Jingle Boys, page 41
“Hang on,” Rat said. “Yeah, looks like a part of the box got blasted.”
“Nazis probably shot it out from down here,” said Mayfield. “Pop open the lid of the box and describe the damage.”
Wally heard the scrape of metal as Rat maneuvered the box. “Well, a bunch of wires are fried, and half the screws they were tied to seem to be missing.”
“Damn,” grumbled Mayfield.
“Sorry?” said Rat. “What was that?”
Mayfield’s eyes darted like he was reading his own service manual in the darkness.
“This will work,” Mayfield replied, but it sounded more like Mayfield was trying to convince himself.
“You don’t sound very confident,” said Rat.
“I can usually see the box I’m working on. Give me a second to think.”
“Wanna trade places?”
“You can do this, Clyde,” called Wally. “Mayfield, you can too.”
Rat mumbled something Wally couldn’t hear.
“Okay. Get the clippers,” said Mayfield. “Front pocket.”
After a minute, Rat said, “Okay, got ’em.”
“Clip the end of those fried wires, and the other ones, strip an inch off the colored rubber sleeves so you can twist the exposed wire onto new screws.”
“There are five of them!” called Rat.
“Shhhh!” hissed Wally. “Be quiet and keep things moving.”
As Mayfield whispered out directions to Rat, Wally kept his eyes on the road. So far, it was clear, though he worried someone would soon come looking for the two guys they’d encountered earlier.
“Okay,” said Rat. “Now what?”
“You’re going to need to replace the corner board and reconnect the wires. There should be a replacement board in the pack. Do you see it? It’s the one with a cylinder welded to it.”
Rat grew silent and Wally worried he had given up.
“Okay, here. Got it.”
“Use the screwdriver, remove the first board, and replace it the same way you removed it.”
Wally closed his eyes and listened to the breeze in the air, the twitter of crickets, and the whisper of the leaves, assuring there was no sound of approaching danger. He reached to his hip, to the gun he kept in his new holster. He hoped never to use it, but he was happy it was there. He just prayed that if the need arose, he wouldn’t fumble it again.
“Okay,” said Rat. “Now what?”
“Last steps,” said Mayfield. “Take the tiny screws from the pack and screw them into each of the holes in the new board. Then, we’ll tie those colored wires to them. When you’re ready, let me know and I’ll give you the color order.”
It was then that Wally opened his eyes. The rumble of an approaching car had silenced the crickets.
“Hurry!” huffed Wally. “We have company.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes,” called Rat. “You can’t do this in a hurry!”
“Find a way,” said Wally.
“And turn off that headlamp,” said Mayfield.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” said Rat. The glow of his headlamp snapped off. “How do you see color in the dark?”
Slowly, the sound of the vehicle grew louder until Wally saw the headlights on the road. His heart began to knock out of sync. He counted Mississippis, but all he could think of was Rat up in the tree, trying to make this all work in the darkness.
“Give me the colors,” called Rat. “I’ll have to do this with the moonlight. What’s the order? Quick!”
“Red, black, yellow, blue, green,” rattled off Mayfield.
“Red, what?”
“Black, yellow, blue, green,” Mayfield repeated more slowly.
“Everything looks blue,” said Rat.
“Quiet!” called Wally. “They’re close.”
Mayfield and Wally backed farther into the woods, past the tree line, to obscure themselves from eyes on the road. They kept their gaze on the path that led them there with Rat perched overhead, buried in the tree. If they were lucky, the Nazis would miss seeing the signal pole altogether, just as Wally had almost done.
The vehicle came around the bend, but instead of breezing by, it slowed. It was another tub car like the one they’d hidden in the shrubs below, this one without the mounted spotlight, and it carried four German soldiers.
Then, to Wally’s horror, the car stopped.
His heart leapt to his throat when he heard the brake crank into place.
It was just as Brubaker had warned. The Germans had used the damaged relay to draw them here. They knew exactly where the relay was. It was an ambush.
