Under a War-Torn Sky (18 page)

Henry was aware of their being watched, closely. It was better to not say where. Hadn't Billy figured that out yet? “I'm not sure, Billy. Around and about. Hiding.”

The
maquis
leader grunted. Did that mean approval? Did he understand English?

He addressed Henry in French. “
Vous connaissez cet homme?
”

“
Oui, monsieur. Il s'appelle William White.
” Henry gathered his French for a moment to further identify himself and Billy. The month with Pierre had really helped Henry hone his skills. His accent might still be a dead giveaway that he was American, but at least his vocabulary had improved enough for the French to understand him. He explained that he and Billy had flown B-24s together.

The
maquis
leader looked to his aide, who nodded. “
Et cet homme?
”

Henry hadn't focused on the knot of men standing behind Billy. A young, blond stranger stepped forward. “B-Seventeens, Fifty-Sixth Bomb Group,” he said in a clipped manner.

Henry hesitated a moment. Wasn't the 56th a fighter-plane unit? He was almost certain that the 56th was a Thunderbolt squadron that had protected his bomb group many times. He thought some more, but just couldn't remember for sure. The world of English bases seemed so long ago.

“B-Seventeens, you said?”

“That is correct,” answered the blond pilot. “Most beautiful birds.”

Henry hesitated. The guy's choice of words and pronunciation were odd, forced sounding, almost as if he were unsure of what he was trying to say. But then again on base Henry had heard lots of American accents and ways of speaking that he'd never heard growing up in rural Virginia. The pilot was probably from Boston or some other northern city, with more uppity manners.

Henry shook his head, but explained to the
maquis
chief that his not knowing the pilot didn't mean anything. There were many pilots, many bomb groups in England. There was no way he'd know all of them. He saw the stranger's face tighten.

The leader told Henry that no one had known the pilot or recognized his unit.

“Dog tags?” Henry asked.

“
Non.
”

“Papers?” Henry thought of the counterfeit papers that Madame had provided him.

“
Oui, les papiers sont parfaits,
” the chief said with a wry smile. He turned to Henry's guide and told him to get them something to eat. He added, “
Bientôt nous irons vers les Pyrénées. Il fait beau temps pour traverser les montagnes.
” Then he disappeared into his hut. The
maquis
men dispersed, taking the stranger with them.

Henry's friend led them to a kitchen area.

“Damn, Hank. I didn't know they taught French down in the swamps of Virginia,” Billy said, but only with a hint of the taunting that used to lace his jabs at Henry. “I haven't been able to understand anything they've told me. None of these guys speak decent English. What'd the chief just say?”

“They're going to move us in a few days. To the Pyrenees. How long you been here?”

Billy rubbed his forehead. “Two weeks. Maybe three. I'm losing track of time. When I bailed out, I got stuck in a tree. Broke my arm and ripped my neck up so badly, I was sure I was going to bleed to death. I finally cut myself out of the parachute and fell. I whacked my head on something and passed out. When I woke up, I was in a field hospital in the woods, with a group like this. Farther north, I think. Then they moved me here, stuffed under hay in an oxcart. I've been itchy as hell to get going. The entire camp clears out at night. They don't tell me where they're going. Whether or not they're coming back. They jabber something at me, look threatening, and then disappear.”

“Didn't they teach you any French at that fancy prep school of yours?” asked Henry. “What was its highfalutin name?”

“Choate.”

“Choke?” Henry bantered. He couldn't help it. It was the way he'd always survived conversations with Billy. But he felt bad the instant it came out of his mouth.

To Henry's surprise, Billy laughed. “They taught me Latin because that's what Jefferson and Adams were taught. We were supposed to be great leaders like them. It was in our blood, they told us.”

Henry and Billy took a bowl of soup and a slice of bread and sat down on the ground to eat. The soup was little more than hot water laced with nettles that tasted like spinach.

“To tell you the truth,” Billy continued, “I didn't learn a thing that's helped me over here. I'd have done a lot better scrounging around with chickens, like you, so at least I'd know how to find something in the dirt to eat. Look at this slop.” Billy held his spoon up to let the thin liquid dribble back into the bowl.

