April–May
The next thing Peter remembered was waking up in a hospital. At first, all he could see were bright lights. He thought briefly that he might be in heaven, but he didn’t think heaven smelled like disinfectant. And if I were dead, I wouldn’t be hungry. His eyes gradually focused on a nearby nurse. His throat was too dry to talk, but she noticed he was awake.
“Welcome back,” she said. “We were wondering when you were going to finally wake up.” She helped him sit up and brought him some soup.
Sitting up made Peter realize his head still ached a great deal, and steadying himself with his hands confirmed that his arm was still injured. He ate about half his soup but couldn’t finish it. The food slowed the pounding in his head, but Peter would have preferred it to halt completely.
He realized the nurse was speaking to him again and looked at her more carefully. She was a pretty girl with blonde hair, blue eyes, and perfect teeth.
“. . . no damage to any of your tendons, but do not expect to get out of bed for at least ten days,” she finished.
Peter let out a scornful huff. He didn’t like hospitals, and he certainly didn’t plan on staying in bed for that long. “How long have I been here?”
“A day and a half,” the nurse said before hurrying off to the next patient.
As far as hospitals went, Peter knew this one wasn’t bad. It was a real building rather than a tent—a nice upgrade from his last hospital. His fellow inmates looked like they were in stable condition, so unlike his previous stay, he thought he would be able to sleep without being awakened by moans or shrieks of pain. Large windows on both sides of the long room let in plenty of light, and it looked and felt clean. Though it was a nice hospital, it was still a hospital. Peter’s last hospital stay had been in Sicily after a German shell hit his tank and it caught fire. He felt like he’d just barely gotten back to his full physical strength about a month before Switchblade. And now he was back in bed again. He was glad to be alive, but he’d had his share of hospital recovery time, and the thought of ten days in bed was a dire one. The windows let in bright, cheerful sunlight, but Peter’s mood was black and stormy.
* * *
Peter’s mood was marginally better the next day when Captain Knight of the OSS came to get a more detailed account of what had transpired during Operation Switchblade. Captain Knight was accompanied by a private, and together they wheeled Peter’s bed into a separate room where no one would be able to hear their conversation. Knight directed the private to take careful notes of everything Peter said as he related all that had happened since he’d set sail with Ducey. When he finished, Captain Knight told his assistant to read the notes back to Peter to ensure everything was written accurately.
“Pity you didn’t bring Himmelstoss in. German prisoners can sometimes reveal useful information,” Captain Knight said.
“Sorry, sir. I should have thought of that,” Peter said, not wanting to describe the powerful feelings that had barely prevented him from shooting Himmelstoss. “But having him aboard could have led to complications later.”
Captain Knight nodded and told Peter he could consider himself debriefed. “Switchblade is closed,” he said. Then Knight warned—threatened—Peter to keep all that had happened secret, and after that, Knight and the private wheeled Peter back to his original location. Peter saw them speak briefly with the doctor on duty before they left. He found the whole debriefing a bit melodramatic. But I am a relative novice at the spy business, he thought to himself.
Peter had reached two conclusions the day before: he wanted to become better at throwing knives, and he wanted to learn German. Knife throwing was not an option at the moment, so Peter asked one of the nurses about getting some German books. The next day, Captain Knight sent an English-to-German dictionary and an old, well-used high school German textbook. It gave Peter something to do when he wasn’t sleeping.
* * *
Laroux collapsed on the floor of his cold, damp cell. Maybe they’ll give me a break now, he thought. But Obersturmführer Prinz and the other Gestapo guard who had beaten him for the past two hours showed no signs of stopping, even though he was no longer physically capable of standing. Laroux held out a little longer and then caved.
“I’m ready to talk,” he gasped.
“What was that?” Prinz’s voice was deceptively smooth.
Laroux repeated himself. “I’m ready to talk.” As he said it, he was stunned by how different his voice sounded. His throat had swollen from the beating he’d received, and he was now missing three teeth.
“Fine. Tell me who your contact is with the regional Communist party.” Prinz squatted to put his face just inches from Laroux’s. He ran a hand through his blond hair, which had fallen out of place while beating his prisoner.
Laroux didn’t want to give that information away. Instead, he offered something he thought the Gestapo would find just as useful. “I’m supposed to meet with the man who sunk the Umsicht at four o’clock this afternoon. I was going to give him some detonators.”
