Under a War-Torn Sky (19 page)

“Manure?” Billy looked at Henry with disgust. “You put animal poop around vegetables?”

Henry laughed. “It's composted with pine needles so it's not raw manure, Billy. Composted manure is the best fertilizer there is.”

“No wonder you farm boys stink.”

“We provide food for your fancy, linen-covered tables, White. Somehow I don't see you out hoeing or weeding.”

Billy put his hands up. “All right, all right. Don't get in a swivet. Who'd you hire to pick it all?”

“Pshaw, Billy. You really don't know anything. There wasn't money to hire help. Oh, once in a while a hobo would wander up off the Richmond–Norfolk line. Ma would take pity on him and let him work for food. We found out they kept drawing a cat on our barn with chalk to leave word for other hobos that there was a nice lady living there. So one summer we had a whole bunch. But mostly Dad and I did all the work. I hated to pick green beans worst of all. The bushes grow knee-high. There's no way to pick the beans except to bend over and do it by hand. It used to take me about three hours to pick one row out of ten. Felt like I'd been horsewhipped by the time I was done. And the sun gets mighty hot in July in Tidewater Virginia. I was always relieved when school started, 'cause then I wouldn't have to work so hard.”

“Funny. I always hated it when school started,” said Billy. “I spent my summers lifeguarding at the country club. That was heaven.”

Henry imagined so. He'd never even been in a proper swimming pool before boot camp. But he loved swimming, just the same. “You know, Pats and I had this swimming hole down by Four Mile Creek.” Henry stopped short. Billy had always ridiculed Patsy. He wasn't up for that. He went silent.

“Go on, Hank,” said Billy. “I'd like to hear more. Makes looking for slugs go faster.”

“Well,” Henry continued cautiously, “it was about a half mile up from where the creek emptied into the James and turned wild with current. The water was real sweet, clear and deep at our hole. Spring beauties popped up all over the creek bank in spring, and by fall there was a soft carpet of moss. There was a big willow hanging over it. Dad had actually hung a tyre swing there for me.”

Henry stopped searching the ground and just stood, relishing the memory of his childhood's happiest moments. “I'd climb up to the fourth big branch, about fifteen feet up, dragging the tyre with me. I'd launch from there. I'd swoop back and forth, back and forth, just above the water. The best part was letting go on the third or fourth swing, before the arc got too low, and dropping into that cool water,
kersplunk
, just like a happy bullfrog. Lord, that was good. Patsy would be right behind me, swinging just as high. When she hit the water we'd have a splashing contest. She had to work about as hard on her farm as I did. Lots of little brothers to help tend to. Those afternoons were such a wonderful break.”

“So, did you two ever fool around down there?”

Henry frowned. He had kissed Patsy by the water hole, last summer, right before graduation. He hadn't planned to. He'd been telling her his plans to join the Air Corps, and she just looked so beautiful, so worried about him and proud at the same time, he'd kissed her, a good long time. It'd been pretty wonderful, too.

That had been the beginning, the beginning of that ache for Patsy. She'd written him that she'd gone down to their swimming hole since he'd left to relive that kiss –
I felt the moonlight creep over me and pretended the touch of the cool light was your hand. I could feel your arms pull me against you, slowly at first, then strong, pressing us into one being, the way I had always hoped to feel your arms embrace me before and pray to feel them again…
The letter was falling apart along its crease because Henry had reread that passage so often. He wasn't about to spoil that kiss by gossiping about it with Billy White.

Henry considered what Billy had told him about his own life. If his mother and sisters had treated him so coldly, no wonder Billy had such a lopsided view of women. Funny how knowing a little about someone made it easier to stomach their flaws. Henry decided to make light of it. “Well, if I had, I wouldn't be telling you about it. How full is your bucket?”

Less than half. Henry's was full.

