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Mark Hitchcock looked across the table in the camp to his fellow private, Tully Pettigrew and carped, “It’s a week before Christmas and we even have leave, but where should we go?”
“I thought that you were going over to one of the USO clubs and dance all night?” Tully said looking at his friend. Hitchcock hadn’t changed a lot since his North African days – still blond-haired and broad shouldered with brilliant blue eyes. The girls had a tendency to swoon.
Tully poked the potato that bobbed in his soup. Around him fellow American troops were talking and laughing, the accents ranging from the Pacific Northwest to Deep South. It was like being back in the states.
Hitchcock made a face. “Nice gals, yeah, but you know, there’s more to life than just dancing around. I mean, when you’ve seen the real belly-dancers, even some of the night clubs in London—“
“We aren’t supposed to be in those clubs,” his friend said dourly. He began to eat the soup. His hair had darkened in the months after the desert but he was still the same stocky build. Not an ounce of fat on either of the commandos. “You know that. We’re supposed to stick with the American Red Cross clubs – “
“When’d the Brits become the enemy?’ Hitchcock exclaimed impatiently. “I mean back in the desert, hell, we could stop in at the Canadians or the Australians – “
“We had Moffitt with us,” Tully pointed out. “And we were part of the LRDG with a helluva rep. Now we’re just two American boys in a sea of Americans, and the Brits have a bit of a problem with the others, you know.”
“’Over-sexed, over-paid and over here,’” murmured Hitchcock. “Yeah, but I mean we know the Brits! We even did some training with their boys last month!”
“That doesn’t help when the troop next to yours trashed a pub because it followed the law and closed,” Tully said in disgust.
“Careful or you’ll end up peeling potatoes – “
“Again.”
“I’ll help. Again.” Hitchcock scowled. “Anyway, with the leave, we should be able to go somewhere, see something, do something?”
“Want to do something different?” a deep voice asked behind them.
“Troy!” Both men shifted so the sergeant could sit down next to them. Sam Troy looked identical to the way he had when he commanded the Rat Patrol except that he wore a regular Army uniform now. Somewhere he’d even managed to replace his Australian bush hat lost when he was captured.
“Have you got something, Sarge?” Hitchcock asked eagerly.
Troy glanced around the room. No one seemed to be paying attention to them. “Yeah. Got an invitation for all of us.”
“From who?” Pettigrew asked. He finished his soup and put the bowl to one side.
“Whom,” Troy corrected him absently. “Moffitt, of course. Who else?”
For Captain Hans Dietrich the week before Christmas started with a dressing down from his commander, General Erwin Rommel and ended with a promotion. Dietrich had been assigned to the general’s staff for the last six months as Rommel strengthened the Atlantic defenses against the predicted invasion of the Allies.
Privately Dietrich thought that French wine was over-rated. Either that or they were giving the sour stuff to the occupying army and kept the best for themselves. . It was better than the thin beer he got there the last time he was in Munich. The troops resented this, but
Dietrich understood. He wasn’t sure he’d have shared some of the fine vintages he’d appropriated in North Africa with an invading army,
Passing an empty shop window he saw the new Major’s insignia on his epaulets, and felt a burst of pride. They had come from not only helping with the installation of the new iron-spiked barriers but for keeping the peace in the classic case of a reluctant woman wanted by another German officer. She had had the courage to refuse, but he was vindictive, and with the absolute power inherent in the occupation, had threatened her and her brother with deportation. Dietrich intervened when one of his men had come to him and explained. There were a few soldiers still bothered by immorality.
The resolution was that the abusive officer was transferred to Italy – Good luck, Wilhelm! – and the girl’s brother freed. As in the case of most armies, the situation had finally come to the attention of the commander, Ernst Rommel.
This led to the reprimand as Rommel told him to stay out of the local administration’s authority. That their meeting ended with them drinking the bottle of wine given to him by the girl, a good local vintage so Dietrich knew it existed, and the presentation of the Major’s insignia, somewhat took the sting out of it.
He’d also been ordered to carry dispatches to Berlin. This would take him there for Christmas, then use the next week’s leave to visit his parents. He walked with a lighter step towards his lodging garnering mostly cold shoulders from the locals and sharp salutes from other soldiers until he reached his apartments.
Two weeks free of war. Maybe he could find someone in Berlin to celebrate Christmas with!
Troy leaned back on the bumper of the small jeep and folded his arms. Only an hour out of Cambridge, the airbase had become a familiar place to the sergeant. Between missions he’d come up here to see his brother, Captain David Troy, formerly of the RAF and now of the American Eight Air Force who flew with the night fighters. Their schedules didn’t coincide very often but David had promised to spend Christmas with him and the others, so Troy was here to pick him up.
His younger brother walked out of the long Quonset hut, his flying jacket over his shoulder, and his leather cap dangling from his hand, saying something to the other pilots, then headed for Troy.
Troy had an inkling of what he was going to say from the expression on his face.
“Party’s over, eh?” he said to forestall David’s excuse.
“Yeah,” David acknowledged. “Sorry about this, Sam. Can’t talk about it.”
“’Course not.”
“Just a milk run. I’ll be back for Christmas.”
Troy frowned. David sounded as confident as he usually did, but it was at odds with the look on the faces of the men who were waiting. Whatever was happening, it was big, and no one liked tempting fate by predicting the future.