Laroux watched the interrogator’s face. Laroux could tell that knowledge of the man responsible for sinking the Umsicht was tempting, but he wasn’t sure Prinz believed him. How can he not believe me? I was arrested with nine detonators, and I’ve nearly been beaten to death. Prinz pursed his lips, twisting them to the side. Then he checked his wristwatch.
“Where?”
Laroux gave him the address. It was the basement of a little house near the town center.
“Name of the contact?”
“Pierre—that’s all I know about him.”
Prinz jerked his head at the other guard, and they were gone.
Laroux had no idea what time it was. He felt bad giving Pierre away, but he couldn’t handle the pain any longer. I’m too weak, he confessed to himself. He knew that when the guards came back they would ask him for his regional contact again. If he gave that name away, it would be devastating to the cause. But he knew he wasn’t strong enough to resist the torture anymore.
This was the first time he had been left alone since his arrest. His hands were shackled in front of him, but he could reach the collar of his shirt. He broke a few threads and fished out what he was looking for: an L-pill. The L stood for lethal. He put the pill in his mouth and hesitated for a moment. He knew if he lived, he would eventually betray the cause. Then he would probably be executed or sent to a camp that virtually guaranteed his death. Even if he survived the war, he would have no future in the party. He would be known as a traitor and a coward. Laroux decided it was better to die as a hero than live as a traitor, so he bit the pill, breaking the capsule and releasing the poison.
* * *
Jacques Olivier pulled out his pocket watch again. Laroux was seven minutes late. Jacques was eager to get the detonators, but his gut told him something was wrong. You can steal detonators from the Nazis, he thought to himself. He had done that before, many times, but he preferred the quality of British and American explosives to what he could round up from the German Army. Jacques closed his watch and decided it was time to go.
Jacques left the small home’s basement and began walking away from the little neighborhood. Then he paused and darted across the street, where he hid in the second story of an apartment complex to see if Laroux showed up. Laroux never came. Several other men did.
Schneider, Prinz, and six guards, Jacques thought. Laroux didn’t know I’d be that important to the Gestapo, did he? He watched the Gestapo surround the building he had exited only a few minutes before. He removed his glasses but kept the putty on his nose. He no longer matched the physical appearance of the man Laroux had known just in case Laroux had given the Gestapo a description of him. Nor would he look quite like Jacques Olivier. He made sure his pace was unhurried and unsuspicious as he exited the back door of the apartment building, a street away from the Gestapo roundup.
* * *
Hauptsturmführer Schneider was angry that they had missed Laroux’s supposed appointment. And he was even more furious when he was informed of Laroux’s death. He’d been working up to the day’s arrests for weeks. Schneider had received a lucky break when his most trusted agent posed as an eager Socialist and then reported on one of the Communist’s attempts to recruit her to the party. She had been introduced to another party member, and then the Gestapo had carefully tailed those two men until they led them to the other four members of the cell. Schneider had postponed arresting any of them until he could identify all of them. The last member, Laroux, had been discovered just that morning.
Schneider had ensured that all six of the Communists were arrested that afternoon, within hours of each other, before anyone could be warned. Schneider was familiar with how the Communists organized themselves. Philippe Laroux was the leader of the cell he had just captured, and he was the only one with ties to the regional party. Schneider had planned to use Laroux to get to others more important than he. Now Schneider was once again up against a dead end. Unless this Pierre shows up next week for his follow-up appointment. That was the pattern most of these groups employed: if the contact missed the first appointment, they were to try again at the same place exactly one week later. Somehow Schneider doubted that would happen. He would make arrangements, just in case, but he held little hope that the day’s arrests would remain a secret. Pierre would no doubt be warned off. All of Schneider’s work would produce only six prisoners, all relatively unimportant political dissidents who posed little threat to the Nazi empire.
“Find out who searched Laroux when he was put in his cell,” Schneider commanded Prinz. “Tell Standartenführer Tschirner I want the man demoted and transferred.”
“Yes, sir,” Prinz replied. Tschirner outranked Schneider, but neither of the men doubted that Tschirner would fulfill the request. Tschirner was just as vindictive as Schneider was. He too would want severe punishment for such a serious oversight.
