T
he old Mercedes left the narrow gravel road and crossed the soft turf to the edge of the pasture; Ryk and the old triplane were waiting. As usual, Zambrowski quickly opened the rear door and stood at attention as Anna stepped out. In the moonlight, she could see a tear in the corner of his eye.
“May God be with you, ma'am.”
It was no time for formalities. Anna gently put her hands on Zambrowski's arms, stood on her toes, and kissed him softly on the cheek.
“I'll miss you, Pawel. And may God be with you, too. Look after mother; she'll need your help.”
Ryk had by now approached; he had brought his father's hunting jacket for Anna to put on over her other clothes, to protect her from the cold. He helped her buckle into the back seat, then jumped down for a few words with Zambrowski, who took his position with his hand on the propeller.
Ryk quickly climbed up into the pilot's seat and tested the primitive intercom, explaining the final details to Anna.
“I'll need to warm up the engine for two minutes. Then, as we move forward, I'll keep the nose down, to prevent a premature takeoff. Don't be worried. Even though the nose is low, the three wings will provide plenty of lift to clear the trees.”
“You're the doctor.”
Ryk signaled to Zambrowski, who pulled smartly on the propeller. The engine sputtered, then caught.
Anna was concerned; the engine was running roughly. The warmup period dragged on—perhaps four minutes, but it seemed like fifty. Then, abruptly, Ryk applied full power. By now, Zambrowski had driven to the far end of the pasture, just in front of the scrub pines. He turned the car to illuminate the makeshift runway. The plane rolled forward.
Anna had forgotten just how bumpy a pasture could be. But suddenly, the plane was steady; its wheels had lifted off the ground. As promised, the plane rose rapidly, gaining altitude even though its nose was almost horizontal. By the time they passed over the Mercedes, they were 20 or 30 meters in the air. Anna waved to Zambrowski—a useless gesture in the dark, but it seemed like the thing to do.
The air was freezing cold, and clear as crystal. Ahead and to the right—just below the middle wing—the big dipper twinkled brightly, pointing to the North Star. Below, lights from a few farm windows began to appear. The farmers were making an early start on their morning chores; the cows had to be milked. Sadly, Anna also observed occasional fires—some real infernos—as buildings and equipment burned.
After an hour, she heard Ryk's reassuring voice. “So far, so good. You're giving the bicycle pump two or three strokes every five minutes?”
“Yes indeed. And congratulations on your navigation. I've been watching the North Star. You're keeping it in exactly the same place, just off the right wing tip.... Strange. I've never noticed before how the big dipper rotates. I've been imagining water spilling out over the handle.”
Other than the fires, the ground seemed strangely tranquil. There were practically no signs of lights from cars or trucks, but activity would undoubtedly start again after dawn. Anna was glad that they were flying in the dark, that she did not have to witness the chaos from recent battles. Gradually, she began to relax. Not such a bad way to travel. No hassle with customs officers.
Ryk interrupted her reverie. According to his calculations, the back tank was almost empty. He was shutting the valve; she could stop pumping.
“Sorry, but I've got bad news. Those two winding sets of lights.... I think they're along the banks of the Drweca River.”
“Yes?”
“If so, we're bucking a strong headwind. Keep your fingers crossed. It may be a close thing, whether we'll have enough fuel to make it to Sweden.”
There was a tense silence. Then Ryk was back on the intercom.
“We've got a big decision. We can increase our range by slowing down. But that will mean a fifteen or twenty minute flight over German territory after dawn. Which do you prefer—the risk of getting shot down by the Germans, or ending up out of gas, swimming the last lap in the frigid Baltic?”
“All in all, I'd choose a quick death to a slow one in freezing water. If we slow down, perhaps we can count on the incompetence or chivalry of the Luftwaffe.”
“Don't bet on either. But I vote for a slowdown, too. We can always hope for cloud cover.”
Anna surprised herself. For fifteen or twenty minutes, she remained very worried and tense: would they make it? But then she became serene. There was absolutely nothing she could do; it was in Ryk's hands.