Henry decided to ignore Billy's snobbery. He didn't want the French to think they were two spoiled kids, squabbling. He and Billy needed to stick together now. Besides, Billy didn't even seem to realize he'd insulted Henry again.

Still, he did warn him, “I wouldn't complain about the food, Billy. I think the French often go hungry to feed us. You should have seen the care my family took for me. There were lots of times –” Henry stopped himself. He couldn't trust Billy with Pierre and his mother. He had too big a mouth. Henry looked down into his soup. “They were good people. That's all.”

Billy watched Henry eat. Then he said quietly, “You know, Hank, I've given you a hard time. When you're sent away to boarding school at thirteen, you have to pick on the younger guys to prove yourself. Guess I just didn't know how to break the habit. And the stupid thing is, I always hated school.”

Henry nodded, accepting the apology. “Why didn't you go home?”

“Couldn't. Wasn't wanted.”

“What do you mean?” Henry couldn't imagine his mother not wanting him.

Billy sighed. “Father was a commodities broker. When the stock market crashed, his partner jumped out of their office window. Dad's business collapsed. He had to quit his clubs, sell the house in Chestnut Hill for a quarter of what he'd paid for it. We moved into Mother's childhood country estate. That's where he drank himself to death. They say he died in a car crash, but I'm sure he drove off that bridge on purpose. Mother has been partying ever since, wearing her flapper dresses because she can't afford to buy anything new. She and my sisters keep up appearances so that at least one of them can marry rich. My grandfather paid my school bills to keep me out of the way. He had some money left because he'd never speculated in the market. And he managed to withdraw a lot of cash before all the banks shut down. But it's borrowed time. I was supposed to graduate and fix all that. Become a doctor or something socially acceptable that still earns a lot of money.”

“So why are you here? Why aren't you at college?”

Billy sighed again. “I was flunking out, Hank. Besides, I didn't want to miss the fight, same as you.” He paused and stirred his soup. “But I could have done with missing some of the things I've seen now, you know?”

A single gunshot interrupted Henry's answer. He and Billy jumped up, ready to run for cover. But no one else in the camp seemed bothered. Henry looked around for his guide. He spotted him, sitting unperturbed among other French teenagers, eating.

“
Qu'est-ce que c'est?
” Henry called.

The
maquis
boys all stopped eating to stare at him. His friend called back, “
L'étranger.
”

“The stranger?”

“
Oui, l'homme que vous n'avez pas reconnu.
” The youth explained that they'd been suspicious about the blond pilot for a while. He had shown up, out of nowhere, without a Resistance worker escort. English-speaking SS agents sometimes posed as downed airmen to infiltrate the
maquis
. Henry's not recognizing his unit had sealed the chief's decision. “
C'était un espion allemand. Nous n'avons pas de place pour des prisonniers ici.
” The
maquis
youths went back to their soup.

A chill swept through Henry. That blond boy was dead on his word. Henry thought he was going to be sick.

Billy tugged on his sleeve. “What's wrong? What did he say? What's happened?”

“They shot that guy, Billy. The guy we didn't know. I can't believe it.” Henry swayed with nausea. “They don't trust anybody. The Nazis have gotten into their groups too often, or people they grew up with have turned them in for a few bucks. They decided he was a German spy because of what I said. They can't hold many prisoners, on the run like they are. So they took him out and shot him as a spy. Just like that.”

Around midnight the camp emptied. It began to rain, and Henry and Billy wrapped themselves in some spare parachutes to keep warm. “See what I mean?” Billy said through chattering teeth. “They come, they go. Try to sleep.”

Hours later they were awakened by the
maquis
upon their return. The camp swarmed. Wagons pulled by plough horses lumbered in, led by farmers. They were laden with four long grey canisters, tubes about the size and shape of torpedoes.

“
Parachutages,
” Henry's guide explained. It was the first one he had been allowed to help with. He told Henry all about it. Two British planes had completed a drop. All the canisters were recovered.