* * *
Peter had been in the hospital for four days when he received two letters, both in the same envelope, both from home. The first was from one of his sisters. Peter had one older brother, Robby, and three younger sisters: Pearl, Ruby, and Opal. Of his sisters, Ruby was his clear favorite. They both seemed to see the world the same way. Growing up, they had always gotten into trouble for the same reasons—mostly for talking during church, having a smart mouth, or teasing another sibling too much. The two of them also looked more alike than any of their other siblings. Both had dark brown hair and eyes to match, just like their mother. The rest of the Eddy siblings had varying shades of light brown or blond hair—more like their father—and they all had blue eyes. Peter had grown up working and playing more with his brother, but when it came to finding new ways to tease their sister Pearl or coming up with pranks to play on the neighbors, Ruby was Peter’s favorite co-conspirator. Since he had left home, she had become his most faithful correspondent, and despite the distance separating them and the length of time since they had seen one other, the war had actually brought them closer.
Dear Peter,
I hope you are doing well. How is your ankle? Have you met General Eisenhower yet? I’m glad you’re not on the front lines anymore, but I still worry about you being stuck in an air raid. Everyone says the air raids in London aren’t as bad as they used to be, but I don’t believe them. I think they’re only saying that because you’re stationed there.
Life at home isn’t all that different. Pearl’s got a job as a telephone operator. She’s part time right now, but she’ll go to full time when she graduates next month. She buys a new dress every other week. They’re all beautiful. I’ve never seen a closet so full, and I can’t borrow any of them because she’s so much taller than me. Despite my name, I’m green with envy. I’m sure you can imagine what Dad says every time she walks in with a new dress. He’s still just as frugal as ever. Mama just rolls her eyes. I haven’t figured out if the eye motion is about Pearl’s spending habits or about Dad’s reaction.
Mama and Opal are doing well. Well, Mama cut her hand with a kitchen knife yesterday when we were all peeling potatoes. She had the dull knife, so the cut’s not too deep. I think Opal was more worried about it than Mama was. By the time you get this letter, she will be all healed.
Dad’s busy with the farm and with Church stuff like normal. Uncle Pete and Aunt Anne-Laure are the same as always. Little Owen has decided he wants to be a pilot and bomb Tokyo. Well, this week it’s Tokyo; last week it was Berlin. The war better not last the thirteen years it will take him to reach enlistment age! Opal and I both like our classes. Well, I don’t like my English teacher, but other than that, school is fine. Opal is looking forward to the summer, but I’m not. Next year Dad thinks he will hire some extra help around the farm. But this summer I guess I’ll have to be his field hand. Yep, that’s right. Pearl gets to dress like a movie star, Opal gets to help Mama and Aunt Anne-Laure with the housework, Owen gets to pretend he’s a pilot, and I get to be a trusty field hand for Dad and Uncle Pete. One more reason I miss you! Do you think you can win the war in time to help with the harvest?
Take care of yourself, and buy me something beautiful from London!
Love, Ruby
Peter smiled at his little sister’s letter. He’d already bought her a Waterford crystal vase, and he was confident she would love it. Ruby was a bit of a tomboy, but she still liked pretty things: butterflies, daisies, hair ribbons. Peter paused after reading the letter, feeling a mix of guilt and amusement that his family thought his new job was relatively safe. Peter had been working on General Eisenhower’s staff, but he had given up his desk job about a week ago. Only a week ago? He sighed. A lot could happen in a week.
All the nurses in the hospital wing were busy with other patients, so Peter had time to reminisce about life on the farm. He had left Idaho more than two years ago, and things had changed. Ruby and Opal had both entered high school; Pearl was about to graduate. The trying economic conditions of his childhood and teenage years seemed to have improved, and his aunt and uncle no doubt still doted on their only child, little Owen, but he was no longer the toddler Peter remembered.
Peter picked up the next letter, expecting it to be from his mother, but instead, it was from his father, Robert Eddy Sr. It was the first letter he had written to Peter since he’d left home. Peter’s mother often wrote to him, and she usually signed her letters, “Mom and Dad,” but Peter recognized her handwriting and knew who was really writing. The rather messy handwriting on this letter, however, was clearly his father’s.