An hour later, the Eastern sky began to lighten. She looked down. In the faint light, land stretched as far as the eye could see; the Baltic was nowhere in sight. She looked even more eagerly for clouds. White streaks were faintly visible in the distant sky, somewhat higher than their present altitude.
Apparently Ryk saw the wisps of cloud at the same time. The power in the engine increased, and they began to climb, very gradually, toward their distant goal.
As the light increased, Anna once again felt apprehensive. She could now do something, and she did. She began to scan the sky, particularly behind the Fokker, searching for German airplanes.
“The Sea, ho!” came Ryk's excited voice over the intercom.
But Anna didn't look ahead. Her eyes were focused on a small, dark, ominous dot in the sky, which was rapidly becoming larger.
“A German fighter. Almost directly behind,” she shouted.
Ryk responded with a surge of power; the triplane accelerated toward its top speed of 165 km per hour.
With Ryk warned, Anna glanced forward anxiously, toward the water. They wouldn't make the coast before they were intercepted. But there were scattered clouds ahead. Involuntarily, she grasped the bicycle pump more tightly.
Suddenly, the German fighter was very large indeed. Anna was relieved; it was going to pass on the left side rather than attack. It streaked by; Anna had the odd sensation that their triplane was going backward. Then the Fokker rocked in the wake from the heavier plane.
The German pilot began a sharp turn; he was going to circle back. Anna looked longingly toward the clouds; they were still in the distance.
There was something more she could do. She pulled back the hood of her jacket and removed her goggles, heavy scarf, and cloth helmet with earphones. Her long blond hair began to flow backward in the airstream, dancing lightly in the turbulence from the propeller.
Fortunately, the German showed no signs of attacking this time, either. He was going to pass once more to the left. Now, he was flying much more slowly; his flaps and leading-edge slats were down. As he approached, he slowed even more, gradually drawing closer and then holding his position directly beside the Fokker. The pilot had pushed his goggles up over his forehead. He was obviously puzzled. Anna waved, and tried hard to smile. He smiled and waved back. She blew him a kiss.
Anna was much prettier than Ryk, and the German pilot gazed at her for some time. Anna mouthed a few words in German, hoping that the fighter pilot would waste precious minutes trying to make out what she was saying. She dared not glance ahead, to see how close the clouds were. Then the German moved up a few meters, and waved—in a decidedly less friendly manner—to Ryk. The fighter pilot pointed downward, and mouthed the words “Follow me” distinctly in German. Obviously, he was ordering Ryk to land. But Ryk pretended not to understand. He held his hand to his ear; he could not hear.
The German wagged his wings and lowered his wheels; Anna guessed this must be a signal to land. Ryk still played dumb. But the games were over; the German, still beside the Fokker, fired a burst into the open sky. Ryk waved, to indicate that he now understood, that he would accompany the Messerschmitt. The German began a slow turn to the left; Ryk turned left, staying side-by-side.
Anna felt a surge of panic. She couldn't stand the thought of a German interrogation. She had no parachute. Still, she had the urge to jump. She faced death, one way or another. Why not skip the torture?
Suddenly, Ryk reduced power and veered to the right, toward his original course. The German turned right too, and also cut his power. But he was now in front of the slowly moving triplane; he would stall if he tried to slow down further, to get back even with the Fokker. For a moment, Ryk was directly behind the German, and lined up the Messerschmitt in his gun sight. If only the Fokker still had its two machine guns!
The German broke off, turning sharply to the left as he raised his landing gear and flaps. He was going to go around again, and this time there would be a hail of bullets. Ryk applied full power and pointed toward the nearest cloud.
Anna closed her eyes, held her breath, and began to count. She half expected her life to flash before her, but all she could think of was the German circling for an attack. Ninety five, ninety six.... She reached one hundred and opened her eyes. She was surrounded by light, fluffy, pure white clouds. She began to breathe freely again.
She put her helmet back on; she was back in communication with Ryk. Their plan was obvious. Ryk would try to keep in the clouds, while heading in a generally northwesterly direction toward Sweden. Whenever there was a break in the clouds, Anna should scan the skies for Germans; Ryk would head for the nearest cloud cover. What was Anna's weather forecast again?