The four soldiers got out, seemed to notice the tire tracks in the road, and drew their guns. Without pause, all four started marching slowly into the woods, guns drawn, toward the signal pole. Toward them.
Once again, it seemed Wally’s only contribution had been to put his friends in danger, dragging them into the wilderness to be captured by the enemy. Rat had skills with codes and ciphers. Mayfield had the signal repair know-how. But what had Wally offered? His skill seemed to be to complicate everything, to bring danger to others when all he really wanted was to give meaning to his life.
It was then that he knew what he had to do.
He sprung forward from the shrubs, into the moonlight, the glow shining off the pair of medals on his new German uniform.
“Heil Hitler!” Wally announced loudly and thrust his hand into the air.
The soldiers froze at his sudden appearance as if Wally were some wild Nazi apparition.
Surprised, the soldiers lowered their guns and raised their hands back. “Heil Hitler!”
Wally nodded back, which only seemed to make the surprised soldiers nervous.
“Was ist es?” said the closest soldier, clearly surprised to find Wally there.
Wally thought about reaching for his gun, but quickly realized to do so would reveal he was an enemy and invite their own gunfire. He may get out one shot or two, but with four soldiers to dispatch, he wouldn’t last more than a moment.
Instead, Wally held his finger to his lips, ignoring the tumultuous trembling in his limbs. “Shh,” he said, and the four looked completely flummoxed.
He then strode past them, toward their vehicle, drawing their attention with him. He turned back and gestured for them to follow.
“Was machst du?” a second German called, but Wally just kept waving them toward him without speaking.
He knew if the baffled Germans’ eyes were on him, they weren’t on Rat or Mayfield, and that might buy his friends the time they needed to complete their work. The caper may get him killed, but he realized the success of their mission didn’t require his survival. His friends just had to get the signal repaired and transmit the ciphers. And to do that, they only needed time.
Wally’s stroll became a lumber, and his lumbering became a sprint. He ran toward their car, and the four soldiers bolted toward him, yelling, finally realizing his deception.
He threw open the door of their vehicle, grateful they’d left the tub car running, and jumped into the driver’s seat. He’d never driven a car before; however, after watching Mayfield for the last couple hours, he was ready to try.
In fast progression, he released the brake, engaged the clutch, yanked the gearshift, and stepped on the gas pedal, peeling out in a cloud of dust and exhaust just as the soldiers reached him, their guns aimed at the car.
Two of the Germans gave chase, a shot or two ringing out, but in his rearview mirror, Wally saw the other two Nazis turn back toward the woods, back toward his friends.
His heart pounded in his ears, but he knew his work was not done. He managed to wrench the steering wheel, spinning the car back around, aiming it, like a torpedo, at his pursuers. This time, however, they did not look at all confused. They raised their weapons, locked their eyes on him, and opened fire.
Wally stomped the gas and ducked down. He saw a Nazi helmet on the passenger seat and stuffed it between the dashboard and the gas, locking the pedal in place. He then reached for the driver’s door and opened it.
Like Nick Carter, Master Detective had done in the show’s seventh episode, Wally leapt from the speeding car and onto the road.
He hit the ground hard, which knocked the wind out of him. He rolled end over end. Trees, gravel, and stars spun around him, the car now a missile aimed at his assailants.
With the horrifying crack of bone like the sound of an anvil landing on a dry two-by-four, Wally landed in a roadside ditch, a shooting pain blazing up his leg, his vision blurring.
Still, he was able to see the result of his work. The car had pinned one lifeless German to a tree, the other crushed beneath its front wheel, which still spun, grinding the second dead man into the dirt.
It was then he heard the gunshots. He ignored the fire in his leg, willed his aching head to turn and face the tree line where he’d left Rat and Mayfield.
He scanned for the other two Germans he thought were firing at him and reached for his holster. This time, he was able to grab his gun, but when he lifted it to aim, it wasn’t a German he saw. It was Mayfield, emptying his rifle into the last-standing German soldier, the other already lying flat on his back.
