Lovers in Enemy Territory (29 page)

"It’s not like this, Miguel. Everything is rationed. We have very little, but we aren’t starving to death, nor do we have civil war. We've gone through our own kind of hell with the bombing raids, and we've lost many men and women. I lost my parents and both brothers, but our conditions aren’t yours. What I see here is utter hell.

“What monsters these Nazis and Fascists are. But I am wrong to say that. when we’re all God's children. But how can some defy God so completely? So expertly?"

He felt a kinship with her, for she echoed his feelings exactly. "No one knows, Sister, and part of the tragedy is that our young people grow old without enjoying the delights of youth. Our old people die of heartache instead of old age. The war leaves us with no time to live. We must seize any precious moments of happiness we can to make any of it worth while."

Catherine saw Jeffrey's face then, and Michael's. To seize happiness. Yes, that’s what she intended to do one day soon. An ache passed through her so intense that she moaned. Thus the first day of life in the Pyrenees continued for her, the first of many such days.

As the weeks passed, she learned how to set broken limbs, pull teeth, clean festering boils and wounds, even deliver babies. Contrary to her earlier opinions, she found that taking care of people's physical needs was just as fulfilling as nurturing their minds and souls. The results of her effort was more immediately apparent, and the look of gratitude in the eyes of those whom she helped gave her the reason to praise God and go on working.

Four weeks passed and Catherine grew accustomed to the light meals and lack of sleep. All the sisters had fallen into the rigorous routine without complaint. There was so much to do, there weren’t enough hours in the day to care for all the sick and hungry. She fell upon her straw mat at night, exhausted.

Many evenings she forgot to eat the thin soup and bread prepared in the refectory. Important matters needed her attention, and they helped to take away the sting of separation from her beloved.

*****

For over a month Jeffrey and his crew had been making routine reconnaissance flights from the Balearic Islands to the northernmost frontiers of Spain, teleprinting data back to England which set the Air Command Headquarters buzzing.

From the outset it was apparent that every tank or plane from England had to pass within a few miles of Franco's naval and air bases, and he controlled every foot of territory on both sides of the narrow straits. The pocket-sized airfield at Gibraltar couldn't accommodate fighters or heavy bombers. It was just an old race track. Again it was providential that the Hudsons and Sunderlands had home bases in West Africa. One German cannon at La Linea could seriously impair the naval base at Gibraltar. The Rock required constant surveillance.

Jeffrey mapped out flight plans, and each week his crew covered a different sector. Day after day, information poured back to England confirming Jeffrey's worst fears. One of their more important finds was the number of U-boat and sub bases up and down the Galacia coast.

They counted thirty-five merchant marine boats of German make and two tankers. This coastline had many fine natural harbors and was fully occupied by German troops. The ports were stockpiled with diesel fuel. The relief crews of U-boats stayed aboard tankers while others kept the subs at sea. Hitler's work was being made easy by Spanish cooperation. Jeffrey even spotted lighters outside Spanish ports which did a lot of refueling.

After another week they went inland. Franco's navy consisted of six cruisers, a dozen destroyers, six subs and three to four hundred obsolete Italian or German aircraft, but they didn’t notice any new German planes, nor any factories. The famous ship building facility, El Ferrol, was full of subs and German tankers in for repairs.

Old aerodromes were beehives of activity supplying mercury, wolfram, pyrites, and manganese to the Nazis. It was apparent that the Germans had taken over Spain as thoroughly as they’d done the helpless countries ahead of them; however, Jeffrey thought with bitterness, Franco had handed Spain to Hitler on a silver platter when it was defeated from within.

In all those weeks they'd had Messerschmitts, Dorniers, and Glenn Martins hunting them down, and in some circumstances, chasing them half way back to Africa, but so far so good. The early summer weather had cooperated with them. There’d been more rain than usual, and the cloud cover had allowed them to take daring scans which they might not otherwise have done.

Their reconnaissance work was almost finished, except for a scan of the Pyrenees. All month Jeffrey had been waiting for the time when they could pass over Monte Jaizquibel. He wanted to get a good look at the convent. There were times when he wondered if Catherine were not just a figment of his imagination.

But then he remembered holding her in his arms. They were going to be a family one day, the three of them. It wouldn't be much longer now.

Officer Dudley went over the flight plan with Jeffrey the night before they were to take off. Friedling was ill and was confined to base, but Doherty would be along. The three of them would manage this flight alone. It was decided they'd make a sweep over Irun, the border town between France and Spain where it was rumored that the majority of German troops passed through.

Then they'd fly east into the mountains and make as thorough a search as possible before winging back to Africa. It would be the longest and most dangerous of all their missions to date. Once it was accomplished, Jeffrey would fly back to London and report to headquarters. If Catherine wasn't there, he'd go to Spain and bring her back himself. He'd waited long enough!

They took off at 0300 hours after checking their equipment thoroughly. On impulse Jeffrey had them double check their seat packs. He had a premonition that this mission was particularly significant, but he couldn't nail it down to any one factor.

Doherty was pilot for the first leg of the journey and Jeffrey used the time to study the notes he'd jotted down the night he'd had to remain in quarters. As they flew over the southern tip of Spain, the right engine sputtered twice. They checked it out, but nothing seemed to be wrong. Perhaps a bird had flown into the propeller. Since it didn't sputter again, they thought no more of it.

Six hours passed and they had the accompaniment of heavy clouds to hide them. As they approached the Irun area, they flew into a violent cloudburst. Lightning was flashing off the wings.

"Hang on, everybody," Doherty called out. "We're going for a ride!" They were knocked around mercilessly for the next half hour. “We're approaching Irun now, Commander," he said, consulting his charts. "I don't think we're going to be able to see a damn thing down there. It's one solid wall of rain."

