Downed over germany, p.1
Downed over Germany, page 1
Downed over Germany
War Girl Series Prequel
Marion Kummerow
Downed over Germany
War Girl Series, Prequel
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Marion Kummerow
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All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2017 Marion Kummerow
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This book is copyrighted and protected by copyright laws.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, and places in this book exist only within the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or locations is purely coincidental.
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Cover Design by http://www.StunningBookCovers.com
Contents
Reader Group
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Also by Marion Kummerow
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Chapter 1
April 1943, Somewhere over Germany
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Rattling and whirring filled the fighter-bomber as it entered German airspace. Tom Westlake was on target to the city of Hamburg. He leaned back in his seat and enjoyed the absolute freedom of being above the clouds. Flying had been his dream since he was a small boy, and the one place where he always was in line with himself was in the cramped space of a cockpit.
The smell of gasoline. The constant hum of engines engulfing him. The pitch-black sky. The equally dark water beneath him. Tom squinted his eyes, trying to distinguish water from land. But the landscape beneath him lay in complete darkness. No doubt, the people of Germany had learnt to turn off the lights at night, afraid to provide a clear landing guide for bombs. But today he wouldn’t deliver a deadly cargo. Tom had another – equally important – mission to fulfill.
Without the clues of vision, he had to rely completely on his instruments to find his way. During the last two years of service in the Royal Air Force, he’d become one with this aircraft, which he lovingly called “Harriet.” There was nothing Tom couldn’t do while he was in the pilot’s seat. He glanced at the stars to confirm his dead reckoning was still on target. If he unloaded his cargo over an uninhabited area, the entire effort would go to waste.
Instead of deadly bombs, his Harriet was loaded to the top with leaflets – black propaganda to undermine the German morale and send the Gestapo on a wild goose chase after some nonexistent Resistance group.
He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. The easy part of the flight was over. He was in enemy territory. Adrenaline flooded his system and he sat up straighter, alert, and ready to react to whatever was thrown – or fired – his way. He flew alone, without the company of pathfinder aircraft or fighters to protect his flanks. The Germans might not detect a single aircraft.
But they did. Out of the darkness anti-aircraft flak shot hard and fast against Harriet. The sound of ack-ack ricocheting off the structure sent chills down his spine. Mere moments later, a loud explosion and the smell of burning indicated that one of the antiaircraft fire had hit the fuel tank and possibly the engine. Incredible heat engulfed Tom.
Fire.
Harriet’s nose tilted and she was spinning like mad.
This is it, fellow — bail out!
More adrenaline rushed through Tom’s veins, and years of training took over his reflexes. Without giving it a conscious thought he went through the necessary movements and bailed out of his stricken aircraft at about 3000 feet.
The icy night air was a welcome soothing to his scorching skin. A sudden jerk indicated his parachute had opened and seconds later, he floated to the ground in slow motion. Harriet, though, crashed to the ground at full speed and exploded upon impact with the ground into a fire fountain.
Several minutes later, Tom landed on muddy earth, spraining his ankle. The pain from the burns on his wrists and neck, combined with the searing throb in his ankle, momentarily knocked him out. But he didn’t have time to recover.
Tom had landed in the middle of Germany, somewhere near Hamburg. A British airman stranded behind the lines in enemy territory. Despite his decent understanding of the German language, his English accent rang true from the very depths of it – an insurmountable flaw to any disguise. His life depended on how fast, and how far, he could run.
Somehow he summoned the strength to crawl into a nearby thicket, where he struggled out of his parachute harness and flak suit and stashed them as best as he could. Then he soothed his burns with a tube of condensed milk from his Aids Box. He crammed his pockets with a few things from the kit: a bar of chocolate, Horlick’s tablets and a dose of benzedrine.
Then he set off through the rural countryside.
Chapter 2
Tom made his way through the impenetrable darkness. German officials would soon find the wreck of what had been his ship and, with the lack of a dead body, start a search for him. Then it wouldn’t take long until they discovered the discarded parachute and flak suit and knew he was on the run.
He looked down his British air-force uniform: navy-colored material, with the white winged Royal Air Force badge planted upon his breast. He had to shed his tattered military uniform for civilian clothes.
Tom walked westward, away from where he believed the city of Hamburg to be, for at least an hour. Rough fields and wet mud soaked his shoes, squelching with every slow and painful step he took. After almost an hour he distinguished a farmhouse against the horizon.
In complete silence except for the gentle whistle of the wind, Tom approached the farmhouse and hid behind a hedgerow. No sign of people. No lights. No sound. The inhabitants were probably fast asleep. His stomach clenched as he pondered his next actions.
Dire circumstances justified dire actions.