Wally dropped the gun, blinked against the pain in his body, tried to ignore his pounding heart. He moved to stand, but his leg wouldn’t hold him. He fell on his side writhing in pain, his body feeling like it was smashed into a million broken pieces.
When he looked down, he saw his leg was bent in the wrong direction.
He slumped back down and everything around him started to spin. Blood rose in his throat and nose and his breathing became labored.
“Lipkin!” called Mayfield.
Unable to keep steady, Wally felt his head fall to the side, his ear filling with gravel from the road on which he lay.
Mayfield ran sideways toward him.
“Lipkin!” he repeated.
“Not sure I did that right,” said Wally. His breath was thin, his voice weak. He recalled Nick Carter was up and at ’em, right after ditching his own car. Why did everything seem so much easier in programs?
“What did you do?” said Mayfield.
A warm, wet stream crossed Wally’s forehead and ran into his eyes. Things turned red, and the world began to fade. His mouth tasted like an old penny.
Consciousness began to fade, but this time it didn’t feel as though he was fainting. It felt more like a thin filament connecting him to the Earth was quietly unraveling. He was becoming untethered to his disloyal body.
Mayfield knelt beside him. “If you ain’t the bravest, craziest piano player I ever met.”
The scene started to close in on Wally like a love letter being folded and folded again. And while he was grateful for Mayfield’s compliment, the face he wished to see most was Audrey’s.
“Tell her she’s pretty,” said Wally. “Tell her I’m sorry I never told her that.”
“Tell her yourself,” said Mayfield. “You’re the one she wants to hear it from.”
Piano song filled his ears, and he somehow smelled the sweet scent of peppermint. His heart sputtered and his breath grew shallower. The warm glow of the moon and the sparkling eyes of his ancestors seemed to call him home.
“C’mon, Walter! Stay with me!”
Wally closed his eyes and found a sudden, unexpected comfort in the irony that when the darkness took him one last time, it would take his demon too. And that, he thought, at long last, felt like a victory.
18
A Broken Heart
In the quiet of the infirmary tent, among aromas of surgical spirits and wet wool, the team surrounded Max, who stood beside the entrance facing his friends. He held a sheet of paper in his thick hands, cleared his throat, and raised his chin.
“We all cared for him,” Max read, “and as we look back upon his short life, it’s clear that bravery was his defining trait. His greatness was undeniable, though many missed it because of his enviable intelligence and humility.” Max swallowed uncomfortably. “Some were blessed to know his brilliance. Most just knew him as generous, selfless, and wise. Our gift was having known him at all in his all-too-brief time on Earth, and our loss, like his sacrifice, is profound.”
Max lowered the sheet and scanned the faces of the team.
Mayfield scratched at his new clean bandage, Frankie pushed a hand through his red hair, Bobbi nodded, and Audrey just stared at her shoes.
“Who is going to believe any of this crap?” said Max, waving the paper. “It’s completely over the top, and, to be frank, most of this is a lie.”
“You’re reading it all wrong,” said Rat. He strode over and snatched the paper from Max’s grasp. “You aren’t very convincing.”
“It’s your eulogy. You wrote it yourself. I shouldn’t have to be convincing.”
“Shh,” said Audrey. “You’ll wake up Walter.”
The group all turned to Wally, who sat propped up in the camp infirmary bed once occupied by Mayfield. Wally’s leg was wrapped in a brace and elevated by a sling on a metal pole. His eyes were wide open.
“I’m awake,” said Wally. “Who can sleep with all that racket?” His voice sounded scratchy and his head throbbed with pain. How long had he been out?
Audrey was the first to rush over.
“Oh, Walter. Thank goodness! When I think about how badly I’d treated you—”
“I love you,” Wally blurted. His mind was foggy, but he was ready for truth, ready to be rid of the lies and the distractions that kept him from Audrey, from being who he truly was all along, even if that was a broken, damaged piano player with a fainting problem.
Audrey’s eyes grew wide. “What?”
He reached for her hand and tried to ignore the pain in his ribs, in his leg, in his skull.
