Chapter #1 “Between the Devil and the Desert”
September 10, 1942Our pilot died an hour ago in the crash landing. I had been very busy since the crash and I was now too cooked to be able to feel much of anything, but I knew that although I had pushed the guilt aside, it would some day or night come back with force and horror and go round and round in my brain as I would try to figure what else I could have done. For that I would need peace and energy, neither of which looked to be available any time soon since we were now surrounded by a column of battle-hardned Afrika Korps troops.
Although we were now their prisoners, these troops were also actually rescuing the three of us from the far more deadly late-summer Sahara. Two lorries of British prisoners drove up towards the end of the German column waving when they saw us, shouting, "Nurses!" Before their guards quieted them, we waved back slowly, barely moving our arms from our sides so as not to upset the solders who pointed weapons at us as they searched our areoplaine, the pilot's body and all the other things we had dragged out when we realized that though a small fire still burned, the machine was not going to explode.
While the soldiers searched, a second German column drove onto the ridge we had crashed on. The two offices approached each other cautiously at first as if they hadn't known another column was in the area. Indeed, although more than a hundred thousand Germans now crawled over Libya, meeting two columns out here even on what the pilot said was a major trade route must be the desert equivalent of a very busy Friday evening at Picadilly Circus.
One of the soldiers came up to my side, pointed his rifle at me and waved it towards the officers. I motioned back to Mary and Joan to keep calm and quiet. Joan would do so naturally but Mary had an unfortunate tendency to get more excited than was optimal for a front line nurse.
It was not far to the officers but I could feel what reserves I had had of energy evaporate into the hot air that surrounded as as we walked. By the time I got to them I couldn't even stand up as straight as I had been taught to give the required salute, and my voice cracked twice as I said, “Katherine Bowman, Lieutenant, service number 97063722. We are nurses: non-combatants.”
The obviously career military Hauptmann of the first column ignored me to listen to the soldier who had brought me over and who held out to him the empty dispatch bag, telling him that all the papers were burnt and the pilot dead. I followed his German easily. Then the soldier produced maps he had found in the cockpit.
I stared at the maps as he handed them over. How did I miss the maps? My brain hadn't associated maps with paper! I felt stupid: As usual.
Taking the maps and bag, the Hauptmann turned to me, threw the bag at my feet, switched to just slightly accented English and demanded, “If you are non-combatant nurses what are you doing in military uniforms with rank, and trousers no less, and why did you burn every paper in that bag?”
Pulling myself out of the pit of guilt about missing the maps, I focused on him. “Just before the crash, our pilot told me to make sure to burn the papers if he couldn't do it. Your nurses would also follow orders, surely?”
“Our nurses would be in proper, obviously civilian, dress for women. You — you confuse the normal rules of war.”
“British nurses were..." I took a breath while trying to get my overheated, energy-deprived mind to come up with the word I wanted and after a couple of heart beats, it came to me, "...incorporated into our military last year. The trousers are an experiment.” Attempting to appear disarming, I told them the truth: “My grandfather would throw a fit and talk about abominations if he saw me dressed like this, but we weren't given a choice.”
Speaking was difficult after hours flying in the Sahara and then another hour on the ground in this dry air. Not to mention the ash I had inhaled while I fed papers into the crash's last remaining fire. My voice continued to crack as I spoke. “Trousers are comfortable, I admit.” My open guilessness worked on the Oberleutnant, the leader of the second column, and I saw him relax just a trifle.
The Hauptmann — No, stop it! he's an army captain, I told myself knowing I needed to weed out of my thinking facts about the German military that a British nurse, like me, just wouldn't be expected to know. Whatever you called his rank, I could see he wasn't convinced by anything I said and he said why. "You flew over us and landed in our path."
"We were running out of fuel, but our pilot didn't want to land us in the middle of nowhere with no hope of survival. You were thought to be less deadly than the Sahara itself."
“If I decide to take you with us.”
The captain looked like a God-Damned German propaganda poster, and he seemed to be trying to live up to that Aryan image. I wondered if the fact that he wasn't quite the ideal of at least six feet tall might be making him try harder. His uniform even appeared somewhat crisp. My own was limp. Then there were the tears and smudges from the rough landing and dealing with the ashes from the burnt papers which had blown back onto me. Beneath my uniform I could start to feel the bruises from bumps suffered in the crash. I also knew there was a cut on my scalp making a spot of my hair glue together with blood and some blood had dripped onto my shirt. Out-classed as usual!
“You are obviously collecting prisoners as I see you already have two lorries of British prisoners.”
