Bailout Over Normandy by Ted Fahrenwald

Author:Ted Fahrenwald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: HISTORY / Military / World War II
ISBN: 9781612001586
Publisher: Casemate Publishers
Published: 2012-08-19T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

“YOU ARE A SPY!”

The sergeant charged toward us through the dust of the farmyard. He staggered me with a couple of punches to my chest and shoulders then, grinning like the devil himself, with one savage jerk he ripped open my suitcoat without bothering to mess around with the buttons.

So there I was, like they say, at zero altitude . . . a long way from home and low on petrol . . . a Jerry on my tail, and me with all guns jammed. I stood in the sun-baked yard of the little German headquarters, my secrets revealed in the brilliant Normandy sunlight, an AAF flying jacket zipped to my neck. From one pocket dangled my soft leather helmet to which I’d clung through thick and thin; from the other pocket a tattered bit of silk danced merrily in the breeze, and when the sergeant tugged at the end of silk, about four yards of parachute panel followed along. The sergeant whipped it recklessly about his head, screaming, “Ah-ha! Ah-ha!” until the major and the lieutenant and a dozen of Der Fuhrer’s small fry came running from the farmhouse to form a wolf-pack circle around Lou and Tayo and the nosy sergeant.

The silk scarf and flying helmet were passed around the circle for inspection, and the sergeant shouted, “Qu’est ce que c’est?”

Not quite ready to give up the ghost, I shrugged: “It is nothing! These things I have stolen from the body of the dead aviateur Americain who has crashed near my farm!”

Sarcastic looks from the audience followed this pitiful explanation, and the sergeant, probing deeper into my pockets, came up with my Zippo lighter upon which I had painstakingly engraved: “TPF-486 Fighter Squadron-USAAF.”

I stood at bay with an “I’ve been framed” expression on my face while the sergeant patted a bulge in the front of my jacket to remove—from a skillfully constructed secret pocket in the lining—the skinning knife with worn bone handle, razor-sharp blade, and butt engraved: “Marble USA.” The sergeant handed the knife to the major and the major, impaling me upon his eyeballs, shouted, “Amerikanisher!!”

Bright boy, the major. What the hell, I thought. I’ve had it. Forgetting my hillbilly slouch, I straightened my back and shoved my hands into the blue: “Okay, you son of a bitch! So I’m an American pilot. I surrender!”

The quick change from humble citizen to American flyboy caused quite a reaction: the Jerries jabbered and snapped and growled like a pack of hounds. The major and the lieutenant and especially the sergeant were all grinning like jackals, but I had to laugh at the major, for he was trying to act as though he’d seen through me all the while.

Speaking broken English, the major asked, “Your comrade. He is also American aviator?” I replied, “No, just a friendly Frenchman I met on the highway this morning.” Grinning, the major translated for the benefit of his soldiers and everybody laughed and slapped his neighbor on the shoulder. Lou spit on the ground and put his hands up.

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