Often the drops didn't go as well. Canisters got stuck in trees or Nazi patrols followed the sound of plane motors and the
maquis
had to scatter before gathering a thing. Once, by using homing devices hidden in a repair truck to track French radio signals, the Germans had captured one of the
maquis
group's radio operators. The Gestapo had tortured codes out of him. The Nazis then used the codes to signal the British to drop supplies right into their trap. The Germans recovered all the supplies and shot down the plane. This night, however, had been a complete success.

It took six men, heaving and slipping in the rain, to drag each canister off its cart onto the ground. When the
maquis
cracked them open, they yanked out guns, boxes of ammunition, counterfeit francs, and British chocolate and cigarettes. The chocolate and cigarettes caused the most excitement.

Henry helped. Billy stood watching, his bad arm making him worthless for the work. He fidgeted and finally blurted out to the chief's aide-de-camp: “You know, I'm capable of doing something around here. You guys keep me in the dark, ignore me. I'm just as good as old farm boy here.”

Henry couldn't believe Billy. Did they really have to compete here?

The man smiled and replied in perfect, upper crust English. “I am certain that we can find something appropriate for your talents, Pilot. Tomorrow.”

The next morning the aide-de-camp prodded Billy awake with his boot. He carried two buckets. “You and your friend can collect dinner,” he said. He pointed to the ground at a slowly moving shell. The rain had brought out snails.

“
Escargots
,” the Frenchman said. “Fill the buckets.”

Henry groaned and got up to take his bucket. He knew this was punishment for Billy's rude outburst. What a jerk. Hadn't being on the run, at the mercy of strangers' pity and courage, taught him anything?

“This is disgusting,” Billy complained as he picked up the snails and dropped them into his pail with a little plink.

“I wouldn't gripe if I were you, Billy,” Henry warned him. “We're only doing this because of what you said last night. Keep at it and we'll probably have to clean their outhouse.”

Most of the snails were to be found on rocks or under bushes. Henry couldn't help but marvel at them, their delicate shells with a whorl of red-brown stripes. He was less impressed with their glistening bodies, which stuck to the rocks. How could you bring yourself to eat these slimy things? he wondered.

He remembered Madame Gaulloise raving about frogs' legs. He'd laughed at the thought of his ma trying to fry up some of the bullfrogs he used to cart home from the creek in his pockets. He straightened up and said, more to himself than to Billy, “What I wouldn't give right now for a plate of Ma's fried chicken.”

“So what was it like, farm boy, eating chickens you'd raised?”

Henry thought a moment before answering. “Well, Billy, there's real satisfaction in being able to take care of yourself; to raise everything you need; not having to worry about whether you've got enough money to buy food or if the stores are going to have food to sell. I thought I'd never go back to farming when I finished college. But after all this,” his voice trailed off for a moment, “farming looks pretty good.”

“Hard work, though, isn't it?”

“Sure. But it's honest work. We have twenty henhouses. One hundred hens per house. Each house needs two buckets of clean water morning and evening. How good's your maths, Billy?”

Billy looked up and made a silly grin, playing the idiot. “Let's see…that's eighty buckets a day.”

“That's right. Eighty five-gallon buckets to fill and haul, seven days a week. Chickens don't know about Sundays or holidays. So that's five hundred sixty buckets a week; a little over twenty-nine thousand buckets per year. When I figured that out in third grade, I thought I'd about die.”

“Didn't your old man help?”

“He had his own chores. While I was hauling water in the morning, he'd be milking the cows, feeding them and the mules, mucking out the stalls. He'd help me collect eggs in the afternoon, after school. If they were laying well, there'd be a thousand eggs a day.”

“A thousand eggs! Where did you put them all?”

“We stored them in the basement until the next morning when Dad delivered them to the grocery store just inside Richmond. Planting season was the toughest, though, because we had all that work added on to taking care of the chickens. We tilled about thirty acres and planted watermelons, cantaloupe, strawberries, corn, and green beans. It's sandy soil. Takes lots of turning and manure to plant well.”