“And you think adding three women wouldn't be any more trouble?” I wasn't intimidated as there were too many people who had seen us. Unlike what we had heard from Germany's Eastern Front no hint of a rumour of atrocities had come out of Rommel's North Africa campaign.
"But how did you get here? This part of the Sahara is not on any route you would take to or from British hospitals or air fields.”
“We turned south to avoid aeroplanes in the distance. Then we hit the edge of a sandstorm and it pushed us further south and back west while it affected the machinery."
“So, where did you come from and where were you going?”
Ah, just the kind of question soldiers are not supposed to answer, but I wanted them seeing us as nurses — taking advantage of whatever normal protectiveness that might engender in soldiers. Every instinct I had formed from a life living among lies and deception convinced me that being open, willing, at first anyway, to answer questions I obviously knew the answer to would demonstrate that we were like their own nurses. Later when I would say I don't know, they would believe me. Maybe. I felt sure I could think fast enough not to be trapped into any devastating revelation. But, I had been warned, that is what most of the people who had given away secrets had thought. And then I needed to make allowances for this heat which sapped both my physical and mental abilities. Still....
“Left London yesterday for Cairo.”
“Without a stop?”
“Stopped twice. We had been asleep each time. While refueling we were given very little time. We weren't that concerned about where we were. We just wanted to stretch, grab something to eat, and a cuppa tea. Can't believe we have any aerodromes your people don't know about.”
The Oberleutnant — really I needed to forget my knowledge of German ranks! — the Lieutenant leading that second column asked in far more broken English, "British send nurses by airplane? Why? Medical crisis in Egypt? Expect extra wounded?”
“We missed a ship and got orders to take this flight. I assumed there was extra room in it. We have learned not to expect answers to the question 'Why?'“
The captain took back the questioning and attempted to intimidate me. “You must be unnatural women. You talk about your dead pilot coldly. I see no caring.”
Guilt swept through me giving me a shiver while making my stomach turn over. There had been no time to mourn the bright, charming, caring man who had given his life for us. Who might have lived if I had had enough strength to get the stuck, sand-infested landing gear down. Instead he had had to undo his seat belt to get the leverage even he needed do it. Then I tried to help him get his seat belt back on and failed at that before we came in for the rough landing which threw us all around and knocked his head into the windshield. I felt that I had failed him. Failed myself. Failed the cause.
I replaced my guilt, temporarily, with anger. “We are nurses who see death every day and have for all the years that you have been bombing us: dead soldiers, civilians, children. ”
My voice kept cracking from drawing in the searing air as I talked, but I went on. “Robert was full of life and protective of us and cared about his part in this war. Then he was dead. I didn't have enough moisture in my body to cry nor did I have the time or the energy to deal with it other than to pull his body out, and follow his orders . You think that's jaded? Well so do I.”
The tirade left me weaker still. Mouth dry, tongue felt rough and thick. Standing in the sun over heated sand was making me feel more lightheaded and dizzy by the minute. I decided not to answer any more questions. I was sure the sand was as hot as burning coals, but right at my feet was the dispatch bag, which had been in the shade under the wing. It called to me and I debated for maybe a whole second before I gave in and collapse onto it.
As I sank, the lieutenant took a step forward to reach out trying to ease my fall, but when he noticed the captain frown at him, he stepped back.
“Sorry.” I managed. “The heat.”
The captain shook his head. He obviously wasn't feeling protective, “You wouldn’t be quite so overheated if you hadn’t been standing next to the airplane fire burning all those papers.”
The lieutenant reminded him that Rommel had issued orders about prisoners and the captain looked at him with what I thought was amused contempt as he answered. Ah, German. Except for the brief discussion I had heard earlier about the bag and the maps, it had been awhile since I had heard the sounds of my native tongue. I now felt out of this whole situation. I had participated enough. I now became a spectator; just listening. I learned from their private conversation that the captain’s name was Kichner. Then we were all distracted.
One of their soldiers ran up. “Die Englander. Britische Truppen Spalte.” he said, pointing towards the edge. Could British troops be driving in at the bottom of the ridge? No! Surely, not! I had told my nurses when we saw the second column approaching that it would mostly likely be German or Italian; that it would have taken tremendous good luck to run into the British out here. Instead it was bloody-damn bad luck! Our German captors had the high ground, probably unseen and unsuspected!
The two German officers rushed off to lie flat at the edge of the ridge checking the British column through binoculars. Captain Kichner spread the word for quiet although I doubted even a shot from this far away would be heard over the roar of British army lorry motors.
The lieutenant’s men started setting up mortars along the edge of the ridge. The British would be an easy target if they got well within range before the Germans started firing — obviously the tactic for which these troops were preparing. Despair and guilt enveloped me. I was about to sit helplessly watching a murderous tragedy.
