Suddenly, bright flashes of light and splotches of jet-black smoke speckled the sky in front of the bombers. A couple of seconds later, the sound of the explosions reached their ears. The aircraft batteries surrounding Strasbourg had opened fire. Each blast came as a sharp crack of sound, like repeating claps of thunder. BOOM! BOOM!
The explosions were coming so rapidly they were almost blending into one continuous sound. The sky was pockmarked with black smoke, but to Jean-Henri’s astonishment, the bombers kept going, flying directly into the firestorm until they were partially obscured by the smoke.
“Look,” his father exclaimed. “Here comes the Luftwaffe.”
From high above the bombers, black specks appeared. Streaking downward at incredible speeds, they pounced on the fat, old bombers. Tail gunners, turret gunners, and waist gunners opened fire on their attackers even as the attacking fighters opened fire on them. Brilliant tracers laced across the sky in every direction. Then more fighters appeared, coming in from the other direction—American this time, escorts for the bombers. In seconds, dogfights raged in and around the lumbering bombers.
For the parents, who understood the reality of what they were watching, the next few minutes filled them with a growing sense of horror. For the young boys, who had been playing at war just minutes before, it was a spectacular sight. There was a large flash of fire, and one of the bomber’s wings sheared off, pulling the aircraft into a steep dive, trailing smoke as it went down. A German fighter exploded, and seconds later the roar of the blast reached their ears.
The family flinched as another bomber disintegrated in a ball of fire. Another fighter went spiraling downward, leaving a curl of smoke across the sky. They couldn’t tell if the plane was American or German. Monique turned to her husband. “We need to go inside the house.”
“No, Mama,” Jean-Henri cried. “Not yet.”
Pierre put an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “They’re not close, my dear. We’re at no risk.”
“There go the bombs,” Louis yelled. Tiny clusters of black dots were falling from the bellies of the lead bombers. CRUMP! CRUMP! CRUMP! The high explosives made a much deeper sound than the antiaircraft guns. Moments later, the ground shook beneath their feet.
For the next five or six minutes, as the faraway rumble became one continuous roar, pebbles danced on the ground, and little puffs of dust could be seen in the lane as the earth trembled and shuddered and shook.
Monique LaRoche crossed herself and bowed her head. “May God have mercy on them,” she murmured.
When it was finally over and the bombers had gone, the silence seemed surreal, almost like a dream. No one spoke. Even Louis and Jean-Henri were silent as they realized that for Strasbourg, death and destruction had rained from the sky.
Pierre had started back toward the barn when two simultaneous sounds jerked him around—the roar of aircraft engines and the rat-a-tat of machine gun fire. Eyes wide, he scanned the sky. “There,” he shouted.
In the sky to the east, at an altitude of two or three thousand feet and coming fast were two black blobs against the blue. They bobbed and darted in and out, jerked upward, then dove away again. For a moment, Jean-Henri thought it was two Stuka bombers, coming to pay him a return visit, but he could see orange and yellow tongues of fire from the front of the second plane. The lead plane jinked hard to the left, and the tracers shot right past him.
Jean-Henri, who could recognize the silhouette of any plane— Allied or Axis—saw that the lead plane was a P-51 with white stars on its fuselage and the underside of its wings.
“It’s American,” he cried.
“Get down,” Pierre shouted, diving for his wife, pulling her down, and covering her with his body. The boys reacted instantly. Louis fell on his stomach and buried his face in the grass. Jean-Henri did the same, but rolled over on his back to watch.
The two planes flashed past them, just a few hundred yards south of where they lay. Jean-Henri groaned as he recognized the silhouette of the second plane. It was the Messerschmitt 109, a mainstay of the Luftwaffe. Without being consciously aware of what he was doing, Jean-Henri was up on his knees, fists punching the air. “Go, Yank! Go!” he shouted.
“Jean-Henri. Get down!”
He barely heard his father. As if in slow motion, he saw the M-109 fall in line behind the American plane. Tracers erupted again. And this time the pilot walked them right into the tail of the Mustang. The plane shuddered as the bullets struck. The Mustang wheeled sharply over, trailing a stream of dark liquid.
Jean-Henri gave a low cry as his father slammed into his body, tackling him and throwing him down.
“Stay down, son!” he shouted.
He fought like a wild man to get his head free. When he did, it was just in time to see the engine of the Mustang burst into flames. A second later, what looked like a dark, round ball separated from the plane. It tumbled downward as the fighter arced steeply, then dove straight into the ground behind a hill not half a mile a way. Jean-Henri held his breath. Then a white parachute blossomed in the sky and floated gently down to earth. He gave a cry of triumph.
They got to their feet, scanning the sky, but the Messerschmitt was gone.
Jean-Henri’s father sprang into immediate action. “Mother,” he called. “Get some bandages from the house. Hurry! The Germans in the village will have seen this too. We can’t let the pilot fall into their hands.”
A look of horror crossed Monique’s face, but to Jean-Henri’s great surprise, his mother didn’t protest. She turned and sprinted for the house.
“Watch where he lands,” Pierre barked, then he turned and hobbled awkwardly for the barn.
Louis and Jean-Henri were stunned by what they had just seen. Using a small outcropping on one of the higher hills as a marker, Jean-Henri mentally noted where the pilot was going down. His mother and father came back at about the same time. Monique carried some folded cloth, a tube of ointment, a small leather pouch of wine, and two torches électrique. She also had a cloth purse with a wooden button and rope handle over her shoulder. Pierre returned with his shotgun, which, since the occupation began, he kept hidden in the attic of the barn. The boys ran over to join them.
When Pierre held out his hands for the items, Monique shook her head. “No, Pierre.”
