War Girls Complete Collection Chapter 283

Chapter 2: Tom

Northolt Airbase, England

T

om Westlake always dreaded the flight over to Germany. Not so much for the fear of being shot down. Because nowadays the crippled Luftwaffe didn’t pose much of a threat anymore, and neither did the inadequately manned anti-aircraft flak. No, he hated the sorties, because his missions always consisted of dropping deadly bombs over German cities. His rational mind knew the bombing of civilians was a necessary evil to win the war, but his heart never agreed.

The return flight though was pure bliss. With the way his kite became lighter without the heavy bombs, his own heart grew light and blissful in the skies. He leaned back, taking in the striking blue sky – the RAF didn’t bother with stealth night sorties anymore.

He was never happier than up here, in the cockpit, at the controls. He just wished he could show his world to Ursula one day – after the war. His headphones crackled and a new order came in. Landing on a small airstrip near Fallingbostel, he memorized the coordinates and set a new course.

You are to pick up and return liberated POWs

.

For a moment the past came rushing back. He’d been on a train to

Dulag Luft

, a prisoner camp for air force members. He wondered how he would have fared there. Well, now he’d see first hand.

Tom talked over the com system to let his crew know about the change in plans. He couldn’t say they were incredibly enthusiastic about the delay. The landing strip came in sight. The airfield was tiny and crowded. What the heck did his superiors expect?

“Everyone buckled in?” he spoke into his headset.

“Just get us on the ground in one piece,” came the reply.

Tom grinned. “Have I ever let you down, lads?”

“You take us down every day.” The gunner chuckled into the com system, but Tom had stopped listening to the banter. He needed all his focus for the landing. Even after hundreds, maybe thousands of sorties, it was still a challenge to land the bird safely, especially on an unknown airfield. Anything could happen, even a rogue Nazi attacking the aircraft as it neared the ground.

But the landing was smooth. Soon after taxiing the craft to the indicated parking position, they climbed out and were greeted by the officer in charge of the makeshift airfield.

“Sir, Squadron Leader Tom Westlake and my crew. We’ve been tasked with taking ex-POWs back home.”

“Good that you’re here. Conditions are awful. Jones will take you to the camp.” The captain didn’t waste time with formalities.

Twenty minutes later, Tom jumped out of the back of a truck as it stopped in the vast yard of the prisoner camp Stalag 357 in Fallingbostel.

His chest constricted as he watched the surreal scene unfold in front of him. Prisoners jumped up waving, their gaunt faces crazed with delight. They walked and hobbled toward the soldiers jumping off the truck. One man, a skeleton-like emaciated figure with skin stretched over his bones, hugged Tom. He demanded an autograph on his prisoner’s uniform, while at the same time babbling incoherent sentences of gratitude and asking questions about the fates of old friends.

Tom choked on his answers, and could only hold the other man in his arms and say, “You’re free. It’s over. You’re free.”

He furtively glanced around to see equally moving scenes of prisoners hugging their liberators left and right.

“How long have you been here?” he asked the man who’d finally stopped hugging him.

“Twelve months.” He grinned through a tooth gap and Tom noticed the edge in his jaw.

Broken and badly fixed,

he thought, balling his fists. Thankfully, there were no Germans around. If there had been, he would have charged them and beaten them to a pulp. Even Tom himself was surprised at the raw ire he felt at the sight of his abused compatriots.

“Come on.” Jones urged them forward.

Tom was too choked with emotions to say anything and wordlessly motioned for his crew to follow him across the yard. They passed what looked like the mess where army cooks delivered dishes full to the brim with food. Potatoes, beef, gravy, bread, carrots, you name it. The starved ex-prisoners were about to launch themselves at the food when a doctor came along and yelled, “Bloody idiots. What are you doing? Take the food away.”

“What kind of cruel bastard is this doc?” Tom’s gunner growled, ready to pounce. “Can’t he see the lads haven’t properly eaten in months?”

The doctor must have heard him, because he turned toward the group and said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “Too much food after a prolonged period of starvation will only damage the men. They need to get accustomed to eating slowly. For some of them it might take weeks or even months.”

A deadly silence ensued and only the clattering of dishes with food taken from the hungry men could be heard. The heartbreak in each of their faces was too much to bear for Tom and he turned away. “Holy Jesus!”

“Yeah, but wait, it gets worse,” Jones said, leading them to one of the barracks.

