| |
––––––––
ANOTHER FROZEN STREAM lay in our path; the late-morning sun’s rays bounced off the glassy ice. I whistled Franziska to a halt and drew my leg over his rump, landing with most of my weight on my good foot. Gertrud’s early-morning chores had given me no time for eating or washing up. The brook ran fluidly beneath the thin layer of ice, which broke easily under Franziska’s weight. I emptied the tin mug of its treasured egg and filled it with the crisp mountain water. The liquid quenched my thirst, and after draining two cups full, I refilled it and left it on a wide, flat rock while I gathered kindling and wood to light a fire. Franziska helped himself to the stream, and I offered some straw that I’d taken from the barn, but still full from his morning meal, he took only a small amount before turning away. I fastened his reins to a nearby tree branch, though I’m not sure it was necessary. Franziska showed little interest in wandering far from me.
The fire caught and smoke soon snaked its way upward. To my relief, the flame was small enough that the smoke dissipated amongst the pine-needle-covered branches above. I gently dropped the egg into the water-filled cup and placed it on the flames. Soon the liquid boiled merrily over the edges as the egg bounced around the tiny container. The small blaze blackened the outside of the cup, but I didn’t care. Its blessed warmth and the anticipation of a meal that wasn’t oily fish or dry meat had me thanking the heavens for small favors.
Seven minutes later, I wrapped a mitten around the handle to pull the vessel from the dissipating fire, and utilizing a bone-white stick, worn clean by the weather, I flipped the egg out into my covered palm and rolled it back and forth to cool it before peeling. The egg was cooked to perfection. A hint of softness in the center kept it from being too dry. I remembered another time when my roommate had watched, with a skeptical eye, as I boiled my morning breakfast into a shameful rubbery ball. After my third attempt, Evelyn laughingly took pity on my wretched culinary skills and taught me the secret to making the flawless soft-boiled egg. I sent up a silent thank-you to Evelyn as I swallowed the last bite.
From my coat pocket, I pulled out the pristine-white handkerchief, provided to me by the young Stormtrooper on the bus, and plunged the cloth into the still-warm water, then used it to vigorously wipe down my face and hands. The heat soothed my puffy, fatigued eyes, and I held it there, enjoying the calm it brought. I pulled the scarf from my head and unwound the braids, combing through the wavy curls they had created. My hair was due for a wash; it was dirty from the trip and my own natural oils. I used the warm water, drawing it through with the comb, hoping its tines would draw out some of the grime. After re-braiding it, I tied the scarf around my neck, Girl Scout–style, to allow my hair to air dry. I picked up the handkerchief again and stared at the material, running my fingers over the damp cotton fibers.
Dornstetten seemed a lifetime ago.
My perilous journey was now into its fourth day, and every moment that I paused to rest or eat made the information in my boot and head less valuable to the Allies. The attention to ablutions suddenly seemed silly. I swiftly jammed the hankie into my pocket and doused the fire with one last cup of water.
Less than an hour later, Franziska and I came upon a street running east-west, and I decided to take my chances with it. It would leave us more exposed, but the road would be faster than going up and down through the sylvan foothills.
The monotony and quiet were unexpectedly broken by three German Luftwaffe planes followed by American fighter pilots that soon engaged in air combat. The planes zoomed around, in and out of sight, and the rat-a-tat of machine gunfire, like hail on a tin roof, could be heard throughout the forest.
A boom-boom-boom rent the air, sending Franziska bucking and shying. My hands pulled on the reins, and it took all the strength my legs possessed to stay atop him. The bunker from which the flak gun was shooting couldn’t have been more than a kilometer away and came from behind me in the forest I’d just bypassed. I must have missed it by meters. Unbelievable that I hadn’t seen it, and sheer luck that a patrol hadn’t caught me as I passed it.
Franziska was finally under control when an American plane banked above me. A metallic screech had me flinching as the right wing ripped apart under enemy fire. The engine burst into flames before flying out of my sight, but I could still hear the roar of the aircraft as it plunged earthward. An explosion rocketed through the air, shaking the ground, and a plume of black smoke trailed into the sky. The acrimonious stench of burning metal and fuel filled the atmosphere. Sounds of the dogfight and the flak gun shifted south, and as Franziska and I rounded a corner, I could have sworn I saw a canopy from a parachute drift down among the trees not too far ahead.
