The Swiss Courier: A Novel (26 page)

Bill glanced at his watch and tension rose in his throat. In a couple of hours, J.J. and his buddy Sam would be waiting for him behind the Heiz Bäckerei. Bill’s hand involuntarily reached for the billfold in his back pocket. He had 115 Swiss francs and fifty U.S. dollars, more than enough for a train ride to Geneva and beyond.

Should he join their hastily planned escape attempt? He certainly
wanted
to make a getaway, but a flashing caution light burned brightly in his mind. What if an itchy-fingered, inexperienced Swiss private took a shot at him? What if he and his buddies successfully escaped and met up with partisans outside Geneva, only to be turned over to the Germans for a case of Bordeaux?

Despite Bill’s mental objections, J.J. had made a good point. Sometimes you had to go for it when the guards least expected it. He’d opined that the Swiss had probably anticipated that a pilot or two—fortified by liquid courage— would make a dash during the First of August celebration, when a third of the guard detail had received thirty-six-hour furloughs to visit their families or girlfriends. But the 128 Allied internees stayed put and raised a toast to the Swiss Confederation instead. Now that a couple of days had passed, their guard had to be lowered.

When was the last escape attempt? Bill had to think—yes, Harter and Buchanan made a break for it on the Fourth of July, another holiday occasion. He winced at the memory. Everyone knew the rules: if you stepped over the foot-wide chalk lines laid out north and south of the town, you were considered to be an escapee. The guards were supposed to yell “Halt!” three times before firing—at your legs.

When Harter and Buchanan slipped out of Davos after dusk, a Swiss Army private on patrol spotted them outside Laret, the next town. Fumbling with his K31 rifle, he yelled “Halt-halt-halt” in staccato fashion. Then he immediately triggered several rapid rounds without waiting to see if the two American pilots would become statues and raise their arms in surrender. One bullet shattered Harter’s right shoulder blade, ending his career as a St. Louis Browns pitcher. Buchanan was luckier. He got nicked, where a slug tore into his left leg just above the ankle. After three weeks recuperating in a Zürich hospital, the boys began their ninety-day sentences at Wauwilermoos penitentiary prison. Piles of hay on concrete slabs for their beds, bread and watery stew for their meals.

Bill’s reverie was snapped when the main feature began. Tonight’s film was
Casablanca
, a movie he’d viewed several times since his arrival. Despite his distracted mindset, Bill found himself lost again in the story of an American expatriate meeting a former lover in exotic Casablanca at the outset of the war.

Early in the film, intrigue filled the smoky, Moorish atmosphere of the nightclub belonging to Rick Blaine, but Bill wasn’t fooled—that was his hero Humphrey Bogart. A stunningly beautiful Ilsa Lund, with husband Victor Laszlo on her arm, found a table inside Rick’s Café Américain, where they believed the hard-bitten expat possessed two transit visas to escape Casablanca for Lisbon and eventually America.

Escape.
Was art imitating life, or life imitating art? For nine months, he had been interred in Davos, tucked away high in the Alps, given nothing to do—and nothing to strive for. He and the dozens of other Allied pilots were expected to mind their manners, make no waves, and sit tight—for the duration.
Count yourself lucky
was the catchphrase around Davos.

Yet, if Bill could escape and eventually return to his Eighth Air Force Bomb Squadron in East Anglia, nothing would make him happier. He had a mission to complete, and with Allies breaking out of the Normandy beachhead, the Krauts were on the run. Bill wanted to be there to personally kick their butts all the way back to Berlin. Or maybe his superior officers would tell him that his dangerous days of bombing German factories were over and they were shipping him Stateside to fly some Air Force desk until the Krauts and Japs were beaten to a pulp. That would work for him too. Then he’d get to hold Katie in his arms again.

So maybe tonight was a good night. After all, there hadn’t been an escape attempt in weeks. And fall was just around the corner, when nature’s elements became your enemy. This might be his only chance.

Bill reined in his swirling thoughts as Hollywood’s magic swept him to another world. Midway through the film, Cap- tain Renault—the wonderfully corrupt Vichy gendarme— blew his whistle, signaling the start of a raid inside Rick’s Café Américain.

“How can you close me up?” Rick pleaded. “On what grounds?”

“I’m shocked,
shocked
to find that there is gambling going on here!” Renault spoke with an imperious air.