For the life of him Tom couldn’t imagine worse than the gruesome figures sitting at the tables staring at simple food as if it was paradise itself. They entered a barracks and the breath caught in his chest. Involuntarily, he hissed like a locomotive and blinked, praying the image would turn out to be a hallucination.

But it wasn’t. Dozens of men were lying on the ground, too weak to get up and celebrate their liberation.

“These are the ones we asked to have flown back urgently.” John lowered his voice, “Even back home in a real hospital it’s questionable whether they’ll make it.”

Tom blocked out any emotion, for he wouldn’t be able to function otherwise, and said in a matter-of-fact voice, “Alright. How do we carry them into the truck?”

“Old-fashioned piggyback.”

Tom groaned. Not because of the burden, since none of the men could weigh more than eighty pounds, but because he feared he’d break their fragile bones with the rough treatment.

“Alright.” He turned around to see that other soldiers had followed them and John proceeded to assign each one a former prisoner to carry.

Tom approached his partner and said, “Hello. I’m Squadron Leader Westlake and I’m here to fly you back home.”

“Home.” The man’s voice was hoarse but his eyes lit up at the prospect of returning to Britain.

“What’s your name?” Tom asked.

“Private Les Allen, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry.”

“Wait a minute. Wasn’t your unit in Dunkirk?” Tom kneeled down with his back to the man and pushed him onto his shoulders. “Can you hold on to me?”

“Sure can… and yes… Dunkirk.”

“Holy shit.” Tom cursed and straightened his legs. Les was lighter than a field pack with full equipment.

“Could say that.”

“What happened?”

“Our unit was ordered to hold the perimeter line so the others could escape. Most died. Four of us were captured and sent to Germany.”

“Man, you’ve been in this hellhole for five years?” Tom swayed in his steps. Five years in intolerable conditions. Les was a master of resilience if he had survived this ordeal.

“This one and others… more than I care to count. Forced labor, little to no food, random cruelty, you name it…”

A wave of gratitude flooded Tom as he realized this could have been him, if he hadn’t managed to escape. Although the Luftwaffe had the reputation of treating its prisoners according to the Geneva Convention, one could never be too sure with those Nazis. Suddenly he missed Ursula so much, it was like a piece of his soul was lacking. She’d risked everything for him, and while he’d fallen in love with her because of the sweet person she was, he also owed her his life. As soon as the war ended, he’d go to Berlin and search for her.

He reached the truck in the main yard and with the help of another soldier, carefully unloaded Les. Once the truck was full with half-dead men, he jumped in. He sat beside Les, putting Les’s head into his lap and feeding him tiny morsels of baked potato, like the doctor had showed them.

“What happened to your feet?” Tom asked. In his horror he hadn’t noticed the swollen, red, and blistered feet that wouldn’t fit into shoes.

“Bloody clogs…” Les’s eyes darkened with unspeakable pain. “Walked in them all the way from Gross Born in East Prussia to Fallingbostel this winter.”

Tom had a good idea about the distances from his base in England to most places in Germany, but East Prussia? That must be at least five hundred miles to the east from here.

“You serious?”

“Dead serious.” Les chewed on the potato, but was otherwise too weak to move.

“Bloody hell, man. You’re a hero.”

“I’m anything but a hero.” Les suddenly turned his face away. “I should have escaped.”

“That’s not true. Not everyone has the chance to escape. You did what you could.”

“So what exactly did I do? Nothing to help win this war, that’s for sure. I got battered up in Dunkirk, never really fought for my country, weathered the entire war imprisoned and…” Les started sobbing, “… and worst of all… I helped the Nazis with their awful ways.”

Tom was stupefied. This poor lad had shown survival skills not many possessed, crossed half of Europe in wooden clogs – in winter no less – and here he was blaming himself for helping the Nazis. “But how? You never…”

“I worked for them. Five years! Five long years they used my strength to build their fucking streets, buildings, and whatever else. I’m a disgrace to my country! I wish I had died along with my comrades back in Dunkirk.”

The truck stopped at the airstrip, and more soldiers appeared to help unload the former prisoners and carry them over to the waiting bombers.

Tom was grateful for the interruption, because what could he say to Les? That he hadn’t had a choice but to obey his captors? That he was a hero nonetheless? That he had survived and now could help rebuild Britain? The boy wouldn’t believe a single word Tom said, because he was eaten up by shame, guilt and self-loathing.

Les would need to live with the knowledge that he’d needed to be liberated. He might never feel like a hero, although in Tom’s eyes he was. He had survived the worst the Nazis had thrown at him. That was more than an untold number of people would ever be able to say.