We were still fairly deep into the forest, but the road had begun sloping downhill. I had a feeling we would be out of the rolling hills and valleys of the Black Forest and into the flats of the Rhineland before nightfall, which meant I’d be running into more populated areas and German fortifications.
I spurred Franziska into a canter and we crested the next rise. What met my gaze had me pulling and whistling Franziska up short. He skittered sideways and nipped at my pants, showing his displeasure with my rough treatment of his mouth. I absentmindedly patted and soothed him as I took in the sight. In the middle of the road hung the American pilot, his parachute and its ropes twisted among the canopy of trees. His head hung limp, helmetless, as blood dripped from a cut on his forehead—drip, drip, onto his boot and from his boot to the ground. His suit had been ripped and torn, and his left leg was bent at an odd angle, the foot wound up in one of the ropes. Protruding from the top of his right boot was the wooden hilt of a knife. It dangled, just on the edge of the boot, as though the pilot had been in the process of retrieving it before passing out.
Tentatively, I gripped the toe and gently shook his leg. The knife toppled from its precarious perch, missing Franziska’s shoulder by millimeters, and clattered to the ground. It only took a moment to dismount and fetch the knife. Pulling Franziska to a tree stump, I remounted.
Many of the ropes were too high for me to grasp, even on Franziska’s back. If I’d had stirrups, I would have been able to stand to reach them, but I was no circus performer, and there was no way I would dare to climb on Franziska’s back and attempt to balance. With one hand, I held the reins, and with the other, I stretched and sawed at any rope that came within my touch. Franziska wasn’t an overly fidgety horse, but he did have a tendency to shift at just the wrong moment. Finally, I cut the cord wrapped around the pilot’s left leg, and he shifted down. One last tug, and the silk parachute ripped asunder and the airman fell to the ground.
I slid off the horse and did not bother to tether him. Throwing my mittens aside, with shaking fingers, I searched in vain for a pulse.
“No, no, no, no,” I fervently whispered.
I swept aside the longish bangs. The gash on his forehead didn’t seem to be enough to kill him. Granted, it bled a fair amount, but it wasn’t all that deep. It looked like something he got falling through the trees. I’d patched up worse when Dagobert had jumped from his bed a la Tintin. Neither could the broken leg have taken his life. I unzipped and pulled apart his leather jacket to find his clothes covered in congealing blood, and the answer to my question. A two-inch piece of metal shrapnel stuck out of his chest. Even if I had been a heart surgeon, I doubt I would have been able to save this man’s life.
An inside pocket revealed the photo of a pretty blond girl with a sunny smile. I flipped it over, but there was no inscription. Tears came unbidden as my bloodstained thumb glided across the raised letters of his dog tags.
David O’Leary ... Christian ... A positive blood type.
My blood type.
Powerlessness threatened to overwhelm me. I fell onto my haunches against the hard ground and covered my mouth with the back of my hand to suppress the sob expanding in my chest and rising up my throat.
There was no reason to cry. It’s not as though I knew him.
Death ran rampant through the war. But for some ridiculous reason, I’d gotten it into my head that I could save this pilot. As though his plane crashing practically on top of me was a sign from above that I could save a life. As though I could be heroic—a foolish thought.
Franziska brought me back to earth by nosing my shoulder. It was just a ghost of a sound drifting across the wind, but the horse’s senses were far better-attuned than mine. The rumble of a vehicle reverberated in the distance. Someone had probably seen the parachute and was coming to investigate.
There was no time for this superfluous breakdown.
Swiping the tears away, I snapped off one of David’s dog tags, dropped the knife next to his out flung hand, and took a precious few moments to relieve him of his snub-nosed .38 revolver, holster and all, and shoved everything into my coat pockets. If there had been time, I would have searched the body for more necessities, but already the engine’s noise grew closer.
Franziska must have sensed my panic and wouldn’t stand still. We went round in circles, like a child’s dreidel, as I tried to pull myself up. Finally getting ahold of his mane, I heaved myself onto his back and threw my leg over. The roar of the truck was almost upon us, just one or two more curves before we’d be in sight. I whistled and kicked, whipping Franziska into a galloping frenzy that had us flying down the hill and around the corner. Gripping one of the reins, the other having dropped free, and his mane with both hands and tightening every muscle in my knees and thighs, we thundered down the road. I crouched low and stuck to him like a cocklebur. The noise of Franziska’s hooves covered my own gulping sobs.