He took a deep breath and crawled out from under the hedgerow to climb over the fence. But his leg caught on the sharp wire and tore at the skin of his thigh. Tom couldn’t stifle a moan of pain; he waited with bated breath. Apparently nobody had heard him, and he jumped down on the other side.
Just in that moment, a vicious dog barked in the house. Dammit. I alerted the guard dog. Tom froze in place, hoping the barking would stop, but it became clear that the dog was raising the alarm.
Flight or fight? Tom reversed and climbed back over the fencing, but in his hurry the wire snagged him again and slowed him down. Seconds later, the farmhouse door slammed open and a sturdy man bolted towards Tom, pointing a shotgun at him.
Tom stared down the long barrel of the gun, fright seeping into his bones. His legs refused to move.
"Hey! You! Get off my property!" the man bellowed in German.
Tom’s German was rusty, but even if he hadn’t understood the words, he’d received the message loud and clear. He was about to back down the fence, when the farmer squinted his eyes and raked them down to the badge on Tom’s uniform.
“British bastard!” The farmer spat a huge glob of saliva at Tom and cocked the gun, aiming at Tom’s heart.
“Bitte nicht schiessen,” Tom shouted. “Please don’t shoot me.”
In response the farmer gave a loud, hysterical, yet seemingly sarcastic laugh. “Not shoot you? A British? You are scum.” He spat again. “You people have already taken my wife and two sons in this war. Don't you think I deserve some revenge?”
“I'm sorry. No – please, I am sorry.” Tom begged for his life, holding his hands out in front of him. “We have all lost people we loved. You. Me. Everyone. Please don’t shoot me.” The image of his sweetheart lying in a puddle of blood flashed through his mind. After her death two years ago, he’d thrown himself into every dangerous mission, believing he had nothing to lose. He’d been wrong. He still had his life to lose.
The farmer glared at Tom, hatred and grief mixing in his dark eyes. Tom closed his eyes for a moment to send a hurried prayer to heaven. His opponent had all the right in the world to shoot him, the enemy. He might even receive a reward. If it were reversed, a German pilot downed in Britain would most certainly be shot on the spot.
Time slowed down to a crawl and Tom’s entire life passed in front of his eyes as he watched the farmer squinting with one eye, his finger squeezing on the trigger. As the seconds stretched out into eternity, the tension snapped like a rubber band. Brakes squealed. Heavy footsteps shook the ground.
“Hände hoch!” a German voice said with authority.
Tom didn’t dare to turn his head, but relief washed over him when the farmer lowered the gun to the ground and raised his hands in the air.
“Sie auch.” That command obviously meant Tom. He obeyed and raised his hands. Then he slowly turned to face the man behind the voice. German police.
At the sight of Tom’s badge gleaming in the moonlight, the faces of the two policemen lit up.
“Seems we made a great catch. He must be the pilot of the aircraft that crashed a few miles north,” one policeman said to the other one, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
&nbs
“Yes, sir.” Tom nodded. At this point honesty was probably no more condemning than any lie. His uniform betrayed him.
“Well, well. A British pilot. You just made my day.” Tom stared into the police officer’s eyes, black as they were cast in shadow, and gave a curt nod. It was better not to let them know that he understood their language.
The police officer turned to his fellow, commanding him with sick delight to arrest Tom. Tom recognized the sadistic pleasure all too well, having seen many British soldiers boast of the German lives they had taken. War was an ugly affair. Just now he was on the receiving side.
Steel fists grabbed Tom and handcuffed him, and then they dragged him into the black and rusty police automobile.
Nobody spoke to him, as the officer started the motor and set the automobile in motion.
Chapter 3
Tom sat in the back of the vehicle handcuffed to the door handle as the police car drove through forlorn landscapes. The police officers spoke in rapid German amongst themselves, often laughing deep booming laughs at the delight of having captured a British airman – a rarity in this agricultural area.
He listened in on their conversation, but could only understand tiny bits. Soon enough the lull of the motor, the dwindling adrenaline in his blood, and exhaustion took their toll and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
In his dreams he and Harriet were still above the clouds, enjoying the absolute freedom and peace only flying could give him. He must have dozed close to half an hour, when the vehicle came to an abrupt stop. Tom was thrown against the seat in front of him and fire dazzled his wide-opened eyes. I’m crashing – I have to bail out!
Tom struggled to jump out of his ship when reality set in. The morning sun hung like a fireball on the horizon and cast a warm glow over the building in front of him. The police station. They’d reached their destination in what probably was the next, bigger town.
As the officers pulled him out of the vehicle, Tom couldn’t help but notice the damage his bomber pilot colleagues had caused. No wonder people detested him.
He remained silent, as the officers pushed him inside and into a small holding cell adjacent to the only other room in the police station. Left there without any further explanation, he settled on the cot and put his face into his hands. His sprained ankle had swollen to almost double its normal size and burned like hell.
