Bombers Moon

Chuck changed under the limited cover of the truck and dry bushes, throwing away the jacket with the Army Air Force logo stitched on it, slipping on the old shirt and overalls that Uncle Mathias had given him, throwing the stained backpack over his shoulders superior.Uncle Mathias made up his mind to use him as a draft horse and ordered "Jack" to carry food and water on his back.Chuck cuts strips of cloth and wraps them roughly around his ankles, trying to relieve some of the pressure, and later cuts a branch to use as a crutch as he passes a burned orchard, limping after a former art history teacher with a shotgun.The morning mist floats over the fields like a wet curtain, pierced by the belated sun, and gradually dissipates.

"Where are we going?"

"It's almost there." Uncle adjusted the shoulder strap of the shotgun and continued to walk forward. "I have an acquaintance, he is a man," he said a German word, which Chuck didn't quite understand. Uncle Mathias raised his hand Gestures in mid-air, "That's the kind of guy who illegally ships stuff across the border."

"Smuggler?"

"Yes, smuggler."

"How did you know the smuggler?"

"Come on, American Jack, I can't stand here and wait for you all day."

In Chuck's imagination, the unseen smuggler supposedly had a beard, a leather vest, big sweat stains under his armpits, and somehow brandished a revolver.But in fact, that evening, when Uncle Mathias knocked on the door of a cabin, it was a tall, thin man wearing glasses who poked his head out, slightly hunched over, with shoulders bent forward.Gives the illusion that he's ready to bend over and pick something up at any moment.Uncle Mathias handed the tall and thin man a thick kraft paper envelope, and they talked for a few words. Come out from behind, walk up to Chuck, look him up and down, and switch to English.

"After arriving at the border, you should know how to contact your people?" He asked directly, even skipping the self-introduction.

"What do you mean, 'our people'?"

"Soldiers? American soldiers? I've heard rumors that many British and American paratroopers are hiding in Germany, ready to attack Berlin."

"Where did you hear that?"

The smuggler gave Uncle Mathias a sideways look, then stared at Chuck again, "Listen, Yankee, there's no need to hide it, I won't hand you over to the Gestapo. The old guy got you out, if you knew How to find your people, talk to them, make him a fake passport, let him go to Spain."

"I do not know what you're talking about."

"This is going to be difficult, Jack." The smuggler patted Chuck on the shoulder hypocritically, "Look, uncle didn't bring you to me out of kindness, if you can't help him If you don’t get a passport, then you’re useless, aren’t you?”

Chuck cursed inwardly. "If you can really send me to the border, I will convince the resistance to send my uncle with me to England."

"How do I know you can really convince them?"

"I'm a pilot, and the British tried to get me back anyway."

The tall, thin man rubbed his lower lip lightly with his upper front teeth, and the eyes behind the lenses reminded Chuck of lizards haunting damp basements.The smuggler turned around and continued to talk with Uncle Mathias in German for a while, then clapped his hands for the last time, pointed to the door with his thumb, and signaled the two fugitives to go into the house.

There was another person in the cabin, a woman with eyes as light as her hair, sitting behind a desk piled high with papers, envelopes, and stamps, her tousled hair cast by a lamp in a halo.She took pictures of Chuck and Uncle and disappeared into the humble darkroom.The smuggler scooped them some potato soup from an iron pot hanging over the stove, and Chuck didn't touch a mouthful.

They left early in the morning with a forged pass in their pockets. The photo was stamped with a steel stamp, with some water stains on the margins and different shades of ink. It looked like a valid document that had been used for several years.Chuck's new identity was "Helmut Bauer," a native of Dresden.Since he didn't speak German, the smugglers made him change into a stained overcoat, sprinkled some strong liquor on it, and if he was interrogated, pretended to be drunk and let his uncle deal with the police.

The car smelled of rats.Chuck huddled in the back, the smuggler drove, Uncle Mathias was in the passenger seat, and no one spoke.To avoid the outpost, the car crawled up a barely-there road, and over a rocky hillside, the headlights briefly revealed the wreckage of a bomber. Chuck straightened up and stared at the pile of scrap metal. Trying to identify its model, but darkness engulfed the plane in an instant.