Peter’s mind wandered back to December 8, 1941. He’d just returned home from joining the army and had gone into the kitchen for some lunch. He hadn’t felt like eating breakfast that morning, and his hunger had finally caught up with him. Halfway through leftovers—none of the family had eaten much the day before, and most of their large Sunday meal was still in the refrigerator—Peter’s father had come in and asked him where he’d been all morning. As farming went, December wasn’t so bad. Peter had finished his chores before he’d left, and his dad had just been curious, not mad—yet.
Peter had grinned at his father and finished chewing before replying. “I joined the army.”
Peter’s father had been about to pour himself a glass of milk. He’d set the pitcher down hard on the counter and turned around. “You did what?”
“I joined the army.”
“The army?”
“Yeah, they were the ones who could take me the soonest. I looked at the navy, marines, and the air corps, but the army had the soonest reporting date. Seth Jensen was going to report the week after Christmas, but he broke his arm, so the recruiter gave me his spot.”
Peter’s father had taken a deep breath before speaking. “I know you’re upset that Hawaii was attacked, but making a decision about this without consulting me or your mother—”
Peter had cut his father off. “Yeah, everyone’s angry, but I seem to be the only one doing something about it.”
“Your brother might be alive; they don’t have a list of survivors out yet.”
Peter had shaken his head. “I wish I could believe that.” Peter’s older brother, Robert Eddy Jr.—his hero since he had learned to walk—had been a sailor on the USS Arizona when the Japanese had attacked. The family wouldn’t receive the telegram confirming the bad news until a few days later, but ever since the attack Peter had been expecting the worst. He’d stood up and started walking out of the room. Leaving the kitchen without cleaning his own dishes was a minor felony in his mother’s home, but Peter hadn’t wanted to talk to his father anymore.
“Peter, what about your mission?” His father had served a mission to New England. So had Peter’s brother. They’d even served in two of the same towns. Peter had been planning on serving a mission too, much to the pride of his father—but Pearl Harbor had changed things.
Peter had continued walking out of the kitchen.
“Peter, I’m not done talking to you,” his father had said louder than he’d needed to. Peter had stopped, but he hadn’t turned around as he heard his father continue. “Do you know how much we’ve all sacrificed to save up money so you could accept a mission call?” He’d been right, Peter had realized. The whole family had contributed to his mission fund, and Peter had been working full time on the farm and part time in town, restocking the shelves of the local grocery store every night for years to scrape together the money it would take. Even his older brother had sent money home for that purpose since he’d joined the navy. Bob had grown up with the local stake president and had been certain he could get Peter a recommendation to serve. “I can’t believe you would put warfare—revenge—above serving the Lord. I raised you better than that.”
“Joshua, both Gideons, and both Moronis were warriors,” Peter had countered, “and I can’t remember you ever saying anything bad about them.” He and one of his friends had brainstormed scriptural warriors on their way home from the recruiting office because Peter had been expecting a heated discussion with his father. Peter had paused and turned around then. His father’s blue eyes had glared back at him. “They aren’t going to issue mission calls to men of draft age until the war is over anyway.” That piece of logic had had no effect on Peter’s father. “Look, I already signed. I’m old enough that I don’t need your permission.”
His father’s face had turned bright red. Peter had never seen him so angry, but he hadn’t been about to change his mind. Peter had waited for his father’s temper to explode, but Bob had caught himself and managed to calm down. He’d walked past Peter and left the house. But right before he’d slammed the front door, he called back one final question. “Did you even pray about it, Peter?”
His father had been late for supper that night and barely spoke to Peter the rest of the week. His guess had been right: Peter hadn’t prayed about his decision to enlist. He hadn’t even researched which branch of the military would be best for him. Something inside Peter had known his brother was dead, and he’d been angry at the Japanese for doing it and angry at God for letting it happen.
In hindsight, Peter realized that anger toward the enemy had proven useful over the ensuing months and years; anger toward God had proven foolish and counterproductive. Fortunately, it hadn’t lasted long. Peter hadn’t spoken to God for about five weeks—from the time he woke up and said his morning prayers on December 7 until more than a month later at basic training. The day had been physically demanding. It had also been the first day in Peter’s life—as far as he could remember—with no potatoes served at any of the day’s meals. While growing up, he had often complained that potatoes were all the family ever ate, but for some reason, the strange lack of them had made him miss his family and the farm. Tired, homesick, and finally humble enough to admit his stupidity, Peter had found a quiet place and prayed for forgiveness.
