When they pulled into a small village train station, it looked as though there would be another inspection.
“Let’s get off,” Warren said. He couldn’t take another brush with the police. “Find somewhere to hide for a few days. Maybe the search will die down.”
Julian seemed uncertain, but as another group of policemen boarded the train, he stood. They left through the boxcar’s front door as the police entered from the back. They trudged along a wet dirt road surrounded by fields full of the frost-tipped remnants of last fall’s harvest. The sharp air, the absence of people, and the lack of sounds other than the crunch of their feet made Warren feel like he was finally free. If his three weeks in prison had taught him nothing else, it was that the Germans loathed the British, and he didn’t think they would ease their hatred at all for a Canadian. Being away from the crowds lifted a huge weight from his shoulders.
But as the morning passed, Warren started limping. Julian’s breaths had long been coming in short gasps. Now his breaths were interrupted by coughing fits. Warren had suggested they rest before, and Julian had said he wanted to press on. This time Warren didn’t ask. “We’re stopping for a bit.”
Julian was coughing too hard to argue.
It was a long way to the border. They wouldn’t make it on foot, not in their current state. The deserted nature of their surroundings that had filled Warren with hope just hours before now made him face the harsh truth. They needed a place to hide, somewhere sheltered from the barren landscape and icy wind.
They rested for a while. Julian’s coughing didn’t stop. As the cold crept under his skin and sank into his bones, Warren wondered if they should go back to the village for food and warmth. A rumbling in his stomach told him food couldn’t come too soon. Perhaps half a mile away, a rise hid the rest of the road. “I’m going to see where the road goes from there.” Warren pointed. “If I don’t see anything promising, we may have to turn back.”
Julian nodded his agreement.
Warren’s pace was slow. The morning’s trek had lasted about three hours. It was barely noon, but he suspected it would take them until nightfall to get back to the village. He worried about Julian. He had improved in prison, but he was still weak. Warren was too, but not in the same way. Though Julian never complained, Warren could tell each bit of their journey was wearing him down more and more. The blisters from that first terrible night might be gone, but the gasping for breath and coughing were worse than they’d been in weeks.
From the hill’s crest, Warren could make out a small scattering of homes. Perhaps they could hide in one of the barns. But for how long? Eventually they would have to go back to the train station.
“Father in Heaven,” Warren whispered as he walked back to his friend. “I came to Germany to rescue Julian. I didn’t count on getting shot or getting arrested. And now I’ve gotten us into a mess. If you’re real, and if you care, I would appreciate a little help. A little guidance. Something.”
Nothing happened. Warren wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Perhaps a cart to come by that would take them to the village or a peal of church bells announcing the end of the war. Maybe Warren’s desperation was forcing him to hope for miracles when they no longer existed.
Julian’s breathing had quieted by the time Warren returned. It wasn’t a miracle, but at least it was positive.
“There are half a dozen houses beyond the hill. We can hide there.”
“They’ll think we’re deserters.”
Warren hadn’t thought of that, but Julian was right.
“Don’t look so gloomy. They may think we’re deserters, but that doesn’t mean they’ll turn us in.”
Warren pulled Julian to his feet. Before they reached the hill, Julian’s cough returned.
“We can tell them you’re on your way home but that you need to rest before you can continue,” Warren said.
Julian paused for a while, catching his breath. “Except the only village around here whose name I know is the one where we left the train.”
“Can we swing around and approach from the other direction? Pretend we’re on our way to the station we just left?”
“They’ll wonder where we got off.” Julian coughed again and winced. “We’ll figure something out. Let’s go.”
Approaching the set of homes in the bright afternoon sun gave them no way to hide. They were in the open, highlighted against the snow for all the residents to see. Warren spotted a plume of smoke coming from the nearest home’s chimney. Julian too stared at the inviting cottage. They shared a look, then turned off the road.
An elderly woman answered their knock. Julian handled the conversation. Warren wasn’t sure what was said, but the woman soon ushered them in and chatted happily with Julian while she sliced pieces of bread for them. Julian gave her some of their money, and she brought out a jar of preserved pears. Next she took four eggs from a basket and fried them for the men.
It had been at least a month since Warren had eaten so well. He hoped Julian was thanking the woman profusely. Warren knew how to say danke but didn’t want the woman to think he could talk, so he kept silent while Julian and the woman spoke.
After the meal, the woman bundled up and headed outside.
“Chores,” Julian explained.
Warren walked to the window. Several logs were piled next to a dwindling stack of firewood near the back door. Maybe he could help repay the woman’s kindness. “Will you ask if I can chop some wood for her?”
Julian stood. “Yes.”
“You rest.”