“My father would have made mud pies outta you, Billy,” Henry laughed good-naturedly, still warmed by the thought of Patsy. “Here, give it to me.” He took the bucket from him and started filling it with snails. “You know, when I was about ten I passed out from the heat in the field. Must have been a hundred plus that day, and the humidity around the James can make you feel like you're sucking in syrup for air. When I came to I started vomiting. Couldn't finish the day's work. Probably had heatstroke. Dad called me a fool for not drinking water and said if I couldn't pull my own weight around the farm then I couldn't eat. I wasn't allowed dinner that night. Dad said that'd remind me to carry water.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. Ma snuck me some bread and milk later that night. She wouldn't talk to Dad for days.”

“Pretty tough old bird, Hank.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“At least he cared enough to ride you,” Billy said quietly. “My father didn't even bother to talk to me at breakfast the morning he drove off that bridge. He sat right across from me, staring into his orange juice, as if I didn't even exist, knowing he was going to kill himself in thirty minutes. I didn't matter to him at all.”

They started back to camp and Henry mulled over Billy's comment. He went a ways before adding thoughts that his time spent walking alone, scared, had brought him about Clayton. “Dad's a good farmer. He never gives up. He kept us from going hungry when a lot of families in the county bellied up in the Depression. I'm not sure if the Depression made him so tough, or if he survived the Depression because he was that tough to begin with. But I see how that happens now. I've already thought and done some things since being over here I'm not proud of, but had to do.” Henry had also begun to understand how difficult it might be to shed a tough attitude or a wary distrust of people once the bad times were over.

He added more to himself than to Billy, “Sometimes it's almost like Dad's in my head. There've been a couple of moments that mean voice of his has kicked me out of trouble. I just don't want to come out of the war as hard as he is.”

His thoughts made him uneasy, and Henry shut off the topic of Clayton with an offhand statement. “Anyway, boot camp was easy after growing up under the hand of Clayton Forester. Let's get these slugs back to camp.”

That night they ate escargots. Grilled over the fires, the snails had a nutty flavour that surprised Henry. Billy only nibbled at them, but Henry followed the lead of his teenage guide, sucking the snails out of their shell with a hearty slurp. When they were done, the aide-de-camp approached.

“Time to go,” he said, and motioned for Billy and Henry to follow.

At the edge of the camp sat a delivery van. Two more fliers were waiting beside it. They were changing out of British flight gear into plain clothes. They looked shaken and scared. They must have just come down, thought Henry. He smiled and greeted them.

“Wow. Where did you get the van?” Billy asked.

The aide-de-camp turned on him. “You ask too many questions. I told the chief that you were a risk, too curious, that if you ever got caught, you would betray us. But the chief has decided to trust you. Do not disappoint him. Forget you have been here.”

Billy slunk into the back of the van, like a dog smacked with newspaper.

Henry shook the aide's hand. “
Merci, monsieur.
Billy's okay, really.” Then he took a chance. “
Monsieur
, I know I am not supposed to ask, but my family, the boy and his mother… well…do you know if she is all right?”

The aide hesitated then answered. “The ambush failed. Two men died in the shooting. She survived the interrogation. She revealed no one. We think she was taken to Ravensbrück.”

“Ravensbrück?”

“A German prison camp for women near Berlin. Political prisoners and deported Jews are sent there. It might as well be hell. We cannot get to her.”

Henry's heart sank. What were her chances of survival? If the prison life didn't kill her, Allied bombs meant for Berlin might. Henry struggled to respond. “Thank you,
monsieur
, for telling me. No one could ever get anything out of me about them.”

The aide's face was grim. “See that they don't. Or I will find you myself. Get in.”

As Henry climbed up, he heard feet running towards the van.

“
Au revoir, Louis,
” called his guide.

Grinning, Henry jumped down to say good-bye and promised that when the war was over, he'd send him that record of Louis Armstrong.

The teenage trumpeter smiled and nodded. “
Louis Armstrong, oui.
”

Both of them became serious. “How will I find you?” Henry asked. He repeated his question in French.

The youth was silent a moment. “
Vivant, je l'espère.
”

Henry climbed into the van, joining the three other fliers, and bolted its door shut. The van sputtered into the night.

