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“BLOODY HELL, YOU’RE hit,” Nigel exclaimed.
“I’ll be fine,” John said through clenched teeth.
We zipped over a hill that had me coming off my seat and my stomach performing a flip-flop.
“Do you know how to use a stick shift?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I need you to shift when I clutch. Do you think you can do that?”
“Of course.”
We approached a long curve. Feinberg clutched. “Third,” he ordered and I downshifted.
“Nigel, dig up that scarf you were wearing. See if you can wrap it around his arm.”
Once we hit a straightaway, John held his left arm above his head while driving with the right, and Nigel did the best he could to wrap up the injury from the back seat. For the next bit of time, the sergeant and I worked as a team—clutching and shifting. He took several turnings to get us off the main route and as far from the accident as possible. However, it wasn’t long before his shoulders drooped and energy began to flag. Blood seeped through the scarf, and even though every fiber in my body urged us onward, I knew we needed to stop to take care of the injury.
“Pull off at the next turning.” I pointed to a break in the trees, and soon we bumped to a stop along a goat track.
Feinberg’s head fell forward onto the steering wheel.
“Sergeant?” I shook his good shoulder but received no answer. “Nigel, pull out those clothes you were wearing earlier. We’re going to need them.”
When I opened the driver’s side door, John slid toward me and his weight almost had us both falling to the ground. With Nigel’s help, I pushed John across the seat, untied the bloody scarf, and set about removing his overcoat and suit jacket to finally get down to the white shirt, also covered in blood. A little hole stood out among the stains. The bullet hole. Using two fingers, I ripped the shirt apart to reveal a gruesome gash where the gunshot had left behind a jagged trench, about three inches long, burrowing across the flesh of his bicep. Blood pumped out of the injury.
I’d seen gunshot wounds before but never in such proximity. Bile rose in my throat. I held a hand to my mouth and, pushing Nigel out of the way, staggered off the track but didn’t manage to make it more than a few steps before folding over and vomiting.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. The red armband with the swastika appeared in my line of vision, and I used it to wipe my mouth.
“Knew we’d find a good use for that.” Nigel snorted. His hazel gaze studied me. He was so close I could see the freckles dotted along his nose. “You look pale.”
“I feel better. I’ll be fine now.” Breathing through my mouth, I girded myself to look at the wound again. The second time wasn’t as bad as the first—though still a ghastly sight. The contents in my stomach remained there.
“Do you have field medical training?” I asked Nigel.
“Sorry, no. What about you, any nursing?”
I shook my head.
Luckily, the bullet had not buried itself in his arm, and a visual inspection of his coat showed a secondary tear where it must have exited. I needed to do something the stop the bleeding and try to close the wound. Nigel’s brown shirt came in handy. I used the sleeve to tie a tourniquet above the cut, slowing the blood loss to an anemic ooze.
“Nigel, in my handbag you’ll find what looks like a green coin purse with little flowers embroidered along it.”
“This?” He held up the miniature sewing kit.
“Yes, and check under the hood to see if there is anything else we can use.”
While Nigel searched the bonnet, I used my lighter to sanitize the needle.
“Here’s something that might come in handy.” He hobbled over with a roll of tape, and together we stared at the injury. “Poor sod.”
There was no sulfa or penicillin to give John, not even a shot of medicinal whiskey to disinfect the wound. Truth be told, I could have used a shot of the Dutch courage myself. There were, however, mounds of untouched snow along the banks of the track we’d turned down. My tote bag revealed a forgotten half-full bottle of fizzy lemon drink, which Nigel happily finished while gathering small dry sticks and laying them out for a fire. Unfortunately, John had left the newspaper behind on the train, and I resorted to tearing pages from my book—a sacrilege—to use as kindling.
Eventually, the snow melted and bubbled merrily in the glass. I gave Nigel my gloves to pick up the hot bottle, and we used it to disinfect the thread. Once the water cooled down to a bearable heat, we poured it into the gash, which, unfortunately, jolted John out of his stupor. He proceeded to mutter expletives, and apologies for his language, through gritted teeth as Nigel held the arm steady and I fumbled with my amateur suturing skills. My hands shook as I sewed the appalling laceration, cringing every time I worked the needle in and out of his skin. The stitches ran a bit uneven, reminding me of Frankenstein’s monster, but they held together and stopped the bleeding. I prayed infection wouldn’t set in. We made a pad with my handkerchief, and Nigel held it in place while I wrapped it up with tape. Surgery complete, John flopped across the front seats, his face white and damp with perspiration.
Nigel leaned against the hood, looking a bit green around the gills. “Have you a pack of fags?”
“Check my handbag.” I stared at the blood on my palms and in the cracks of my trembling fingers; it reminded me the downed air force pilot I cut out of the trees. I fell to my knees and buried my hands deep into a snow mound. The wintry crystals turned pink and numbed my hands. I scrubbed, using the pant leg from Nigel’s former outfit, but no matter how hard I wiped, there remained remnants of the blood around my cuticles.