Julian seemed about to protest.
“Your lungs finally calmed down. We may have more walking to do soon.”
“She said we can stay the night. There’s a convent not far away. The nuns turned it into a hospital a few years ago. She assumes we came from there. Sounds like she’s seen several soldiers released for convalescence leave who thought they could walk to the train station rather than waiting for the weekly carriage ride. She assumes we did the same.”
Warren nodded. Maybe miracles were real after all.
Julian went outside with Warren to talk to the woman about the firewood. He had to stay close since the woman would occasionally ask a question and look to Warren as if expecting him to answer. When the woman went back inside, Warren gestured for Julian to follow her. The man needed rest.
Warren had a feeling he would be sore the next day. He hadn’t chopped wood since he was a teenager in Canada. But his rhythm soon improved, even if it never felt as smooth as it had when he was doing it regularly. He had tripled the woman’s supply of firewood when a familiar sound caught his ear. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the type, but an airplane engine rumbled nearby. He walked from the woodpile, his eyes on the sky until he spotted it. A little biwing two-seater trainer plane. Something was leaking, and the plane was headed for a nearby field.
As Warren watched it land, the old woman and Julian came outside. Warren motioned toward the plane, and the three of them trudged to the field. He picked out the angry tone of one of the men, probably the instructor, berating the other man, probably the student. Warren was drawn to the machine. A tree branch jutted from the side of the fuselage; the student must have flown too close to the treetops. He examined the hole in the radiator. It would be easy enough to give it a temporary patch.
The instructor saw him touch the plane and turned his anger on Warren. He had to remind himself not to react, not to show his expertise. His current uniform, after all, proclaimed he was an infantryman, not a pilot or an officer. He took a few steps back, which was enough to satisfy the instructor, who was undoubtedly used to the attention airplanes generated.
First the instructor shooed Warren, Julian, and the old woman away. Then, as more civilians crowded in for a closer look, he motioned to Julian and spoke to him earnestly for a few minutes. Julian nodded, seeming to agree to something, then took up a guard stance and motioned for Warren to join him.
With a wave of his hands and a shout like artillery fire, the instructor made the civilians step back. Then he jerked a finger at the student, and the two of them stomped off. Warren watched them confiscate a car from one of the local inhabitants and drive away.
It was a few minutes before a combination of the cold and the memory of the instructor’s threats drove part of the crowd away and Julian came close enough to Warren to whisper in French. “We’re guarding the plane. Do you suppose we can steal it after they repair it?”
“Why wait?”
Julian eyed the gash in the radiator.
“It’s minor. Find me some soap, and I’ll fix it.” He checked the fuel levels. “Find me some petrol, and I’ll fly us home.” He looked at the sun, shading his eyes with his hand. “We shouldn’t leave until almost dark. There isn’t a plane stationed near the front line that can’t shoot this thing down if they see us.”
“Soap is rationed just like the petrol. Good thing McDougall left us with a small fortune.”
Julian waited until only a handful of boys from the village still watched the plane. Then he slogged from door to door, offering money for fuel or soap. Warren saw him collect a can of something, most likely petrol, at the house where the instructor had borrowed the car, but he had to stop at several other homes before he came back. A satisfied smile brightened his face despite the wheeze coming from his lungs.
Warren grinned back. “Well done.” He topped off the fuel tank. Were he flying a plane he planned to use again, he would be far pickier about the type of petrol he poured inside. But he felt this would be the trainer’s last flight. As long as it ran all the way to France, Warren didn’t care about the engine’s longevity.
He shoved the soap into the radiator’s hole. It wasn’t an ideal, permanent fix, but he knew other pilots who had done the same thing with holes in their radiators. He left Julian with the plane while he fetched more water for the radiator from the old woman’s well. The bright sunlight reflecting up from the snow would help slow the freezing process, but on his way back to the plane, he had an idea. It wouldn’t be unusual for a pair of soldiers on guard duty to build a fire.
Warren wished, not for the first time, that he spoke flawless German. He glanced at Julian when he returned to the plane.
“What?”
“I hate to ask, but can you see if the woman will sell us some firewood? I don’t want the parts to freeze up. We may have to take off in a hurry if the instructor returns before evening. And it will be cold up there, especially at night. I doubt this goes very high, but I’ll want to take it to its ceiling so we’re less vulnerable to ground fire. If she has any hats, gloves—even socks—it will make the trip better.”
Julian tried to hide a cough and headed back to the cottage.
“I’ll carry the firewood—don’t you try to drag it out here.”
Julian turned back. “I thought your leg was injured.”
“It’s not bad,” Warren lied. Not as bad as your lungs.