“Your winnings, sir.” The croupier handed Renault a wad of cash.

“Oh, thank you very much,” replied the French captain, surprised.

Would the Swiss authorities be just as shocked that he skedaddled out of Davos? He knew the twins Andreas and Willy Mueller would be surprised.

Bill’s thoughts returned to the screen as the film’s denouement— the airport scene—began. Once again, Bogey was imploring Ingrid Bergman to get on the plane with her husband, Victor. If she didn’t join him on the flight to Lisbon, “You’ll regret it, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.”

Watching the cinematic DC-3 lift off in the darkness sealed Bill’s decision. He didn’t want to live a life of regret. He would journey to Geneva. He would rendezvous with the Resistance, where people like Victor Laszlo would help him. He would gulp draughts of freedom into his lungs.

The house lights went up, and Bill stretched his legs, determined more than ever to follow in the footsteps of those fighting tyranny.

Bill gathered up his leather jacket and fell into the small crowd exiting the theater. He kept his head down to avoid starting a conversation, then looked up and met the gaze of Jimmy, another B-24 Liberator pilot from Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, who was also quartered in the Hotel Palace.

Bill flashed a smile of recognition. “Like the film?”

“Isn’t Bogart the best? When he told Renault that this was the start of a beautiful friendship—”

“Yeah, there’s some great lines in that film, no doubt.”

Bill stopped for a moment in front of the Davos Kino to put on his jacket. A light eastern breeze gave the moonlit night a cool bite. At 5,000 feet above sea level, summer nights in Davos often dipped into the forties.

“See ya, Jimmy.” Bill took a step toward the north part of the village.

“Aren’t you headed to the Palace?” Jimmy pointed the other direction toward their prominent hotel, which resembled a chalet fortress with its imposing block superstructure and colonnades.

“I told J.J. I’d drop by before turning in.”

“The Park Hotel is that way.” Jimmy jerked his head in the same direction as the Hotel Palace.

“Yeah, uh, right. He said he’d buy me a
dunkle
at the Yodler.” Bill made another move in the opposite direction.

“Mind if I join you? Seeing Rick’s Café Américain has wet my whistle.”

Bill shrugged. “Actually, can you give me a rain check? J.J.’s having some girlfriend troubles. Said he needed someone to talk to—”

“I hear that Miss Schweiz has broken more hearts than Hedy Lamarr. Wait a minute—isn’t the Yodler buttoned up? It’s nearing midnight.”

This scout doesn’t give up
. “They’re still celebrating the First of August. I think a few tourists are making it a long weekend.”

Jimmy seemed satisfied. “Maybe tomorrow. Tell J.J. I hope things work out with the beauty queen. She’s no chunk of lead.”

Bill waved goodbye and started down the sidewalk, hands thrust in his jacket. As the downtown square gave way to a series of gingerbread chalets with gabled rooflines, he found himself in an alleyway behind Heiz Bakery where J.J. and his buddy Sam paced back and forth under an amber-hued streetlamp.

“There you are,” J.J. said. “I told you he’d make it, didn’t I, Sam?”

“Yeah, and you also said if Palmer didn’t get here in five minutes, we were out of here,” Sam added.

“Shaddup, you moron.” J.J. grinned. “Bill, here’s your travel kit.” He tossed a knapsack toward Bill, who deftly cradled it into his arms. “You’ll find a change of civilian clothes, some rolls from Heiz, two apples, and a few toiletry items.”

“Great. So what’s the plan?”

“We’ll follow the ‘Heidi Express’ rail line all the way to Landquart in the Rhine Valley,” J.J. said. “Then we’ll change into civilian clothes and hop on a train to Zurich and then Geneva. Getting caught out of uniform doubles your sentence, but we ain’t getting caught.”

J.J. looked at his watch. “It’s a few minutes before midnight. Could be a patrol at this hour, but we’re committed, right?”

Bill nodded, as did Sam.

J.J. continued laying out his plan, whispering low. “We’ll go one at a time, sticking to the woods west of the rail line. Once you pass the chalk line, there’s a rail spur about half a mile away—we’ll meet there. After we reconnoiter, we’ll make our way to Klosters. It’s twelve kilometers or a little more than seven miles. I’m thinking a good three hours. From there, I’d like to make it as far as Küblis or Lunden before sunup. Maybe we’ll go find some hay barn and get some shut-eye before one last push to Landquart tomorrow night. Any questions?”