One of the huge gasoline trucks drove by, and Troy realized that he was in the way. Whatever was going to happen was starting now.
“You know where we are,” Troy said finally, standing up. “You got Moffitt’s number?”
“Yeah. Gave it to the base commander too just in case. See you later?”
“Yeah. Merry Christmas, David.”
David flashed him a smile. “You too. Give my best to the others.”
Troy drove to Cambridge via narrow roads flanked by tall hedges. It was almost claustrophobically tight.
Moffitt was staying at his parents’ home since they were out of town. His father, the famed archaeologist, had taken his mother to Scotland to visit their niece who was nine months pregnant. So Moffitt had the entire small Tudor house to himself and was planning a fine house party for the holiday. The food was mostly ‘liberated’ from the supplies on base, and the liquor came from sources that didn’t bear too much looking at. Troy had extorted a promise that it wouldn’t be over a thousand years old – he was pretty sure that somewhere Moffitt Senior or Junior had a secret stash of Roman wine and he, Troy, didn’t plan on drinking it. He’d drunk enough obnoxious brews in North Africa to be suspicious of anything that came from an unlabeled bottle.
The others had arrived before Troy, and he was amused to see a woman directing Tully and Hitchcock on how to put holly around the arched doorway, then disappearing inside. Both men were sucking their fingers by the end of it. They waved at Troy, and went back to work.
“Troy!” Moffitt called, coming around the corner. “Where’s David?”
Troy shrugged. “He’s not coming.”
The tall, lean Englishman frowned. He knew instinctively that Troy was disappointed. “I see. Pity, old man.”
“Hey, that leaves more women for us!” Hitchcock said cheerfully. “Too bad. Wanted to see him again.” His light tone covered his understanding that Troy was probably worried about his brother.
“In your dreams,” Tully cracked. “Sorry to hear that, Sarge. Lookin’ forward to seeing him again.”
“At least he’s safe from Paulina and her sister,” the woman said unexpectedly. She came out of the house with a battered china mug in her hand. Steam plumed out of it, and Troy smelled hot cider. “Merry Christmas, Sergeant Troy.”
Troy smiled. He liked Moffitt’s cousin, Zoe, even if she wasn’t the kind of beautiful woman he was usually attracted to. Thick eyebrows, thin lashes, and large watery blue eyes made her seem plain. “Thanks, Zoe.”
“The Vicar’s holding a ceremony in a couple of hours, a Christmas Eve ceremony. Can’t do it at night – black-out regulations, you know,” Moffitt suggested delicately. “I’d planned on going. We can probably get into the church.”
“Like that,” Troy replied laconically. “Anything I can do here to help?”
Zoe smiled. “Yes, indeed. We still have to put up the tree here . We’ll decorate it tonight after the children are abed. Come inside. There’re some boxes that need moving.”
Troy cocked his head and looked around. “Is that thunder?”
There was a rumble, a growing hum that echoed around them.
“There!” Moffitt said sharply, and pointed.
From the north-west came bombers, B-17s, their shadows stretching before them across the countryside. Wave after wave after wave, they filled the sky, startling the flocks of black crows that flew among the naked trees, and the sound became an unrelenting roar.
Troy’s fingers were gripping hard on the coffee cup but that was the only sign that he was worried. Normally he didn’t know if his brother was flying or not. He noted sourly that it made a difference when he did.
“There must be thousands,” Zoe commented breaking into the silence.
Hitchcock shook his head. “A hundred up there probably. Those are our boys.”
“And those are ours!” Moffitt said waving to the west. The Lancaster bombers flew overhead, the found markings under the wings clearly obvious.
“Where are they going?” Hitchcock asked curiously. “Got an idea, Sarge?”
Troy shook his head. “Nope.”
“God help those who fly tonight,” Moffitt commented looking up.
“And those who will die tonight,” Zoe added dreamily. “Not the kind of Christmas party I’d like to be at,” she added in a no-nonsense tone.
“Speaking of the party, if we hurry, we can get the tree inside before we go to church,” Tully said bringing their attention back to earth. “Come on.”
Troy followed them. He agreed with Zoe. God help them all.
David Troy thought he shouldn’t be on this raid. He’d been flying cover for Bomber Command consistently for the last month, and had been promised a week’s leave. But the Luftwaffe had sliced apart the last set of fighters, and his commander had been apologetic but firm; they were flying that night.
The Lancaster bombers had left hours before and should be turning northeast by now for their rendezvous over Berlin around two a.m. His fighters would be there equipped with the long-range tanks that gave them enough gasoline to get home, and they would provide cover for the bombers all the way back to England. The roundabout route had worked before; the Germans didn’t know what hit them when the bombers came from the opposite direction.
Under his long wings, the quilted landscape and silvery rivers of England were as clear as day. There was bad weather over the target, but here there was nothing but a few clouds and the glare of the bright moon. The light showed the paths and byways, the small villages, the spires of the churches, their bells silenced until the war was over except by special dispensation, and the white lace of the surf that brushed up the beaches and smashed on the walls that were the land’s end.
David felt a trickle of cold fear go down his neck. He sent up a prayer that his number wasn’t up, and settled back into his seat to keep watch on the dials. The plane shook as it hit heavier winds, and looking ahead, he saw a white bank of clouds. They were about to hit the outer edge of the storm. This was it.