The moon followed them swiftly over the treetops.

At dawn they encountered the first outpost, and the sleepy guards flipped through their IDs by the light of their flashlights and waved the car over.After driving about ten kilometers, the smuggler stopped the car on the side of the road, untied his belt, and walked into the dark woods.

The cold wind blows across the empty road and pours in from the open car doors.There seemed to be shadows moving in the woods, but upon closer inspection, there seemed to be no shadows.Chuck shivered, a bad feeling made his hair stand on end.Uncle Mathias seemed to have the same concern. They searched the woods through the car window, but there was no sign of the smuggler anywhere.He's been gone for almost 5 minutes, it won't take that long to pee.

"I'll take a look," Uncle Mathias said, opening the car door before Chuck could speak.

The sound of the gun exploded, the shattered glass flew, and the bullets that grazed the metal fired sparks. Uncle fell out of the car and lay motionless on the road.Chuck got down on the ground reflexively, and moved to the other side of the car door on hands and feet.Shouts came from the woods, and many pairs of boots came running on the concrete, toward the car.Chuck found the doorknob, yanked it open, climbed out of the car, still afraid to stand up, belly pressed to the ground, and moved toward the bushes.

There was an open space opposite the woods, with only scattered bushes, and the gray shadow of the forest appeared about two kilometers away, which may be why the Wehrmacht did not set up an ambush here.The sky hadn't fully lighted yet, and with the fog blocking his vision, he might still have a slight chance of escaping into the forest.The soldiers found him, a bullet hit him near the elbow, splashed mud and stones on his head, and Chuck continued to crawl forward, just like he had done in Army training camp.Another bullet hit the foot, kicking up the mossy dirt.

Estimating that the distance was far enough, Chuck got up and ran towards the distant forest.Gunshots rang out one after another, and the bullets grazed his ears, leaving a burning pain.He was hit in the shoulder and felt like he had been hit by a calf, and he staggered two steps forward and fell in the grass.The pain came on slowly but never mildly, bursting out like a match dropped in gasoline.Several hands grabbed him and turned him over. Under the gray sky, several hostile faces looked down at him together with the muzzle of the gun.

-

The roar of Browning machine guns echoed throughout the base.Louis recorded the results for the last cadet, and left the shooting range with the clipboard in his hands.Around ten o'clock in the morning is the quietest time for the base. The planes with missions have already left, and the ground crews are too busy, so all that is left is to wait.

The headquarters is also quiet, not the idle kind, but the quiet that is brewing secrets.The Anglo-American Joint Command is planning the landing, and no details have been leaked. The only thing that is certain is that they need to mobilize all the aircraft that can fly.Louie had stalked Calais yesterday with the Air Force Special Service and tried to drop the "windows"—those pre-cut sheets of metal used to confuse German radar.He didn't know whether the "window" was effective, that was a matter for Air Force Intelligence, but the special service team told him to stay on standby and not to mention the "window" to anyone.

He went to the office first and stuffed the cadets' marksmanship into a folder before he went to the radio room, where there were two telegrams sent to him from London, both of which were merely tedious administrative matters.Just as Louie was going out, a radio operator sitting at the end of the table took off his earphones and stopped him.

"You said before that you will be notified if you have any news, sir." The dispatcher held up a piece of paper, "We now have a list of captured persons."

Louie's hands were trembling a little, and he hoped the sender didn't see it.He purposely took a little longer to fold up the list and put it in his pocket. He didn't raise his head until he was sure that he could control his emotions, thanked him, and turned and walked out of the sending office.

The list sat in his pocket all day.Louis waited until evening to hide in the room, sat on the bed, and unfolded the thin paper.Names were alphabetized, and he went straight to the "S" part, with one "Seinfeld," two "Simmons," and no Sinclair.At the end of the list are prisoners whose names are unknown for various reasons. There are several Thomas without a last name, a Jack, a Robert, a Lynn, and no Charles.

Louie crumpled the paper and flung it across the room, laughing nervously, startled himself.He leaned against the wall, curled up, bent his knees, and buried his face in his palms.When he sobbed, like Chuck, he just shook and didn't make a sound.