Of Windmills and War (33 page)

PART
V

44

29 March 1945

Near Enschede,
Holland

As Danny struggled to wake up, he had a feeling he wasn’t
back on base. He tried to lift his head but a bolt of pain shot through it,
taking his breath away. He rested a moment before lifting one eyelid only to
find everything blurred.

He remained still, needing to get his bearings even if he
couldn’t see anything at the moment.
Where am I? How did I get here?
He
was in someone’s house or a building of some kind, by the sounds of it. He
could hear voices speaking quietly somewhere, but couldn’t tell what language
they were speaking. Panic quickly swept through him as he realized those could
be German voices.

Wait. Think. What’s the last thing I remember?
Oh . . . we had to bail! Sophie’s engines were on
fire . . . The crew! Are they here too? No, that can’t be right.
I was the last one out. We would have landed several miles apart. Or at least I
think so?

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember a
thing after standing in the bomb bay preparing to jump. He searched his mind
but came up blank.

The voices grew louder. Danny tried again to open his eyes,
noting immediately that the room was mostly dark except for a soft glow off to
his right. He blinked repeatedly then started to wipe his eyes but found his
arm too sore to lift. He closed his eyes again, frustrated by his inability to
do something as simple as rubbing his eyes.

A door creaked. Footsteps approached. Danny held his breath.

“Awake?” someone said with a thick accent.
A woman. German?
Dutch?

“Where am I?” he asked, surprised by the graveled sound of
his voice.

He felt the warmth of someone’s hand on his forehead. “Ja,
fever still.”

“Please, can you tell me where I am?” He tried again to lift
his head and immediately felt a wave of nausea. “Uh, I think I’m gonna—”

The women muttered something he couldn’t understand, but
soon he felt the coolness of a bowl placed beside him. Suddenly the blurry room
spun and he leaned over, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl. The
sudden movement made his head feel like it would explode. When he finally
stopped throwing up, he felt a cold cloth pressed on his forehead.

“There, there,” the woman said.

He fell back against a pillow, biting his lip so he wouldn’t
scream out from the excruciating pain gripping his head. He felt something roll
down the side of his face and into his ear. And just as he wondered if it might
be his own tear, everything went black.

He had
no idea how long he’d been asleep, only vague memories of drifting in and out
of consciousness. As Danny tried to wake himself, he noticed something near him
smelled pleasant. Something fresh. Maybe it was nothing more than the absence
of the usual smells—the strong scent of
Sophie’s
motor oil, the smoky
stove in his quarters at the base, the constant stench of sweat, his own and that
of his crew. Yes, this was something clean. He carefully lifted the back of his
hand to his nose, thankful the pain in his arm had diminished somewhat. He
breathed in.

Ah, soap.
Yes, that’s what it is. Soap. But how . . . did I take a
shower? Impossible. I couldn’t have slept through a shower.
Oh.
Then that means . . . somebody gave me a bath?

He
carefully blinked his eyes open, relieved to find his sight no longer quite as blurred.
He blew out a sigh, thankful he could finally look around. The room, still
dark, was lit only by an oil lamp resting on the table beside his bed. Yes, a
bed. He was lying in a bed, covered with a quilt or blanket of some kind. He
moved his hand gently across the soft fabric. He touched his face, feeling the
stubble along his jaw line, then looked down, surprised to find himself in pajamas
instead of his uniform. He blinked, hoping to clear his eyes.
Pajamas?
He peeked under the covers.
Make that a night shirt.

His eyes darted around the room looking for his clothes and
not finding them
.
The nerves kicked in sending his imagination in too
many directions at once. He moved his legs under the covers and quickly
discovered another injury when a sharp pain jolted his left foot.

This is worse than I thought.

“Hello?” He coughed and tried to clear his throat. “Hello?
Is anyone there?”

He rested his head back on his pillow and tried to listen.
Somewhere a radio cackled though he couldn’t make out what was being said—or
what language. Just then, the door opened wide.

“Ah, you are awake, Lieutenant?”

Danny watched the man approaching his bed. He looked about
six feet tall, his wiry salt and pepper hair sticking out from beneath a faded,
worn cap. His deep set eyes seemed kind enough, feathered by lots of wrinkles
on his weathered, gaunt face.

“Can you tell me where I am?”

“Ja, you are in The Netherlands in a village just outside of
Enschede.”

“I don’t know—”

“We found you in the woods. You fell from the sky, no?”

Danny tried to read his expression, unsure how much he
should say. “I don’t remember.” It seemed the safest answer.

“No, I doubt you do. You are American?”

Danny looked away, wondering who this man was. “Yes,
American.”

“Then we are friends.”

He looked back at the man, finding a wide smile on his face.
“How so?”

The smile faded a bit. He turned, then took a seat in a
chair beside the bed. “Your uniform. You are American pilot, ja?”

“But how—”

“Your tags there.”

Danny felt the dog tags against his chest.

“And this.” The man slowly held up Danny’s wallet. But Danny
knew it contained no personal identification. He’d turned those over to the
corporal before his mission. Just pictures of his mom and dad, one of him and
Joey when they were kids, a few others. He waited, knowing there would be more
questions.