Major Dietrich stood outside of a large house where he’d been entertained for the last four hours, and shivered despite his thick coat and the alcohol in his stomach. There was a party going on in one of them, and he’d, along with a number of other staff officers, had been invited. He was already somewhat drunk from the other Christmas Eve parties. The cold air and snow had brought him to half-sobriety, enough so he could see the faces of the hungry people who were watching the surviving cream of the German army leave a party with lots of food and champagne while they subsided on rationed potatoes and fish. It was going to be a cold night in the ruined city and a blizzard was moving in. It didn’t matter. He had a bottle of schnapps in his pocket that would keep him warm when he got back to the hotel.
He wondered where the Luftwaffe was. The Allied bombers seemed to be getting through with little difficulty, and the raids had devastated the capital of the Reich as well as many other towns. By day, the inhabitants battled the fires, but at night there were more raids. For most of the month, the city wore a coat of sooty snow, and now there was yet another storm smothering the city with its curtain of snow.
Privately, Dietrich had always thought Berlin was an ugly city but he didn’t want to see it like this. The Hotel Aden where he was staying was a cold memory of the lovely place he’d wined and dined not two years before on an infrequent trip to the city. Only half the rooms were usable and the bar had been destroyed by a mine.
He headed for home. The destruction was random; a street would stand while the one next to it was nothing but rubble, and the one beyond already cleared and ready for rebuilding. It was almost midnight as he passed the buildings that bordered the Zoo. It was almost Christmas and his first at home in Germany in four years. Maybe tomorrow he could go home and see his mother and father. If it hadn’t been for Rommel’s orders, he could be there now…
“Alone?” a young woman said behind him. She was about twenty-one and a real blond whose waved hair was combed back away from her face so he could see her brown eyes. She had a mole was on the right cheek that accented her high cheekbones. “I’m Elsa. Who are you?”
“Hans.”
She slid her arm through the crook of his. “And a Major as well, Hans? Come inside. It’s warm.” Her coat was shabby from much use, and the fur collar had bare spots.
“Fraulein…” He heard a siren, then another.
She looked up in fear. “Nein! Not tonight! They wouldn’t bomb us tonight!” Her voice was thin with rage.
“We’d better take cover,” Dietrich suggested. “Do you know where the closest place is?”
“This way, Herr Major.” They walked briskly toward the Berlin Zoo where people were heading for the open gates. Wrecks of trams and burned-out cars slowed their progress as did the icy and snow underfoot. The storm was growing in intensity, and they were both covered by powdery flakes by the time they reached the stone pillars that had once marked the doors to the Zoo. Their iron gates had been sacrificed to the war effort.
It had been badly hit a month earlier and most of the animals shot as they escaped so the people walked past dark empty cages. Chunks of concrete littered the paths. The crowd was silently intent on getting underground.
Elsa drew him into a niche just inside the circular staircase that led down to the bunker. It smelled of stale perfume and acid cigarettes. By turning around he could still see the snow falling, and the people passed them by without commenting.
“Why here, Fraulein?” he asked puzzled. “Shouldn’t we go further down?”
She shook her head. “If a bomb lands here, we might be able to escape outside. But we are protected from what might land outside.”
“Have you been bombed before?” he asked studying her.
“Ja. My home was destroyed a month ago.” Her lip quivered. “I was on the way but got only to here before the raid started.”
“Ah.” He understood. This was the last place where she had had a complete world. After that night, all she had was herself. This was her refuge.
Dietrich understood that to an extent. He’d been in many ruined cities on his trip back from France. No place was safe from the Allied bombers. He had been trapped in one town during a raid, taking refuge in one of the public shelters as the bombs fell around him. The people were terrified, and one had gone mad and screamed until he was knocked unconscious. It had been unnerving but he’d overcome it by helping with the clean-up until his train left for Berlin.
Despite the destruction and raids, he had a hard time hating the Allied pilots. They were soldiers just as Dietrich was, and doing their jobs as he had in North Africa, Norway, Italy and France. Much of Germany’s war production had been moved into so-called ‘protected’ cities where it was hoped the Allies wouldn’t bomb since they were historically-important, but that was backfiring. The United States and its allies would bomb whatever and wherever it took to bring Germany to its knees. They had the firepower, they had the men to do what was necessary. It was only a matter of time.
The crowd had slowed to a trickle, then only a few. The sirens wailed, and then he heard a Crump! as the first bombs fell. The girl beside him shuddered and he put his arm around her. The anti-aircraft guns barked, but the sound of bombers grew. Then there was a deafening crash, and Dietrich felt his ears pop. The air pressure changed, and a cloud of dust blew in along with the snow. Outside, he saw the light of something burning and realized that one of the trees near the stone gates was burning.
Or was it the city?
Elsa pulled on his coat holding him back as he leaned out fascinated. He saw the bombs falling like raisins among the snow, and felt the earth rock under his feet. It was Ragnarok as told in the old Sagas. He heard the screams of the people caught out in the fiery inferno that was blazing among the snow as the explosives went off. Incendiaries burned, and he saw one woman stagger by, her hands and face covered with phosphorus. She disappeared out of sight probably to die. It would be more merciful than living..