“Clouds all the way.”
A little white lie.
They broke out of the clouds ten minutes later. In front, there was another bank of clouds, perhaps a kilometer away. Ryk headed straight for it, lowering his nose and adding power for maximum speed. He hoped this contraption would take the strain.
Anna scanned the skies. Two German fighters were circling, off to the right. She guessed they were several kilometers away, and perhaps a thousand meters higher. Suddenly one of them broke into a dive, headed directly toward them. Anna cried a warning to Ryk, who turned slightly to the left and steepened his dive.
This was going to be close. Anna apprehensively glanced forward, trying to estimate the distance to the cloud; then back toward the diving Messerschmitt. It looked as if they were going to make it. Anna wondered: what's the range of a machine gun? The clouds were closer, closer; now they were in them. Ryk banked sharply to the left, pulling back on the stick and the throttle. Anna was horrified as machine-gun bullets ripped out a jagged line in the lowest right wing.
Ryk was now well into the clouds, going much slower, and obviously testing his controls. He was soon on the intercom; the German had gotten off one burst at extreme range, just as they were disappearing into the cloud. There was no problem with controls; the ailerons were on the top wing. But the damaged wing would cost them lift and speed.
For a moment, Anna was indignant. They had certainly been beyond German territorial waters when they were attacked. But then she relaxed: what were a few technicalities between enemies?
Another 15 minutes, and Ryk announced that the fuel situation was becoming critical. He would slowly descend and fly just below the clouds, looking for somewhere to land. If German fighters appeared, he would climb back up into the clouds.
When they broke out of the clouds, they were still over the sea. The plane was bouncing; apparently the air was turbulent just below the clouds. Anna began to feel queasy.
Ryk pointed back over his right shoulder. Anna looked back, scanning the sky. Nothing. Then she looked down. In the distance, she could see a large ship; she couldn't be sure, but she thought there were two huge guns in each of its forward turrets.
“A German battleship,” was Ryk's guess. “Looks big.”
“We've been living right,” he added. “Look ahead and to the left.”
From the back seat, Anna's vision was blocked. Ryk explained: he could see land.
The approach was painfully slow; they were still fighting a headwind. Soon it became apparent that it was not the Swedish mainland, but a large island.
“Swedish, I can only hope,” said Anna.
“Can't really tell. I'll take one low pass along the coast, to make sure we can't see Nazi flags. If we don't, I'll land as soon as possible. Have your pump ready. If I wave my hand, start pumping as hard as you can. If the engine starts to sputter, I want to be able to use whatever's left in the back tank.”
As they flew along the coast, it was a tranquil sight. A few villages were tucked into small inlets and, on the right, out to sea, fishing trawlers dotted the water. Ryk could find no sign that the island was German. He chose a field, pointed into the wind, and gradually descended. The instant he flew over the last line of trees, he dipped the nose sharply; Anna felt as though she had left her stomach behind. Then, just as abruptly, the nose came up again; she got her stomach back. But Ryk was an expert; they touched down softly. Then came the bumpy part, as they bounced across the rough, freshly plowed field. Ryk cut the engine and they scrambled out of the plane.
A number of people, apparently farmers and their families, came running across the field. “Sweden?” Ryk asked in German. “Sweden?” Anna added, in English.
“Danemark,” came the answer. Ryk was puzzled. How could they get that lost, to land in Denmark? And how could they possibly have gotten there so quickly?
The Danes made it clear, through a mixture of languages, that they were to go to a nearby village, to see the Prefect of Police. One of the teenagers would accompany them on bicycles.
The police station was a Spartan wooden building, unpainted, and obviously beaten by the weather whipping in off the Baltic Sea. The Prefect was a slim man in a heavy woolen uniform which was surprisingly crisp; apparently it had recently been ironed. His pipe—Joe Stalin style—seemed oddly out of place.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Or you speak English?” he asked hesitatingly, in a heavily accented voice, puffing rapidly on the pipe.
“Oh English, please,” Anna implored. “I'm English. We want to get to England.”
“Slowly, please.”
She repeated herself, pausing between each word.
“If English, what for in German plane? And what for here?”