“Give up, love. It won’t wash without soap.” Nigel stared up at the sky. He must have found the cigarettes, for smoke wafted upwards, creating a cloudy halo above his head. “We had best get moving if we are to make the train.”
I brushed a stray wisp of hair from my eyes. “I am afraid that plan is shot. Even if we can get John back into the overcoat and make him presentable, I’ve no idea where we are. We’ll never make the train in time.”
Nigel took another drag as he digested the revelations. “Now that the original plan is buggered, what is the new plan?”
I rose and dusted the snow from my knees. “It will have to be the car. Let’s hope my stocking holds up and the petrol holds out. We’ll have to see if we can find our location on the map.”
With help, John was relegated to the back seat and bundled into his overcoat. I thanked the heavens his overcoat was black, hiding the telltale blood. Nigel and I pored over the map.
“We turned here.” I pointed.
“Yes, but I can’t figure out if we took this turning or the next. Which would either put us somewhere around here or farther north.” Nigel’s square finger tapped against my knee.
“No, no, we turned left, then right.”
“Are you sure?”
I stared at the crossroads and turnings, uncertain if the streets we drove were marked on the map. “No, I am not sure of anything.” I sighed, rubbing my eyes, and pictured Charlie’s fingers curling around my pendant. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a compass right now.”
“How about a kiss?” John mumbled from the back seat.
“I think you’re right, Nigel.” I refocused on the map. “We are somewhere around here.”
“Would you give a kiss?” John asked again.
Nigel and I shared a puzzled expression. “Are you hallucinating, Yank?”
I turned in my seat. “John?”
“You said, ‘What I wouldn’t give for a compass right now.’ Would you give a kiss?” He spoke in a thready voice, but his brows wiggled as he fumbled with the top collar button on his coat. With a tug, he pulled it free. “You’ll find the compass inside. Compliments of your British friend, Captain Fitzgerald.”
I plucked the petite brass button out of the palm of his hand and pulled the two pieces apart. I’d heard about compass buttons but had never seen one in person. It was even smaller than Charlie’s. The little black arrow bobbed cheerfully in its liquid casing, and for the first time since I agreed to this mission, a smile spread across my face.
“Oh, you beauty.” I pushed myself over the dividing seat and planted a smacking kiss on John’s mouth.
John beamed and it brought some of the color back into his cheeks.
“All right, now, if we are handing out kisses, what about me?” Nigel whined.
“What about you?” My brows rose.
“I helped you sew this bloke up, didn’t I?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes.” I grabbed Nigel’s ears and gave him a kiss on each cheek, which brought a ruddy blush and grin to his face. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
“I hope the car restarts.”
“Shush.” I pushed the clutch and brake, cranked the key, and like music to my ears, the Volkswagen roared to life.
The petrol marker wiggled dangerously low, and as much as I wished to put my foot to the floor, I kept the Volkswagen at a staid forty-five kilometers per hour. It was just one more reason my body was as tense as an overstretched violin string. The sun dipped lower in the sky by the minute, and I worried about driving the slick roads at night without lights. The increase of military presence didn’t help my nerves either; twice I pulled to the side of the road to allow military cavalcades to pass. We now headed south on one of the main roads leading to the town of Bad Säckingen, where we could cross over into the Swiss village of Stein am Rhein.
All of us had proper papers to get into Switzerland—at least they seemed up to snuff, considering there were no problems on the train. I’d compared the falsified stamp on Nigel’s papers to the stamp we received on the train. The differences were negligible and could easily have been attributed to an older stamp pad. I debated taking the vehicle into Switzerland or abandoning it in Germany. I still didn’t know if it had been reported stolen, and if so, would the border guards have been notified? With the Allied fronts moving forward so quickly, communication breakdowns were on the rise. Additionally, even though Nigel and I had done our best to clean up after suturing John, remnants of his blood remained on the seats and floorboards. If we were asked to get out of the car...
However, all my concerns would become moot if I ran out of petrol. As the only able-bodied member of this troupe, I was now in charge of the lives of two injured men, neither of whom were particularly mobile. I had no idea how long either could hold up if we had to walk, and the thought of rowing across the Rhine in another leaking boat held zero appeal.
Finally, signs for the town of Bad Säckingen came into view, and I coasted to a stop as we entered the village.
“It’s time to wake John,” I said quietly.
“I’m awake,” he whispered and leaned forward so we could speak in low tones.
“Nigel, speak nothing but French, and both of you watch out for English. If they become suspicious, they’ll start throwing English words at you to try to catch you. Do. Not. React.”
“Are we expecting trouble?” Nigel asked.
“One never knows. Our visas should be fine, but our transit papers...” I shrugged. “Just let me do the talking as much as possible.” I wrestled to loosen the money belt beneath my skirt.