“Hans?” Elsa asked, and he looked back at her. “It’s Christmas! What kind of filth has bombs on Christmas?”
Dietrich didn’t have an answer for her. Was it the Allies’ way of pointing out that nothing was sacred any longer? What was sacred now? Life? Dietrich remembered hanging civilians who wouldn’t confess secret information. He had ordered a woman to die that way; thank God that wasn’t on his conscience since she’d escaped along with his friend, no -- enemy, Sergeant Sam Troy, the great American pest.
Why think of Troy now? Wasn’t he the enemy? Yes, but an honest enemy. Dietrich felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him. He had sobered up too much in the last half-hour. The girl beside him shuddered and he put his arm around him. He needed more champagne or whiskey or even Russian vodka. The bottle of schnapps in his pocket was alluring. The girl beside him shuddered and he put his arm around him.
“In the last war, we and they sang carols across the trenches at the first Christmas. By the end, no one cared,” Dietrich replied. “They are doing this to break our spirit, Elsa.”
Her eyes glowed with devotion. “We will never be destroyed, Herr Major! Heil Hitler!”
He nodded hiding his reluctance. If Hitler was all she had left, was he going to argue the point? Nein. “Heil Hitler, Fraulein.”
She tugged on his collar and pulled him closer. “The raid will last for hours, Herr Major. It will be warmer if we’re further back in here.”
“But then we can’t see outside,” he protested wondering if she meant what she was saying.
She opened her coat and he saw her clothing was minimal. “I will keep you warm, Major.”
Crump! Dust and smoke filtered through the doorway. Dietrich flinched. “Ja, Fraulein. Let us move back.”
Elsa licked her lips. “Come with me.”
Troy watched Hitchcock sorting carols next to the large mantelpiece where a roaring fire burned. He was surrounded by several couples who were sharing music sheets and flanked by two girls who were about his age. One was in a WAC uniform while the other was an English nurse. A blond and a brunette. Either he’d have to choose tonight or he’d be shared. Troy grinned.
He had to hand it to Moffitt, he’d filled the house with troops from all the Allied armies, and no one was getting upset by the mix. There was some good-natured joshing, and a few complaints of favoritism as the women paired off, but for once the girls weren’t hanging off the Americans. It helped that the ratio was two to one in the men’s favor. There were even children here, sons and daughters of the neighbors who provided the finest chaperones anyone could wish.
The pine tree stood naked of ornaments at one end. Once the children were abed, the adults planned on opening the boxes brought down from the attic and putting the pre-War ornaments on the green branches. It contrasted with the black curtains that hung behind it to keep any of the light and gaiety from leaking outside. The regulations on blackout were very strict Moffitt presided over the punch bowl, sending some of the tipsy members away if they came too often, and the cookies and small sandwiches had been passed around with much approval. Someone had brought a cake which was eaten with relish.
“It’s like Dickens, isn’t it?” Tully said unexpectedly from behind him. “That Christmas Carol stuff.”
“Yeah. Like the service this afternoon?” asked Troy.
Tully nodded. “Yep. Not like at home, but I figure that going to church once a year can’t hurt.”
“Might do us good,” Troy observed. “I think it’s time for a cigarette.”
“Gonna help round up the kids and get them to bed or we’ll never get the tree done,” Tully said with more enthusiasm than he’d shown in days. Christmas was obviously bringing out the best in him. Troy had never seen him like this. The laconic private was good with the children as well, and they seem to respond to his commands.
Troy slipped outside into the lee of the house and carefully cupping his hands, lit his cigarette. He extinguished the lighter, and tucked it back into his pocket.
“A breath of fresh air?” Zoe asked unexpectedly. She was standing a few feet from him in the darkness of the pine tree. Her coat blended into the shadows.
“Too many people right now,” he said companionably. “Can I join you?”
“Why don’t I come over there? You have to be cold without your jacket, Sergeant!”
“Sam.”
She smiled and held out her hand. “Zoe Frazier.”
“Moffitt’s cousin.”
Zoe frowned in puzzlement, then smiled. “Oh, you call Jack by his last name! Yes, I’m his second cousin.”
“He said something about you being his dad’s secretary?” Troy wasn’t sure of how to place the woman. This was the second time they’d met; the first time when she was helping Moffitt’s nursing after the Norway mission.
“Oh, yes, but the Professor’s book is almost complete so I don’t know what excuse he’ll come up with to keep me here,” she said placidly. “He took me in after the Jerries bombed my house in London, and offered me this job. It’s been lovely the last couple of years.”
“Why should you leave then?” Troy asked curiously. “I mean, if he needs you – “
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find something to do, but I hate being without some kind of work,” she said with a shrug. In the moonlight he could see some patches on the twenty or so year old coat. Like the rest of the British she was making do. “I mean, his wife runs the house very well, but I wouldn’t want to be her secretary. No, someone up at the College will probably have something for me.”
“I hear she’s a taskmaster,” Troy agreed. It was a open secret that Moffitt’s mother had rented out his room as soon as he left for North Africa, and when he returned sent him to stay in Cambridge. Troy didn’t like what he’d heard of the woman but didn’t voice his feeling.
“Yes, indeed though not the worst. Ian’s commander was married to a tarter who had been brought up with the princesses, and she was impossible. I thanked God when the Professor answered my letter – “
“Ian?” he broke in. “Who’s Ian?”