Beginning that day, Peter had tried to be good. He always said his prayers—though, truth be told, sometimes while half asleep and rarely while on his knees—and he read his scriptures often—though not quite every day. Naturally he went to church on Sundays—as long as he could get permission from his commanding officer and find a nearby branch. Peter knew he was still short of perfect when it came to spiritual things. He had, however, managed to avoid the biggest pitfalls of military life: drinking and womanizing. His uncle Pete had warned him to avoid those. Coming from the man he was named for—his uncle, a war veteran, his bishop, and one of his bosses on the farm—Peter had listened.
Peter had, however, fallen into one common soldier’s vice—in his first three weeks of military service, he’d picked up a mouth as horrible as any he’d ever heard before he’d joined the army. Two years later, he was still trying to break the habit. He had nearly succeeded, but things still tended to slip out in high-stress moments. Three weeks to form a bad habit; at the rate Peter was going, he figured it would take three years to break it.
Peter and his father had settled into an uneasy truce after Peter had joined the army. They’d both stayed busy and worked on different parts of the farm when at all possible. His father had shaken Peter’s hand when the family had dropped him off at the train station. Everyone else had given Peter a hug. Six months after joining the service, Peter had written his father a letter, apologizing for their argument. Peter’s father had never responded.
Since joining the army, Peter had experienced a few missionary moments, despite being a full-time soldier instead of a full-time missionary, and he’d shared those with his family. Peter had explained his belief in the Word of Wisdom to countless servicemen when he’d traded the cigarettes that came in their rations for chocolate bars or packs of gum. Peter also felt confident that his friend Lewis Lee would have joined the Church had circumstances been different. They had both been in the same company in Africa. Lee had given up smoking and borrowed Peter’s Book of Mormon every day for three weeks straight. Lee hadn’t survived the battle of Kasserine Pass, but Peter tried to comfort himself with the thought that at least Lee had known a little more about God when he went to meet Him.
His father usually replied to Peter’s letters by having Peter’s mother write something for him—one of his mission stories, an update on the farm, a scripture for Peter to look up. Peter still couldn’t figure out if his father’s inclusions were meant to chastise or encourage. Curious to find out what his father had written in his own hand—and a little nervous—Peter opened the letter:
Dear Peter,
Your mother cut her hand with a kitchen knife. She will be fine, but writing hurts her for now. I know I always have her write—she’s so much better at it than I am. I never got the education she did. I want you to know your mother and I pray for you daily. We encourage you to stay close to the Lord in the path you have chosen. Since you were little, you’ve always wanted to choose your own way. Even though I named you after my brother, I never expected you to be as stubborn as he is. Well, maybe I should say determined instead of stubborn. Lucky for you and for your parents, you’ve never made any really awful choices. I’d also like to thank you for the money you have been sending home. It was very needed at times. Now things are looking up for the farm. Our debts are finally paid. We are grateful for the help you gave but no longer need it. Your mother tells me to write that you should look for a nice girl to spend it on. I personally think you should save it for college, if you still want to go when the war ends. Should you want to farm, your uncle and I will, of course, welcome you as a full partner. Your mother wants me to write that she loves you. I love you too.
Dad
Peter read the letter over again a few times, surprised at its contents. For the past twenty-nine months, he had assumed his father was still angry with him for joining the army. After Peter’s injury in Sicily, he’d been given the choice to stay in the army and do office work or be honorably discharged and go home. Thoughts of his father’s continuing anger had been a strong factor in Peter’s decision to stay. After more than two years of thinking his father still hadn’t forgiven him, it was good to know he had been wrong. Peter looked past several rows of hospital beds toward the window. The morning had been overcast, but the sun broke through the clouds as the afternoon progressed. This time, as Peter gazed out the window, the weather mirrored his mood. He was grateful to be alive and grateful to have a loving family supporting him from half a world away.
Later that day, Peter convinced one of the nurses to let him get out of bed. She was a little hesitant, but he convinced her he was improving. He walked around the room, and it wore him out completely but didn’t stop him from doing the same thing again a few hours later. It took Peter longer to heal than he would have liked, but he was out of the hospital three days earlier than the doctors had predicted. He was assigned to a nearby army base for the rest of his convalescence. While there, Peter continued his study of German and was finally able to master the skill of throwing knives at electrical cords and other small targets.