I watched as the Germans set up their mortars, primed them and went back to their transports for more shells.
I no longer felt like a just a spectator — I wanted to help. But what could I do? I had collapsed onto the dispatch bag because I couldn't even stand for a few minutes. If I hadn't used up all my strength already, though, I thought I might just have been able to fire one of those mortars. A young officer on my uncle's staff had demonstrated mortars to me years ago. German mortars. Just like these. The firing pin was at the bottom of the tube and once the mortar was primed, one just took a shell and dropped it down the tube. Important to drop it carefully and the shells were heavier than they looked, but it had seemed relatively easy for any able-bodied person.
That's what I wasn't. In my current state I could barely hold my hand up for a few seconds at a time to shield my eyes from the sun that continued to cook me where I sat.
Even if I had a little strength left I knew if I tried to do anything, they'd surely shoot me as I ran; if I could run at all. And suppose I did succeed? They might not only punish me but Joan and Mary as well. Three of us. On the other hand there might be 15-20 British soldiers in that column and I already felt guilty about missing the maps and about how Robert had died. I didn't want more guilt.
I clamped down on that subject knowing guilt can produce a fog greater than the worst London pea-souper.
I breathed deeply as if preparing to do a difficult juggling trick or to walk a tightrope. Just reaching for calmness and an ability to think more clearly; although some control of the little strength I had left might give me more options. If they sent me back to join my nurses, the direct path was just behind the mortars. Still, I knew I couldn't do anything and wished my brain would let go of the idea.
Through the calm I had engendered, I heard Captain Kichner order my guard to take me back to my nurses. The guard offered me a hand up: neither one of us thought I could get up on my own. Then he motioned with his rifle towards the most direct path back to my nurses.
The mortars were perfectly lined up near the path we were walking. They were so close that I wondered if the Spirits had set them up for my benefit. Still, you could never depend on the Spirits for they were known for both tests and traps.
The first mortar was unmanned, both operators off getting more shells. Whatever I did or didn't do would affect the rest of my life — if I lived that long.
Now or never.
I vaguely heard the order not to shoot. It seemed that the "Nicht schiessen!" sounded like Kichner and I was glad to hear it, but I was focusing solely on my objective, committing myself completely — it no longer mattered that I was sure I would fail.
I grabbed the shell firmly with both hands then continued on two steps, bent over the short barrel and without a pause dropped it smoothly.
Fully expecting not to have gotten this far I had ignored the fact that my momentum would carry me in front of the mortar or onward over the cliff. My mind realized I was dead so it shut down.
But in the split second before the mortar fired, I felt my left arm grabbed sharply, pulling me back and down into a slide. The shell missed my cheek by less than an inch, burning my face. The sound of the explosion roared in my ears, stunning me momentarily. I couldn't see him but I knew it was the captain. He fought the laws of gravity using his whole body, along with my extra weight, digging in his feet against the inertia that was propelling both of us towards the edge.
When we came to a stop, the captain, swung himself up, used his right hand to strike me and pulled me away from the precipice.
While I was still stunned by the sound of the explosion and dazed by the blow which had cut the inside of my cheek so that I was choking on my own blood, Kichner stood up grabbed both my hands dragging me two more steps away from the cliff. He forced me slightly upward onto my knees on the burning sand crushing my hands as he pulled both to the top of my head ignoring the fact that I was choking. My body cried out in pain from my knees, cheek, hands, lungs. If there was a part of me that didn't hurt, I had no idea where it was.
Just then the lieutenant ran up. Through the ringing in my ears, my battered brain couldn't understand his first few indignant syllables, but I did understand Kichner's interruption with his acceptance of full responsibility. “This was all my fault. She was my prisoner. My guard was assigned to her. I am the highest ranking officer here. And it was my choice not to just shoot her: I thought she was only going to try to wave at the British and that wouldn’t have been seen. I can't believe I was taken in by a mere woman! None of this will be blamed on you.”
As dazed as I was, I understood that the lieutenant had been afraid he would take the blame: it was his men who had left the mortar unguarded. The captain’s assurances caught him off guard. I heard the exchange, saw blurs of it, realized vaguely what was going on, and remembered it later, but my immediate attention focused on my own agony.
See Chapter 2, Mid Afternoon of Day One.
Apprx. 3000 words (Second Major Draft in First Person, updated December 28, 2011, after taking a Stanford University Online Course from Josh Mohr, on Seducing the Reader, and a second one from Sarah Braunstein, on writing the Indelible Character)