A thin smile broke over her face. “Ian Frazier, my husband. He went in the bag at Calais just after Dunkirk. He’s a prisoner of war.”
Troy shivered. Not only from the icy air, but he’d been a POW and he didn’t envy Zoe’s husband. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Oh, three years, but I write every week. I believe I’m educating the censors since Ian and I are discussing Petra at the moment. Have you ever been there, Sam?” Her eyes caught the light and glinted as she looked at him.
“Yeah, once, but it was fast trip. We were being chased. Hell of a place,” Troy agreed. “So, Ian knows about that stuff?”
“He used to work at the British Museum and traveled quite a bit. Our honeymoon was spent in Rome looking at the early Christian ruins. Fascinating stuff. The censors don’t dare cut my letters. They may not understand them though.”
Troy laughed. “I can just see their faces!”
She smiled. “Yes, it would be a treat. I was a little startled to see commentary in German on one letter. Apparently the Jerry who read it was a scholar himself and disagreed with my conclusions! I had to get Jack to translate for me. Sam, why are you really out here? The children?”
Troy looked up at the sky. A few clouds were starting to drift in, but the stars were patterned glory against the black night. “My younger brother David’s up there tonight.” He waved his cigarette and the ember streaked a pattern in the air.
“Ah,” she said understandingly. “That was why you were at chapel tonight?”
He shrugged. “It’s Christmas Eve. Nice time to be in church.”
“I know. Jack goes to Christmas service because it brings him closer to his brother whose buried there,” she said perceptively, looking at Troy’s closed face. “I’m sure that He’s looking after him, Sam.”
Troy said reluctantly. “David’s been flying for years now and he should be okay. He knows what he’s doing. Usually I don’t know about it ‘til it’s over.”
She slipped her arm around his waist unexpectedly and gave him a hug. “That makes all the difference. I’m sure he will be safe. It’s too cold out here to talk like this. We can have some hot punch and decorate the tree.”
“There’s no liquor in the punch!” he protested but let her lead him inside.
“There will be,” she retorted. “The children have to be in bed before we get out the good stuff.”
Opening the door, they stepped into the pitch-black hall. Black curtains hung over the doorway to the front parlor where the party was. Moffitt was making sure that there was no chance of light leaking out if people went in and out the front door.
Troy heard a woman singing “The First Nowell”, England’s currently most popular carol, then she was joined by Hitchcock who had an unexpectedly fine baritone voice. A chill went down his spine. It was so beautiful and traditional for a world where traditions were being lost with every bombshell.
He heard rustling above him, and saw the faces of three children looking down through the banisters of the staircase. They couldn’t see anything but they could hear the songs. From their expression, they were enthralled.
Zoe looked at them, and shook her head, then shut the front door shutting out the moonlight. In the darkness, he heard her take off her coat and put it on the chair he knew was nearby, then her cold fingers took his. “Let’s go inside. There’s nothing we can do out here.”
“What about the kids?” he asked.
“Oh, they’ll go to bed soon. It’s cold on the stairs. I did the same ten years ago. Come on. It’s time to rejoin the party.”
David Troy looked down and saw massive fires. The snow fell heavily against his windshield, and the wings of his fighter were coated with ice. He could hear the guns chattering as the Luftwaffe, equally blind, attacked the bombers. It was one hell of a night to fly.
He piloted his plane carefully trying to make sure that he only fired at things with crosses on their wings but it was difficult to see. He felt the air rock with blasts from the anti-aircraft guns.
There was one! He fired his guns at the Messerschmitt that was firing on a bomber and had the satisfaction of seeing the fighter dodge out of his way. The bomber droned onwards on its run to add to the pyres below.
Something hit the tail of David’s plane and he felt the cables snap. The fighter rocked back and forth, then rolled.
Damn! Damn!
Smoke rolled into the cockpit as the shield went flying off.
He wasn’t sure if he could even get out alive. Even if he did, he’d land in the burning city. David knew his Dante, and Berlin resembled every ring of the Inferno at that moment.
Jump or die. He breathed a prayer, and loosened the belts holding him into the cockpit. I’ll take my risks below. The rising air was hot and caught in his parachute sending him off course. He had aimed as best as he could, which meant not at all, for the open park that he saw through the smoke, but he was being blown to the west to where the ruins of apartment buildings loomed like jagged blackened teeth against the red fires. He manipulated the silk as best he could but couldn’t help hitting one of the decorative iron light posts that lined the rubble-strewn main street.
He felt pain shoot up from his foot and knee. Landing was agony as his left leg crumpled as he hit the rubble. The silk billowed behind him, in danger of being set on fire, and David fumbled to get out of the harness.
Bombs landed with sold thuds on the buildings, and they rocked in the impact. He smelled the sulfur, phosphor from the incendiaries, the smell of sewers mixed with wood fires and the ominous odor of broken gas pipes..
Struggling, he got free of the harness and tried to get to his feet, but his leg was useless. The pain bespoke of broken toes and maybe an ankle, while his knee was numb. He crawled towards a pile of snowy rocks to get some cover. Where was everyone?