Jeffrey nodded quietly. This was bad luck, and it didn't look as if there was going to be any let up. They continued east, hoping to find a hole in the clouds, but there was none. They tried to fly above the clouds but the soup was everywhere. They climbed higher.

"Commander, we'd better turn around and head back. This rain is here to stay."

"You're right. Let's go home. We'll come back tomorrow," he spoke with disappointment. Catherine was somewhere down there. "I'll take over now."

Jeffrey seated himself in the cockpit, his jaw set. It was then the right engine began to sputter again. They flew on for a minute and it sputtered once more before going out.

"Damn!" Jeffrey muttered, watching the air speed. "We've just lost our right engine and are down to half power, just under 100 m.p.h. We're right over the mountains. I don't like it. If the other engine goes, and it could in this weather, we'll have to jump. Just pray this baby holds till we reach the water."

The three men were quiet as they watched the control panel. The plane was losing altitude and they were still being tossed about like leaves in the wind. The strain on the other cyclone engine was building. Jeffrey could hear a distinct clattering noise coming from within.

He tried to stabilize the plane at present altitude, but he knew the engine was going. His eyes were riveted to the motor. He watched in horror as the cowling peeled back and the propeller came to an abrupt standstill. His heart almost failed him as he saw flames shoot out. It had caught fire from the fuel line.

"We just lost our left engine," Howard whispered, ashen faced.

"Right. I don't know what I hate more. Ditching at sea or bailing out into God knows what. Engine trouble," he said disbelievingly, "after all the Jerries we've had chasing us these past weeks!"

Jeffrey had a knot in his stomach now. This time they probably wouldn't get out alive. They’d descended as low as they could. "All right-- bail out!"

The two airmen wasted no time following each other out the hatch. Jeffrey remained at the controls till they were out, then undid his seat strap, leaped to the hatch opening and tumbled into the black wetness. The freezing cold of the slip stream came as a tremendous shock. He'd bailed out before, but it had been over the desert and mild temperatures of the ocean.

He wasn't prepared for the lonely, icy experience which hit him now. The violence of the elements took his breath. One flash of lightning seemed to last much longer than usual and he realized the plane had crashed. The wind carried his chute in an easterly direction, but the tremendous up and down drafts kept him air born for close to half an hour before setting him down roughly in an alpine pasture.

Jeffrey didn’t know what had happened to his buddies. As his feet touched earth, the powerful momentum sent him rolling and his body became entangled in the chute lines. He remembered nothing more after he came to an abrupt stop against a low stone retaining wall.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Luis Ortega was out in the barn when he heard the sound of an engine in trouble. Then he heard the explosion and ran into the pasture in time to see the burst of bright orange flame in the next valley.

He shook his head sadly. Luis had no taste for war. Either someone was inside the plane and burned to death, or someone had bailed out, and the old sheep herder didn't think much of a person's chances for survival in these rugged mountains. It had happened before, just last month. Four English flyers had been shot down over by Gazula's farm.

The old man stood scanning the black sky with the rain beating against his weathered face. He suddenly thought he heard a thud, but it was so soft a sound, he disregarded it. He stood a moment longer, then started back to the barn when he heard a groan.

Someone was out there in his pasture. Maybe it was a German pig, and he spit. But his conscience wouldn’t let him leave the poor wretch to die in agony. He would go down and take a look. If the airman was German, he could rot in hell!

The old Basque hurried down the hill, taking small leaps to reach the wall. He came upon the man and leaned over to inspect him. The entangled body wore the uniform of a British airman. He snorted with a smile. Now, he would help.

He reached down and began extricating him from the chute and harness. The driving rain did little to expedite matters, but Luis was used to the violent elements of these mountains and was oblivious to everything except helping this man who was still groaning with closed eyelids.

A quick appraisal told him the airman's left leg was at an unnatural angle, but everything else appeared to be all right. He would get him inside the hut, then he could make an inspection. As soon as possible he would send the boy, Rodrigo, from the Gazula farm down to the convent for Miguel.

The sheepherder lumbered back up the pasture to get the hay wagon. He hitched up his mule and brought the wagon to within a few feet of the body. Then he climbed out and hoisted the dead weight up into the hay, taking as much care as an old man could not to injure the leg further. The wounded man was beginning to come to.

The Basque muttered under his breath as he tugged to get the long limbs up into the hay. He sighed heavily when that had been accomplished, and quickly gathered up the chute and stashed it in the hay. Then he went round to the front of the wagon and started the mule on its way. The storm had no intention of letting up.

He would put the airman to bed and get him into dry clothes. Miguel hadn’t been up for a visit in over two months. It would be good to see him, to hear news from the village. Now they would have much to discuss. Plans would have to be made with some of the others of the underground to get the flyer out of the country, and the Boche were everywhere, but it could be done. The rugged old man had helped before, and would again.

By the time the cart pulled up to the front of the stone hut, Jeffrey opened his eyes, but the pain from his lower extremities was so intense, he couldn’t think of anything else, and the freezing rain caused him to shiver uncontrollably. He tried to sit up, but lost consciousness once more.

His head settled back into the soft hay and all went black. The old man lifted him from the hay and dragged him by the armpits into the hut. It was an ordeal and the man cursed under his breath that the Englishman was so tall. He wiped the perspiration from his face, wondering how he would get the body up to the loft. He eyed the ladder, then looked at the man lying prostrate on the floor.

It was far too damp and cold to let him stay there. The Basque took a deep breath and hoisted the airman over his shoulder, almost buckling from the weight, but he had sinews of iron and a strong heart. He'd carried logs which were heavier. He grunted and groaned and rested on each rung of the ladder, but soon he had him flat on the bed, taking as much care with the affected leg as possible.