of coveralls, almost as shabby and faded as those the farmer had been wearing, dangled from a rusty nail on the wall. A coat lay slung over a wheelbarrow, covered in dust and hay. Hank took a deep breath, realizing he had to steal in order save his life. He knew what he had to do.
Chapter 43
February 4, 1944
Groß Markenstadt, Germany
Just before sundown, the farmer returned to the barn to feed the horses again. Hank had expected this and waited until he left before stirring. This time the dog didn’t bark, but Hank couldn’t help but notice the frown that darkened the man’s withered face as he scanned the barn.
Hank unfolded his map one more time and held it close to his face in the waning light. He counted the number of roads and intersections he would have to navigate between here and Oma’s house, reciting their names to himself to burn them into his memory. Once he was on the road, he would need to walk like a local who knew these roads as well as he knew streets back in Huntsville. The names rolled around on his tongue with familiarity, but it had been so many years, and he had been so young. He may not recognize them by sight.
The map’s legend had a bold statement highlighted in red: “Road classification not based on reconnaissance. Reliability uncertain.” At the bottom, a grid with segments in red indicated the primary bomb target area. Hank spotted his exact location on the map, and then followed the roads and landmarks with his finger until he found a small square just outside the primary target area. His eyes widened with relief, and he recognized that the red line stopped just short of her house, like the edge of a scarlet shadow. She didn’t even know she lived on the doorstep of something so dangerous.
Hank crawled out of the hay and climbed down the ladder, brushing bits of straw off his clothes. He tiptoed across the barn and lifted the overalls from the nail by the door. They were faded and worn, but just what he needed to blend in. He would carry the bridle and the saddle blanket and pretend to be a farmer looking for a horse that had escaped its corral. Unfolding the coat, he brushed off dust and cobwebs as loose bits of hay fluttered across the floor with each vigorous shake. Now if someone stopped him, he would have a plausible story for being on the road, on foot, after dark.
He stripped everything from his jumpsuit pockets, including the maps and compass, and zipped them into his bomber jacket pockets. He took off his shirt and dog tags, then rolled them up inside his jacket, compressing it as tightly as he could. Grabbing some twine nearby, he tied it all up and hid it inside the saddle blanket.
He was surprised the coveralls were a good fit over his clothes. The jacket was not. It draped over his shoulders, the sleeves hanging way past his wrists. He wore only his thermal underwear beneath it, and was bound to be cold, but wearing his uniform was not an option.
He climbed back to the loft to wait until nightfall.
At about seven, it was pitch black outside. Hank climbed down the ladder; his limbs numb from lying so long. As feeling returned, pain from his injured ankle shot up his leg. He limped as he left the barn, clinging to the saddle blanket and bridle to keep them from making any noise. The moonlight was just peeking over the eastern horizon, its light a welcomed assistant. Maybe the light would be enough to help him to find his way around and recognize his oma’s neighborhood.
Glancing around in the darkness, he spotted the well pump. He tiptoed over and drew some water, careful to not make a sound. He took a long, delicious drink from the tip of the spout. He eased the handle up and down, holding his breath, listening for the dog each time it squeaked. After a few tense moments, he had drawn enough to gulp down several swallows. The cool liquid slid over his dry tongue and throat, refreshing and energizing. He wiped his mouth and continued to the edge of the barn.
Hank looked again for any signs of movement. Seeing nothing, he made a quick dash across the field. When he reached the road, he ducked low in the ditch, the same way he had come in and stopped to catch his breath.
The still winter night felt warm for the season. A distinctive ring encircled the moon, a sure sign of an approaching storm. If a storm was coming, he needed to get to Oma’s house before his boots would leave prints in the fresh-fallen snow.
He crawled up from the ditch, stumbling toward the road. He couldn’t afford to limp, even with no houses or vehicles in sight. Each step, he distributed his weight equally on both feet, keeping his shoulders back no matter how much he wanted to grimace and bend over in pain. He tucked the bundle under his left arm now, slinging the bridle over his right shoulder, the way he would if he were searching for a missing horse back home. Except for the rustle of wind in the grass or the distant howl of a train, the silence that filled the night around him could be the same silence on a cold night in Huntsville. If he closed his eyes, he could be wandering the roads near his home, helping Grandma Russell bring home a lost cow or horse. He followed the predetermined course in his head, remembering the map.
The first group of houses would be in the small town of Blocken, less than a mile away. Walking as fast as his injury would allow, he switched the blanket from one arm to another every few minutes.