“We are friends, Lieutenant, because your country fights
with our Allies to stop the Germans. That makes us friends. The Nazis have
tried to destroy our country. They have occupied our homeland for many years
now, but never have we given up. When
America
joined
the Allies, we knew it was just a matter of time before we are free again.”

Danny felt his heart rate soar. “The war is over?”

“No, not yet. But soon, I think. Very soon.”

Danny wondered how much he could trust this Dutchman. If he
was, in fact, Dutch? “You speak English. Do all Dutch speak English as well as
you?”

“Ja, I speak English. Before the war, I was a school
teacher. Years ago, when I was studying at university, I took English because I
was curious about the culture of our neighbors across the Channel. It has
served me well.” He paused for a second. “But never so much as now.”

Danny waited then asked, “Why now?”

“These are things we shall talk about later,” he said,
standing again. “For now, I shall leave you and have one of our women prepare
you something to eat.” He turned as if to leave, then stopped. He opened Danny’s
wallet and pulled something from inside it as he returned to Danny’s side.
“Before I go, I wonder if you could tell me why you carry this picture?”

Danny reached for the faded photograph. His hand trembled as
he stared into the faces of Reverend and Mrs. Versteeg, their son Hans, and
little Anya. He looked up and found the man’s eyes trained on him, all traces
of friendliness vanished.

45

“These are childhood friends of mine. Nothing more,” Danny
answered, stalling as he tried to gather his thoughts.

“And that windmill? I did not know
America
has
windmills such as this.”

He didn’t respond and avoided eye contact as he attempted to
sit up straighter, grimacing with the effort. “I would like to get dressed.
Where are my clothes?”

The man stared at him a moment longer, then turned, slipping
Danny’s wallet back into his coat pocket. He reached into a closet and brought
out some clothing. “You can wear these for now.” He dropped a shirt, sweater,
and pair of pants on the bed. “It’s best you not put on your uniform while you
are our guest.”

Danny tried to stand up but the room started spinning again.
“Whoa . . .” He promptly sat back down.

“Perhaps you should rest a while longer,” the man said,
again heading for the door. “The doctor thinks you had a concussion, among
other things.”

“Doctor?”

“Yes, and your foot is badly sprained but not broken.”

“My foot?”

The door creaked shut. Left alone with his thoughts again,
Danny eased himself back on the pillow. With his eyes more accustomed to the
darkness of the room, he looked around as he tried to make himself think.
Why
was he so interested in that photograph?
He tried to remember the map of
Holland
he’d
once studied. He recognized the name of the town, Enschede, but couldn’t place
it.
Did he recognize that particular windmill? Didn’t Hans once tell me that
each windmill had a name and families often chose a favorite?

Or is it the people in the photograph that intrigue him? Is
it possible he knows the Versteegs?
The thought both excited and
frightened him. If Enschede was close to
Utrecht
where
the Versteegs lived, was it possible he might find them? If he asked the man
about them and found out where they lived, would he finally meet this family he’d
known for so many years?

Then again, what were the chances he’d parachuted into
Anya’s backyard? Slim to none. And if he asked about the Versteegs, would he be
putting them in some kind of danger? The man called him “friend” simply because
he was an American, but that didn’t mean he could be trusted.

Danny huffed, frustrated to be in this mystery place and
unable to ask the questions he needed answered. He turned his head to the left
and only then noticed what appeared to be a hand-carved cross hanging on the
wall between two windows.
Christians?

A siren wailed in the distance and quickly grew louder. Just
as Danny realized what it was, his door flew open and two men rushed into the
room. They spoke in urgent tones though Danny had no idea what they were saying.
They moved him into a sitting position then helped him to his feet, taking most
of his weight as they lifted him between them. He was thankful the nightshirt
was long as they rushed him out of the room. Anxious voices filled the many
rooms of what looked to be an old house.

The two men jostled him through a series of halls and rooms.
As they entered a large storage room, a man and woman pushed aside a wooden rack
of floor-to-ceiling shelving, then shoved a heavy rug out of the way. One of
them pulled a rope, lifting an opening in the floor.

“
Schiet op!
Hurry, hurry!”
she
said, waving them down.

Danny’s escorts clumsily helped him down the steep stairs.
The awkward movements pushed and pulled at him, painful reminders of injured
parts of his body he hadn’t yet realized.

Others trampled down the steps behind them, all barking
orders in what he assumed was Dutch. They led him to the lower bunk on one of a
half dozen bunk beds lining the far wall. As they helped him onto the mattress,
he knew at once this was no ordinary house.

The ground shook above them, shaking dust from the rafters.
The others seemed indifferent to the explosions, busying themselves with
different tasks. In the center of the crowded room, long tables covered with
maps and instruments were anchored by numerous oil lamps. In the far corner to
his right, two men wearing headsets sat huddled around what looked like an ancient
oversized radio, another one tapping out Morse code. The other side of the room
looked like a well-stocked arsenal of weapons, boots, heavy coats, and enough
tools to fill a hardware store.

Danny could feel his heart racing, wondering how well those
rafters above him would hold under such intense bombing.