Dietrich leaned on the wall just inside the entrance and watched entranced as the fires burned all over the city. He’d left Elsa sated and snoring in the niche, but was drawn back to the raid outside. For some reason, he felt invulnerable. Whatever was watching over him, wouldn’t let him die so ignobly in Berlin. Of all the places on earth, Berlin was the last place on earth he wanted to die.
The smoke cleared for a second and he saw a parachute coming out of the fire-lit cloud cover. He wondered if the pilot was dead or alive. Should he go check? Whose pilot was that? Allied or German?
A bomber roared overhead unloosing a string of bombs that reverberated through the Zoo’s circular staircase, and people screamed in fear behind him.
Dietrich looked back but Elsa was still asleep, his hat crookedly tipped over her face. He took it off without disturbing her, put it on his head, then fastened his coat tightly against the snow. Hesitating for just a second, he pulled out a number of Reichmarks and put them in her coat pocket. Then he struck out across the empty paths that led out of the Zoo.
David raised his head when he heard shuffling. He was mortally afraid but didn’t let it show. His hand slowly went down to the holster at his side but he didn’t draw the gun. What would happen to him if he killed someone right now? Where would he go? It wasn’t as if he could escape from the flaming city.
The girl who came out of the ruins, her head wrapped in a scarf and wearing layers of clothing, had the face of a harpy looking for revenge. She stared at the wounded American, then at the billowing silk that lay in the street, then back at him, clearly torn.
He prayed she’d steal the silk, and leave him alone.
Finally, she reached down and picked up one of the pieces of rubble.
His hand slid around the gun’s butt.
“Fraulein!” someone called from the other direction, and David felt a vast sense of relief as a man about his brother’s age came out of the ruins. Unlike the girl, the man wore a hat and a winter coat that had been cut by a tailor sometime in the last decade. He looked normal.
She let out a torrent of abuse and waved at David who let his hand slip away from the gun. He held up his hands to show he surrendered.
A bomb rocked the street, and the girl screamed. She cast the rock at David who cringed and tried to curl up but his leg was pure agony every time he moved. He covered his head with his arms.
With a feeling of horror, he felt a rock hit his hands from the other side. The man had joined in, and some others from the amount hitting him with rock-laced snowballs. In the madness of the raid, the Berliners had lost their civilized instincts and all they wanted was blood.
Dietrich felt the earth rock under his feet and knew he was being a fool. He should go back to the shelter and Elsa, and sample her delights again until the raid was over and he could go back to the hotel. If it was standing. Maybe he should take Elsa back with him?
Something kept him going onward, and he knew it was the memory of the parachute. Somewhere out there, someone was on the ground, and Dietrich was going to bring him in if he was the enemy. The last traces of alcohol bolstered his feeling of invulnerability, and he headed over the falling snow to where he’d seen the parachute heading.
Suddenly, under his feet wasn’t snow but the slippery silk, and he nearly tripped. The glow of the fires lit the area luridly without clarity. Smoke made it difficult to see. He stumbled through the silk and saw a crowd of civilians throwing snowballs.
How nice. Games among the bombing.
With a sudden flush of sobriety, he realized they weren’t flinging the balls at each other, but all in one particular direction, and it was more like a small lynch mob. Instinctively, he knew that he’d found the pilot.
“Was is geschehen! What are you doing??” he yelled as loudly and officiously as he could. Unfastening his coat so they could see his uniform, and decorations, he strolled forward being careful not to slip and ruin his dignity. “What is there?”
The crowd flinched and moved away from the broken figure of the man on the ground. Dietrich’s lips thinned angrily, and he shoved one man who was in his way to one side with a snarl of anger.
He wasn’t sure if he was angry at the crowd or the prisoner. The man was surrounded with rubble and small snowballs, his face covered as best he could. The bloody boot and pants showed why he hadn’t tried to run.
Dietrich approached with the façade of self-confidence, though he saw the man had a gun in the holster strapped to his side. He would have to be that American comic hero, Superman, to be able to use it now. His hands were covered with blood from where the rocks had hit him.
Dietrich kneeled down beside the pilot and pulled his left hand away from his face. The man’s breath made a ragged plume of steam. Good. He was still alive. The pilot opened his eyes but didn’t move. He was probably half-frozen.
“Let him die, Herr Major!” someone in the crowd yelled. “You see what he’s done here!” The mob muttered angrily.
Dietrich stood, and faced them. “He is a prisoner-of-war! He will be treated as such!”
“He is a monster!” a girl screamed, her hand full of a rock. She waved it at the skies where the roar of engines threatened to drown out the sound of the fire. “He did this!”
Dietrich didn’t move. “He is my prisoner, Fraulein!”
“He did this!” Another man yelled, his hand full of a stone-and-ice snowball. “Let us at him!”
“We will not become barbarians!” Dietrich said with a snarl that carried to the far edge of the crowd. “Do not let yourself become that! It’s Christmas!”
That swayed them for a second until another bomber let for a stream of bombs and the ground rocked beneath their feet.
“Ja, it’s Christmas and the schwein bombed us!” a woman howled. She threw the concrete ball and it sailed an inch away from Dietrich’s head. The mob moved closer.
He hesitated for a fraction then knelt down and pulled out the pilot’s gun. The man froze, his jaw slightly dropped, but Dietrich stood, facing the mob.
It stopped eyeing him suspiciously.