“I don’t know if I’m dead or if this is a dream,” said Wally, “but if you’re real, I need to say something before I lose my chance. You’re beautiful and brilliant and I love you, Audrey Milhouser. I should have said so a long time ago, but I’m a putz.”
Audrey’s cheeks grew flush.
“I’m sorry,” Wally continued. “I know you deserve better than me.”
“Walter, I—I love you too.”
He cleared his throat. “Back in London, when I tried to kiss you—”
“Walter…” Audrey looked both flattered and embarrassed as she eyed the rest of the team. “They gave you narcotics. Can we talk about this later?”
“Sounds like my cue to interrupt,” said Brubaker. The colonel pushed aside the infirmary’s door flap and shouldered through the gathered team with the camp doctor at his side.
“Too many people in here,” said the doctor. He waved his hand as if swatting away the usual flurry of moths.
Audrey and the others stepped back from Wally’s bed, giving Brubaker and the doctor a clear path.
“Colonel Brubaker,” said Wally, but he couldn’t figure out how to sit up or salute with his leg lifted high and his arm in a sling.
“At ease, Private Lipkin. Doc says you gotta stay put ’til that leg heals, and your heart gets the once-over.”
“My heart? What are you talking about?”
The doctor raised his stethoscope and pressed it to Wally’s chest.
“Private Lipkin,” he said. “Have you had any trouble with fainting?”
Wally gulped and he saw Audrey was equally surprised.
“You might say that,” he said, his eyes scanning his friends.
“Ever occur to you to tell anyone about it?” The doctor moved the stethoscope to another part of Wally’s chest.
“Once or twice,” said Wally. He tried not to look at Max.
“Best I can tell,” said the doctor, “you’ve got a malformation in your heart, either a mitral valve anomaly or a heart murmur.” He withdrew his stethoscope. “Causes problems getting oxygen to the brain. Maybe that’s why you forgot to mention it. No air up there.” The doctor tapped his own forehead and shot Wally a sardonic smirk.
Memories of his fainting episodes flashed through Wally’s mind like scenes from a newsreel, one shameful incident after the other. He’d always attributed those episodes to his failing brain, his cowardly disposition, his demon. “Malformed heart?” repeated Wally.
“Could be congenital, genetic—or just how your heart developed,” said the doctor. “Gotta be careful with such things. Some grow out of it, some don’t.” The doctor turned and aimed an angry frown at Colonel Brubaker across Wally’s bed. “That’s why we give men full physicals before we let them serve. Secret missions are no exception.” He turned back to Wally. “Men with a condition like yours typically are relieved from conscription.”
“Things moved kinda fast, Doc,” said Brubaker. He looked at Wally. “Sorry we didn’t take better care of you, Lipkin.”
“That’s okay,” said Wally. “I was the one who kept it a secret. I thought it was just a fainting condition.”
Since that basement kiss with Eleanor Getzman, Wally had seen himself as a troubled guy prone to panic attacks, a guy who had what his uncle had. Of course, that may still be true, even if his neurosis was complicated further by a heart condition. Whatever his problems were, he was still Walter Lipkin, a dope who fainted. And maybe that’s just who he was always going to be whether he blamed his head, his heart, or the demon Asmodeus.
“Whatever you have,” said Brubaker, “didn’t stop you from defying orders again, did it?”
“No, sir,” said Wally. He lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry.” Then he remembered the events that had landed him in the infirmary in the first place. “Wait,” said Wally. He looked back at Brubaker. “Did it work? Did the French get the transmission?”
“Yes!” said Rat. His grin was full of pride. “But that was two days ago.”
“Can you believe it?” said Mayfield.
“I was out for two days?” The barrage of news rattled Wally’s bruised brain, or maybe that was the effect of the narcotics Audrey had mentioned.
“Driving a car into a pack of Nazis was a damn brave thing to do,” said Mayfield. “Even if it was crazy.”
“You were all brave,” said Bobbi. She touched Mayfield’s arm, and a dopey grin crossed his face.