“You eat,” a woman said, appearing with a tray. She motioned
for him to sit up in the bunk, which he did in spite of his pain.

She seemed unfazed by it all, as if serving him a meal was
the most natural thing to do in the middle of a bombing. But he was too hungry
to refuse her offer. She set the tray on his lap, then pulled off the cloth
napkin covering it. Except for a small loaf of dark bread, nothing looked
remotely familiar. It didn’t smell too good either, but he didn’t care. He
thanked her then dug in. The dark purple soup had thick chunks of something chewy
in it and tasted horrible, but he hid his displeasure, plastering a fake smile
on his face.

“Goed, no?”

“Very good,” he lied. “What’s in it, if you don’t mind my
asking?”

“Beet soup with tulip.” Her smile faltered as she nodded, as
if assuring him it was all right for him to eat the stuff.

Danny forced himself to take another bite. As he crunched
the peculiar morsels, a thought came to him. He looked into the strange
concoction, stirring it slowly with his spoon.
These are chopped tulip
bulbs?
Holland
is famous for their tulips,
yet they’re forced to eat these precious bulbs . . .
His
eyes stung, feeling humbled by the sacrifices these people were making.

Tearing off a bite of the bread, he watched the others
around him as they worked. Each had a task, all of them focused in their
endeavors. Even the woman who’d just served him was busily making more coffee
in the small makeshift kitchen. As he sipped the hot nasty liquid, it dawned on
him that everyone in the room was bone thin. Every single one of them. Belts cinched
tight around the men’s waists hiked up pants that no longer fit.  The women’s
tattered dresses hung from their emaciated frames, their faces gaunt, their
wispy hair peeking out beneath scarves tied under their chins.

Danny slowly lowered his mug as he continued studying them. Their
wrinkles and furrowed brows served as further evidence of lives rudely
interrupted by a madman’s insatiable quest for power.
These are the faces of
war. What has it been like for them, so many years under Nazi occupation? How
have they survived, living in constant fear?

The man who’d talked to him earlier approached him, his eyes
lifted toward the ceiling. “This is a bad one.”

“Must be the RAF boys,” Danny said. “We only fly daylight
missions.”

The man pulled up a rickety chair and took a seat. “That may
be, but it is
ten o’clock
in the morning. Those are indeed Allied
bombs. We are so near the border, we seem to taste a little of everyone’s arsenal.”

“But it was dark outside when the sirens began,” Danny
argued.

The man nodded his head in understanding. “It was dark
inside your room because all our windows have blackout shades. It’s a bright
and sunny day up there.”

Danny took another sip of the wretched coffee, then set his
mug back on the tray. “Do you have a name?”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me for not introducing myself.
I
am Eduard van der Laan.”
He held his hand out to Danny.

Danny shook his hand. “Danny McClain. But of course you already
know that.”

Eduard smiled. “Yes, Lieutenant McClain, we know your name.”

“Mr. Van der Laan, this is no ordinary house. Would I be
correct in assuming I’m in a safe house?”

“You must call me Eduard, but yes. This is a safe house.”

“Then can I also assume you and these other good people are
part of the Dutch Resistance?”

He smiled even bigger. “Ja, that would be a wise deduction
on your part.”

Danny let out a long sigh, resting his head back. “Thank
God.”

The ground shook again but Eduard seemed to ignore it.
“Thanks be to God, we are still alive. Thanks be to God, He led us to you
before the German pigs found you and dragged you away to their god-forsaken prisoner
of war camps.”

“Do you know if anyone else from my crew made it? Five of us
parachuted from our plane before it exploded.”

“You were the only one in this area. We can check with some
of the other safe houses for you.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“After you eat, write down their names for me. But first, I
must ask again about the photograph we found in your wallet. We cannot be too
careful, Lieutenant McClain. To find such a picture on an American pilot is
most unusual. Do you know those people?”

“Please, call me Danny.” He took a final sip of the awful
coffee, still hesitant to identify the Versteegs.
He seems honest enough,
and he and these others have risked their lives to save mine. Still . . .

“Then, Danny, I wonder why it is you evade my questions
regarding this photograph? Could it be you are hiding something, Lieutenant?”

“No,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It’s just
that . . . you see, when I was younger, one of my school teachers—one
not unlike yourself—gave us an assignment to find a pen pal in another
country.”

“Yes, I am familiar with pen pals. Many students here have
them.”

“Well, I drew the name of a boy here in The Netherlands. I
wrote to him and we became good friends. He sent me that picture years ago.”

“I see.” Eduard rubbed his face. “But why would you carry
this picture with you all these years later?”

“I can’t really say. Before I left home, I happened to notice
it and tucked it in my wallet. I didn’t give it much thought at the time.”

Eduard watched him carefully, but Danny still couldn’t decipher
the man’s continued interest in the photograph.

“When was the last time you heard from Hans Versteeg?”

Danny tried to remember, then paused. “Mr. Van der Laan, I
never mentioned my friend’s name.”

They stared at each other for several seconds, neither
saying a word. Finally, Danny asked, “How is it that
you
know his name?”

Eduard slowly leaned forward, his elbows resting on his
knees. “Because I know this family.”