“What the devil are you doing?” Nigel asked.
“Preparing to provide a little extra incentive in case we need it. Pull out a handful, Nigel, and stick it in your pocket.”
“Where did you get it?” John whispered.
“Compliments of Mr. Blaus. It’s probably counterfeit.”
A few of the buildings crumbled with bomb damage, and with the sun having disappeared behind the tree line, pedestrians were few and far between. Most were likely sitting behind blackout curtains, eating whatever miniscule evening meal their ration cards had purchased for the day. Nigel turned out to be an excellent navigator. The ancient covered bridge that would lead us into Switzerland soon came into view. A Volkssturm border guard stood next to a small, square shack.
The sight of the elderly Volkssturm had me breathing a sigh of relief, and I pulled up to the empty checkpoint with a smile and papers at the ready.
“Ausweis, bitte.” Identification, please, the white-haired gentleman said in a bored tone.
I handed them into his rough, liver-spotted hands.
The sunken sun left only a few of its gentle rays in the waning dusk, forcing the guard to hold the papers close to his face. “Johann Kraus?” He stuck his globular nose into my window.
“Hier.” John leaned forward so the guard could see his face.
The man grunted, then perused Nigel’s documents. “Wo wollen Sie hin?” Where to?
“On to Zurich,” I answered and the car gave a funny cough. Please don’t let us run out of gas. Not here.
He gave another grunt and was about to return the documents to me when another voice paused his hand.
“Ich habe dir Abendessen gebracht, Onkel.” I have brought your dinner, Uncle. The voice came from a younger man. “What have we here?”
My side mirror showed an SS soldier approaching.
“Nichts, two Swiss businessmen and their secretary returning home. Put the plate on my bench. I will get to it in a moment.”
The soldier came to stand by the Volkssturm. I studied his blond hair. My breath hitched and beads of cold sweat popped out all over my body. It was the young Sturmmann from the bus to Dornstetten. Surreptitiously, I used the seat back to push my hat farther forward down my forehead, and I rolled my shoulders forward to present a hunched appearance.
“Guten Abend.” Good evening. The Sturmmann bent to look in the vehicle. “Ach, why does the secretary drive two men? The Swiss way, ja?” he asked in a jovial needling manner.
Our gazes met straight on, for I didn’t want to allow him time to survey my profile, knowing he’d spent the better part of the Dornstetten bus trip studying it. “Unfortunately, my colleagues were recently injured in the Zurich bombing and can’t manage on their own.”
“Those American Schwein, think they are bombing us and end up bombing you. Maybe they need new maps, eh?” He winked. “Or perhaps you Swiss are not so neutral after all? Soon we will come for you.”
I didn’t wish to provoke an altercation, so I schooled my features into a blank face. Nobody in the car spoke up to defend against the insults.
The young officer studied me for a moment. All the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. I laid my hand on the stick shift, ready to pop it into gear and run them down if need be. I desperately wanted to request our documents be returned, but I held my tongue. And prayed my disguise went deep enough.
A bike wheeled up behind the vehicle and caught the soldier’s attention. “Be on your way,” he grunted and strode to the back of the car, where I heard him greet the bicyclist.
The old man returned our papers and we motored forward. The boards creaked beneath the weight of the vehicle and thunked over every seam as we drove through the two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old covered bridge into Switzerland, but I didn’t relax until the Swiss border patrol stamped our papers and waved us forward into the village of Stein am Rhein.
We ran out of gas fifty meters past the checkpoint. The vehicle coasted to the shoulder. John shifted and a spring creaked. Nigel slipped a cigarette into his mouth. The match scraped against his boot and flared briefly.
I could feel it bubbling up my throat. I swallowed in an effort to press it down and held tight to the steering wheel. To my dismay it shifted, presenting as a quiver in my shoulders, which turned into an uncontrollable quaking. I could no longer hold it in, and the hysterical laughter burst forth. In the darkness, I felt my seat mates’ stares.
“That’s right, love, let it out.” Nigel patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “We’ve done the thing and you were brilliant. For a moment, I thought that Nazi boy was going to cause us trouble.”
The laughter shook my whole body and came so forcefully I had trouble catching my breath. Soon my cohorts were chortling right along with me.
Eventually, the hysterics died down and I pulled myself together. Sucking big gulps of breath, I wiped the tears away. “You don’t understand”—my voice grated hoarsely—“I recognized him. He tried to get friendly during my first escape. He gave me his handkerchief.”
The vehicle went as silent as a spigot turning off. Nigel’s cigarette glowed brightly and I heard the crinkle of the burning tobacco. Its smoke surrounded us like a hazy cloud. Far-off explosions shook the ground and rattled the car.
“I need a goddamn drink,” Feinberg murmured.
“Me too, mate.”
“And a hospital. Let me see if I can beg, borrow, or bribe someone for fuel.”