“What did the kid say?” Billy asked.

“I asked him how I would find him after the war to repay a debt I owe him. And his answer was that he hoped I would find him alive.” Henry's voice broke on the final words. He stared out the tiny back window at the retreating mountain.

Ravensbrück. Even the name sounded awful. Did Pierre know his mother's fate? Was he still safe? Maybe the fact she had already been deported kept her son safer somehow. If the Milice no longer needed him to coerce her, surely they wouldn't bother to hunt down a small boy.

Henry hung his head and rubbed his face. Pierre and his mother, Madame, the teenage guide, the old schoolteacher – their faces whirled through his head. He'd never known the potential finality of a good-bye before now. Even when he'd held his trembling mother, as he left for England, Henry had been completely convinced that he'd be back, that they'd be eating many a Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner together talking about his adventures. These people – these people who'd risked their lives to save him – he'd never see them again. He felt it in his bones, like an awful ache.

They bounced through the black night. There was no knowing for sure where they were going in the back of the windowless van. But Henry could tell from the angle of the vehicle that they were heading down the mountains, he assumed to the valley west of camp.

Coal was heaped in the corner of the van's cabin. As the van jolted along, pieces of coal fell off the pile and bounced around like popcorn on a hot griddle.

“What do they need coal for?” Billy asked with irritation one time a lump of it hopped into his lap.

Henry shook his head. Billy'd never figure out how to make things work without directions. If nothing else, Clayton had taught Henry how to think quick, how to improvise. Clayton had been a wizard at jerry-rigging farm machinery. He'd even managed to generate their own supply of electricity with a windmill, pulleys, and a reconfigured truck engine.

Henry almost pitied Billy. He had obviously known some hard times, but they hadn't strengthened him much. Would Billy have the stoicism to walk over the Pyrenees? Or would he whine and drag his feet? If he and Billy found themselves in a situation that called for a split-second, life-or-death decision, could Billy stay calm and think fast? If the answer to all those questions was no, he'd be a real liability.

Henry had figured out the coal pile immediately. “They're running the van off it,” Henry explained aloud. “They can't get gasoline. The Nazis have it all. They've converted the van to coal. Like a steam engine train. That's why it's slow. But it beats walking, right, Billy?”

Billy shrugged.

“Sure does, mate,” agreed one of the RAF pilots, clapping Billy on the back to shore him up.

The night turned to dawn and the van lurched into a barn. Not until the barn doors were closed and locked were the pilots allowed to come out of the van.

They were handed milk, cheese, and bread, and told to sleep. Their French driver left.

As he chewed, Henry peeped through a chink in the barn's old walls. The land was flat here. He could see the mountains they'd just left shooting up in the azure sky far away. Before him stretched acres and acres of tightly packed golden sunflowers. They were tall as corn, and their huge yellow faces all turned together towards the sun. Henry had never seen such a beautiful crop.

He wondered what was growing at home. “It's June, right?” Henry asked aloud.

“That's right,” replied one of the British officers, surprised. “The sixteenth. We were shot down just a few days ago. How long you been missing, Yank, that you don't know the date?”

Henry caught Billy's eyes before answering. No need for the Brits to have any information that could jeopardize them somehow. “Too long. I'd hoped to be home by now.”

“Then you don't know.”

“Know what?”

“The invasion's begun. Allied troops just landed on the beaches of France a week ago. It's not just our air war any more. We've got boys on the ground now, too.”

Henry sat back on his heels. He could hardly believe it. Finally. It's what he and everyone in his combat unit had been fighting for, dying for. Ground troops. With tanks and infantry to worry about, surely the Nazis wouldn't care about a few lost boys wandering around. He'd get home soon.

They bounced through southern France for two more nights, twice exchanging vans and drivers. Henry could make out fields of lavender, hills of vineyards. They passed through a city called Montpellier. Henry began to see flat, white beaches and marshes. Once he spotted what looked like a herd of wild, cream-coloured horses, but in the moonlight they looked more like spirits from another world.