Dietrich fired the pistol over their heads, and they retreated.
“He is my prisoner! He is mine! Go home!”
The crowd swayed back and forth, then a fighter plane, the round markings on the bottom of the wings seen clearly in the light of the fire smashed into a building roughly a mile away. The mob cheered.
Another set of bombs made the ground shake. The crowd scattered as a huge cloud of smoke rolled over the square.
Dietrich turned back to the man on the ground who had half-raised himself on his hands and was staring at the officer. He remembered the gun in his hand, and slid on the safety, then tucked it inside his overcoat. He said in German, “Let’s move you till we can get to the hospital.”
The man looked suspicious but didn’t try to resist as Dietrich helped him up. It was obvious that he couldn’t walk so Dietrich carried him back into the Zoo towards the staircase.
A bomb had landed nearby, and Dietrich stopped before he reached the staircase, suspicious of the crater. It looked like a fin was sticking out. The thing might go off.
He looked around and saw an empty cage that still had a roof, even though the iron door was gone. The floor was littered with brown leaves, and concrete shards. He dragged the pilot inside and let him rest against the iron bars. Dietrich retreated a few steps and knelt.
“Who are you?” he finally asked in English.
“Captain David…” The rest was lost in the roar of the bomb as it exploded.
Dietrich felt himself thrown against the back of the cage. The world swam before his eyes, then went black.
Seconds later, he opened his eyes and looked around. His coat was open. The dust had caked his lids and Captain David was holding the gun on him.
Dietrich met the man’s eyes unflinchingly. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought the man looked vaguely familiar, then not. He had never seen this man before.
Finally, David smiled, and reversed the gun, holding out the butt. “Merry Christmas,” he said with a flat American accent.
“Merry Christmas, Captain,” Dietrich replied, and took the gun. “How far did you plan to get with that broken foot?”
“Not far. Figured I wouldn’t get away. Thanks for saving me from the mob.”
“It is Christmas morning,” Dietrich said dryly, pulling himself up against the bars. He tucked the gun back into his belt. “Your present is your life.”
David sniffed. “Sounds like you’ve had a present too, Captain.”
Elsa’s perfume permeated even through the smoke and dust. Dietrich laughed. “Ja, I have.”
“Why’d you save me?” David asked seriously. “You could have let them finish me off.”
Dietrich was insulted and it showed in his expression. “You are a soldier as I am, and am now a prisoner. What would you have done?”
“I hoped I’d have done the same thing. Maybe,” David replied honestly. “I was in London during the Blitz.”
“Then you are used to getting bombed.”
David laughed. “’Most of the time I do it with booze!”
“So do I. Ten hours ago I was drinking champagne.”
“Coffee.”
“Eating caviar – “
“Toast with strawberry jam.”
“Surrounded by the most beautiful women in the world.”
David shook his head. “Got me there….uh, -- “
“Major Dietrich.”
“Major.” David saluted him, and Dietrich returned it gravely. “Sounds like a helluva party!”
“It was.” Dietrich settled back against the iron bars ignoring the flutter of snowflakes that were coming in despite the bombing. “You are providing the evening’s entertainment.”
David laughed. “Not what we had in mind. Entertainment.” He winced as he tried to move his leg.
“No, probably not. The AA will give you some problems and our fighters will destroy your friends on the way back,” Dietrich said peaceably. “You may be safer here.”
David sighed. “I’d rather be going home.”
“Family?”
“A brother and my mother. We’d be in church right now if I was home.”
“The Red Cross will inform them as soon as they know you are a prisoner,” Dietrich said soothingly noting that despite the name of David, the stranger was obviously not-Jewish if he went to church on Christmas. That should save him from the S.S. “Don’t worry about them, Captain. At least you’re alive.”
David laughed. “Yeah. Get a chance to learn the language. What’s Merry Christmas in German?”
Dietrich handed him the bottle of schnapps he had in this pocket. “Frohliche Weihnachten. Lesson two: this is schnapps.”
On Christmas morning, Troy came downstairs before the children. It amazed him.
He was surprised to see the front door was open, letting in the cold air, and Tully came through with an armload of wood.
“Gotta build up the fire,” Tully informed him, and staggered into the parlor where bright sunlight came through the windows, their black curtains drawn back out of the way, and glittered off the golden ornaments and paper chains made from strips of newspaper and old gum wrappers. In the daylight, the decorations showed their age, and Moffitt’s insistence on the stone angel that either he or his father had collected in the Middle East, being strapped with wire to the top of the tree made the tip sag.
Troy was just glad that it was still standing. He wasn’t sure of how many of the adults were. The party had run late into the morning hours before everyone staggered off to bed.
Zoe was wrapping the last of the toys which had been hastily collected when the Americans realized that there were children at the party.
“Thank you, Private,” she said gratefully to Tully, who smiled back and began to rebuild the fire. “Hullo, Sam. Can you get some more?”
“Sure,” Troy said agreeably and headed out the door, grabbing a jacket on the way.
Outside was briskly cold, and he was glad for its warmth. His ears were tingly as he picked up several logs and headed back towards the house.
The sound of engines made him slow down. Looking towards the east, he saw the black dots. No air raid sirens. These were Allies coming back from the raid. His brother’s raid.
“Sarge?” Tully questioned coming outside to stand beside him.