While he was waiting he could at least nurse his wounds. Lying down on the cot, he pushed up his foot against the wall and rolled down his socks to let the cool morning air soothe the ache.
Snippets of conversation wafted over. “His aircraft…prisoner of war…Dulag Luft…”
Tom sighed with relief. They wouldn't shoot him. They would treat him as a prisoner of war according to the Geneva Convention. And he would be sent to the Dulag Luft, a transit camp for aircrew. From the briefings back home he knew that a Luftwaffe camp was preferable to a Wehrmacht camp, as the Luftwaffe tended to treat their prisoners reasonably well.
At least that was the official version. Offhand rumors of torture and inhumane living conditions made the rounds between the fellows at the base.
It was way past noon when someone finally remembered Tom and slid a bowl of broth and a mug of water through the opening in the cell door. Tom devoured the food and fell back into a fitful sleep. Some hours later, the cell door opened and the policeman from last night appeared.
“Get up, we have a train to catch.” The policeman shoved Tom outside and back into the police car. The vehicle bounced uncomfortably over the cobblestone pavement. Half an hour later it passed the outskirts of a big city. Is this Hamburg? They’d been driving westward, so probably not. Tom racked his brain for a major German city in the vicinity of his crash site, but came up empty-handed.
“Where are we going, please?” he asked the officer, but received no answer.
A few minutes later the vehicle stopped with screeching brakes in front of a train station. Steel fists grabbed Tom, clasping far harder than necessary around his upper arm, and dragged him toward a waiting train. At least the policeman removed those damned metal clasps from Tom’s wrists before handing him over to a waiting officer. Then he was shoved into a compartment where already five men sat. Tom suppressed a smile as he recognized the RAF badge on the tattered uniforms of two of them.
“No speaking…or–” said the officer and waved his Walther PPK to emphasize his words.
Everyone nodded. Now wasn’t the time to start a revolt. Although…Tom’s brain worked overtime. “If you are captured, it’s your duty to His Majesty to stay silent under all circumstances. The sensitive information of your mission can’t get into the enemy’s hands,” Tom’s commanding officer had said, and then he’d added, “If I were you I would attempt everything to escape. Believe me.”
A shiver ran down Tom’s spine. The Air Commodore knew what he was talking about. He’d been a POW in the Great War.
Without knowing where he was or exactly which route they were taking him on it was difficult to make a plan. Tom’s stomach squeezed at the realization that his chances for escape would diminish greatly as soon as he arrived at the camp. Any attempt to escape must be made before that.
But when? And how?
Tom leaned back in his seat, as the train rattled into motion, the damaged remains of whatever city he’d been in, passing faster and faster. He glanced at the fellow airman sitting opposite him and quirked up the corner of his mouth into a half smile. From the almost invisible nod out the window, Tom understood the message: “We’ve done a helluva good job tearing that place to shreds.”
Tom itched to ask where they were, but a side-glance at the German officer grabbing onto his Walther PPK disabused him of that notion. After an endless train ride the sun went down and Tom still had no idea where he was headed.
The monotonous rattling changed and Tom sat up, alert, to look out the window. The trees that had been flowing by slowed to a crawl, until the train came to a halt. An announcement came over the tannoys.
The policeman sitting across from Tom crunched his nose. “Bloody Tommies!” Then he stared at the six prisoners with indecision in his eyes until he shouted, “Raus! Schnell! Verstecken.”
Tom translated the message to his confused-looking fellow prisoners, “Get out fast. We have to hide.” It would be a cruel irony of fate to perish in friendly fire after surviving being shot down.
Everyone rushed to hide beneath nearby trees and bushes. A squadron of war birds appeared in the sky. They were still high up, but the fear and panic their presence spread amongst the passengers was contagious. Even though Tom knew his comrades up there were headed for a different destination, a big city, the possibility of an emergency bomb release was always there. As was a shot-down aircraft or parts crashing to the ground. He swallowed and tried to focus his frightened mind.
Soon the train whistled and the passengers climbed inside to continue their journey. Tom’s ankle hurt like hell, and he hobbled behind the other prisoners. The train started moving the moment he’d put his foot on the first step. Holding onto the handrail for dear life, he struggled to get inside as the wheels rolled faster and faster.
He’d almost reached the safety of the platform when a thought flashed through his mind and he let go his grip on the rail. The last thing Tom saw was the perplexed face of the policeman, as he tried to grab Tom’s hand.
The cold air whipped hard against his face as he fell to the ground. Midair, Tom curled into a ball, bracing his head with his arms. His shoulders smacked first against the hard ground and the impact rippled through his body, causing searing pain and awful cracking noises. He rolled…and rolled…and rolled…from the sheer power of the train's speed until he hit the bank.