When there weren’t any, J.J. departed into the darkness, followed two minutes later by Sam. Waiting under the streetlamp, Bill suddenly felt exposed, even though within Davos proper, the Allied internees had freedom of movement—no curfew, no hassles—as long as they minded their p’s and q’s.

Bill reminded himself that he had nothing to worry about . . . until he crossed the chalk line.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and headed toward the base of the mighty Schatzalp, the ski station where a half-dozen Allied pilots had busted their legs last winter. He followed the alleyway until he reached the Guggenbachstrasse.
Man, just saying the street names will break your jaw
.

Bill’s senses immediately soared as the reality of attempting escape fell heavily on his shoulders. He could see his way fine—a full moon illuminated the stores and businesses lining the Guggenbachstrasse. He paused when a fluffy cat jumped from the window ledge of the tailor shop, startling him. When he heard only silence again, Bill continued past Davos’s only gas station, which doled out its weekly ration of gas in drips to favored clients.

Bill strode along Guggenbachstrasse until he reached the Landwasser River, which was more like a bubbling brook as it meandered inside a concrete-lined channel between the town and the Schatzalp ski area. His feet left the asphalt and crossed a wooden bridge erected over the river. Once across, he made a right-hand turn onto a summer road cut through a forest of Norway spruce and silver trees.

The road lifted in elevation as it ran parallel to the Land-wasser and the only rail line in and out of Davos. After several minutes along the road, Bill heard a branch snap. He turned and looked behind him, but he couldn’t make out any human forms in the nocturnal landscape. He retreated several steps and peered around several large trunks. Again, nothing.

Bill resumed his walk along the dirt road, which made a slight right-hand turn and began descending toward the river. He traversed another wooden bridge—the last one across the Landwasser in the northern part of town. He could see the rail line, which paralleled a meadow, a little more than 100 yards away in the moonlight. The closed shutters on several chalets subdued any lights that might have still been on at this late hour. Behind those shutters, families slept soundly—and safely.

Was he risking it all? Should he turn back?

Bill had walked this area many times and knew that the streak of chalk—that precise line of demarcation—lay just ahead. He entered another woodsy area when he heard several footsteps gain on him. He stopped—and heard nothing. He took a few more steps . . . but the sound of trampled tree needles were audible again. Someone had to be following him. He immediately swung around—

“Isn’t it late to be out for a walk?” a voice whispered.

Willy Mueller, dressed in Swiss Army uniform and topped with bucket helmet, allowed his rifle to remain shouldered. “And that wouldn’t be a knapsack you’re carrying, right?”

“Listen, Willy, I—” Bill stopped there. He hadn’t prepared an excuse.

“Not so loud,” Willy whispered. “It wouldn’t be good for either of us to be caught. I’m here to let you know that you don’t want to be crossing the chalk line tonight. There’s an ambush waiting.”

“How did you know?”

“Corinne Busslinger blabbed.”

“Miss Schweiz? J.J.’s girl?”

“You got it. Late this afternoon, she was crying and carrying on at dinner, and her parents pried it out of her that her J.J. was escaping. She was worried sick that she’d never see him again. Amazing the lengths that love will follow.”

“Thanks, Shakespeare.”

“Actually, that’s Willy Mueller and not Willy Shakespeare.” Bill forced a smile and glanced around. “So how come you’re here?”

Willy leaned in close. “Because Andreas and I didn’t want to see any harm come to you. That and the fact that if you left, we’d miss taking your poker chips every Friday night.”

“What about my friends?” Bill looked in the direction they’d gone.

“Don’t worry. Andreas is trying to catch J.J. and Sam before they cross the—”

The distant scream of “Halt!” punctuated the air, followed by another “Halt!” and another. Then a volley of rifle shots and yelps.

Bill felt his heart pound and his stomach lurch with fear for his friends.

Willy’s eyes widened. “He didn’t get to them in time. Rats. Looks like Miss Schweiz will see her beau again—in ninety days.”

“Listen, comedian, those are my buddies out there—”

“Sorry. You’re right, this is no joking matter.” Willy grabbed Bill’s arm and moved him back toward town. “Listen, if you really want to escape, I’ve got a deal for you. You’ll have to sing for your supper, though.”