Troy didn’t respond, just looked up.
The fighters would have come back first because they were swifter than the bombers they guarded. Somewhere Troy had read that the German fighters over London had had only twenty minutes of fuel to fight with before they had to return to France. The same was true for the Allies over Berlin.
Fighters. Ragged formations, and missing men. They had been hit hard over their target.
“Troy, we can call the base,” Moffitt said unexpectedly coming out with his heavy coat over his pants and hastily-donned shirt. “He might be back by now.”
Troy looked at him and saw that Moffitt knew better than anyone what it was like to maybe lose a sibling. His brother had died in a raid, and Moffitt heard about it just before one of their raids. He’d nearly blown that mission goaded by a need for revenge.
Troy shook his head. “Nah. Better wait for a while. Not everyone’s home yet.”
“Yeah,” Tully agreed. “I’ll get a couple of more logs.”
Troy and Moffitt went back to the parlor where Troy put down the wood.
“Coffee in the kitchen, and some brekker,” Zoe said cheerfully. “I made tea, Jack.”
“Thank you, Zoe!” They were interrupted by the flood of children who came clamoring down the stairs, then stopped dumbstruck at the sight of the tree.
To them, the battered ornaments, paper chains and oranges stolen from the base supplies, were magic. Troy wished he could feel like that. Zoe sent them into the kitchen for the scones, and gingerbread, and the rest was lost in the tumult of Christmas morning.
Hitchcock, with a bright cheerful smile, handed Troy a cup of coffee. “Here, Sarge. Merry Christmas.”
Troy eyed him suspiciously. “And how much sleep did you get last night, Private?”
Hitchcock didn’t reply just smiled even broader.
“Oh, dear,” Moffitt said critically. “I hope you haven’t been somewhere you weren’t supposed to, Hitch. Most of the girls here are married, you know.”
Hitchcock looked instantly horrified. “They didn’t have rings!” he blurted out.
“Some of them are widows.”
Troy laughed. “Better get you back on base – “
The phone rang and Moffitt picked it up. He looked a bit startled, then lost his joyful expression. His gaze went to Troy whose jaw set though he didn’t react any other way. He knew what the news had to be.
Instead of obeying Moffitt’s gesturing to come over, Troy went outside into the barren garden abandoning his cup on the sideboard. He was numb and didn’t feel the cold.
The morning sky was clouding over and it smelled like snow in a couple of hours.
Zoe touched his sleeve, then handed him the coffee. “Moffitt took a message. He’s only missing, Sam. Someone saw him bail out over Berlin so he might be alive.”
“What’s the chance of that?”
“Don’t ask for trouble,” she remarked. “I did that for three months with Ian. Nearly went mad wondering. Wait and see.”
He sighed. “Missing in action.”
“Have some faith,” she urged. “Remember what day this is.”
“Yep.”
“Now come inside. The children are waiting for us before they can open their presents, and we have to finish making Christmas dinner. I’ll let you cut the Spam ham since your Army supplied most of it,” she offered with a touch of humor. “Let’s not disappoint the others.”
Troy looked up. The black crows were gone from the trees as were the bombers. The sky was empty except for the darkening clouds. In the distance he heard bells. They must have had permission from the government. “Merry Christmas.”
“Yes. Happy Christmas.”
Hans Dietrich watched his prisoner being loaded on a truck. The soldiers weren’t being terribly helpful but they weren’t out to hurt the wounded American captain. He would be taken to a hospital where his foot would be treated, then he would go to a prisoner-of-war camp. That was the way things were supposed to be even in the middle of an uncivilized war.
The man twisted until he could see Dietrich. To the German’s surprise, he raised his hand as if to ask him to come closer but the soldiers fastened up the back, and he was out of view. Dietrich stopped wondering to himself what had Captain David been going to say.
Too late now.
He looked around the square. Fires still burned on the horizon but people were bustling hither and fro as if they still had places to go. Soldiers diverted traffic so trucks could go through, and a mother walked by with a well-wrapped toddler, her soldier husband on crutches beside her. A remnant of pre-War finery, a colored bow, was lovingly attached to the end that protruded from the mesh bag.
The reek of Elsa’s perfume was still on him, and he wanted nothing more than a hot bath to wash her off, and new clothes. Maybe the Aden was still standing. He set off for his hotel. What was Captain David’s first name? He’d never know. It would be too much work to dig out the records now. Again he felt a trace of recognition but it fluttered away. He’d swear he’d never seen the man before. Just another American.
Dietrich decided to get back to France as soon as he could. Ring in Nineteen Forty-four with his troops, sour French wine and whatever he could bring back for Rommel’s party. He hoped that next year would be better but he had an ominous feeling that it wouldn’t be. There was no letting up. His one good deed was probably futile in the long run. Still, it made him feel better than he had the night before.
He walked towards the Aden and then heard something. He rounded the corner and found the mother holding the toddler in front of the bombed-out remains of a long-destroyed church singing a carol. Her husband raised his voice as well, then others in the street, and the noise rang above the explosions of left-over bombs. Out of the ruin flew several crows disturbed by the noise but their harsh cawing was lost in the singing.
Then, their songs over and the snow falling more heavily, the crowd went away. Dietrich headed for the hotel, then home, then back to the war.