Pierre’s eyes narrowed. She rushed on quickly.
“They will instantly suspect any adult male in the forest today, especially one with a gun, and you will be arrested.” She forced herself not to look at his leg, or point out that if soldiers did come, there was no way he could outrun them. “But two boys playing in the woods? It is not the same.”
With great reluctance, Pierre finally nodded. Monique removed the pouch from her shoulder. “May I send Le Gardien with them?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “You don’t have to ask.”
“It is your pouch, not mine.”
“Send it with them, by all means.”
Monique handed the supplies to Louis but hung the rope strap of the pouch off Jean-Henri’s shoulder.
“What am I to do with this?” Jean-Henri asked, puzzled.
She gathered him in her arms, hugging him more fiercely than he could ever remember. “Just keep it with you,” she said softly. Finally pulling free, she kissed him on both cheeks. “Que Dieu te garde, mon fils,” she whispered. “Go with God, my son.”
Chapter 41
As I lowered the papers, Cody spoke from the back. “Awesome.”
My eyes were on Rick. “Did you catch that? Monique called the pouch Le Gardien.”
“I did,” he said. “Read the date again.”
I flipped back to the first page. “It says 1944. So almost seventy years ago. That’s amazing.”
“Read some more,” Cody said. “I want to know if they saved the pilot.”
I smiled at his excitement, which matched my own. “Okay. These are in Grandpère’s handwriting. They must be his notes.”
A full account of how I, a
nd my friend Louis Girard located the downed American pilot, First Lieutenant Arnold Fitzgerald of Ogalalla, Nebraska, can be found in my life history. I have not included it here, for reasons that shall become obvious shortly. In the near future, though, if you so desire, perhaps we can read it together.
Before I begin, however, I must say a word or two about my father’s pouch which my mother handed to me that day before sending us into the woods. I think you know what pouch it was. Though I did not recognize it then, I realize now that it played an important part in the events of that night, and also in what followed. For example, as I look back on it now, it is quite remarkable to me to realize how clearly my mind functioned that night. I knew exactly what to do and where to go. Sometimes I was warned to stop, and moments later we saw Germans passing nearby.
I stopped and looked up. “Yes!” I cried. “I know exactly what he means. That’s what I was trying to tell you, Rick. It’s like someone turned on a light in a darkened room and suddenly you can see everything clearly.”
Rick nodded, but he had a funny look on his face.
“What?”
“Is that what you felt when you changed that woman’s bumper sticker?”
My face fell. “Uh . . . no. No, it’s not. That part I don’t understand.”
He reached across and touched my hand. “Sorry. Keep reading.”
Three times that night, the pouch became our protector from German patrols in the forest—once before we found the pilot, and twice as we helped him back to the château. Once, the soldiers were so close I could have reached out and touched their boots.
Most remarkable to me was how we found Lt. Fitzgerald. Louis and I searched until dusk to no avail. I grew discouraged, knowing that when dark came, our search would have to end. As we sat down to rest, without consciously thinking about it, I clutched Le Gardien tightly to my body. I guess I was looking for a little solace. It was at that precise moment that we heard a soft moan nearby. We leaped to our feet and went in the direction of the sound, calling out softly, “Américain. Américain.”
We heard nothing more so we stopped and looked around. And that is when Louis saw blood on the forest floor. As we stared at it, another drop splattered from above. We looked up. There was the pilot, unconscious and dangling from his parachute in a large sycamore tree. He was bleeding from a severe gash to his head. I shall only say that we managed to get him down and take him to where the partisans of the Resistance movement were waiting with my father.
When we reached home late that night, my mother asked for the pouch back. I did not see the pouch again until I received it from my father on my thirteenth birthday.
My purpose in mentioning this is because by now, in whatever difficulties you are facing, I suspect you have learned that this simple pouch is indeed a remarkable gift. You know its name. I hope you are beginning to sense its worth. Use it well. Use it wisely.
One caution. Be careful for what you wish, for the pouch responds to the desires of your heart, even if those desires are not to your benefit.
And with that brief admonition, I return to the story as told to me by your great-grandmother.
Chapter 42
Le Petit Château, France
Saturday, August 12, 1944
Yesterday, Pierre and I, and our son, Jean-Henri, and his friend, Louis Girard, witnessed an air battle over Strasbourg. This was a horrible thing to watch, even though it was distant enough that we did not see the suffering or the dying firsthand. As it ended, an American fighter plane was shot down near our home. Fortunately, the pilot was able to bail out.
As we watched the pilot floating down from the sky, my beloved husband shouted at me and told me to run and get bandages. We had to find the pilot before the Germans did. His words stunned me. How could he ask that of me? The punishment for helping the enemy in any way is instant execution.
We were already in great danger. Since the Allied invasion of continental Europe, the French Resistance in our area has been very active. Though he never spoke of it, I knew Pierre had joined the Resistance. He doesn’t know that I never sleep on the nights he is gone, not until he is back safely in bed with me. I say this only to show that we were already living each day under a great cloud of fear. Twice in the past three months, German soldiers have come to our house and questioned my husband at great length, searching the house for anything that might give him away. But the fact that he is crippled seems to convince them he could not be part of the Resistance.
All of this flashed through my mind in an instant as he called out to me. But at that same moment, as I watched the pilot floating down helplessly in the sky, I knew what I had to do. This was my time. This was my war too. Mothers in America were sending their sons across the sea to France to risk their lives to help free my people from tyranny. How could I not help one of their sons?
When I returned with some things to help the pilot in case he had been injured, something strange happened. My son and his friend were standing next to my husband, who had fetched his shotgun and was preparing to leave. Contrary to all emotion and reason, I knew, as surely as I knew anything, that it was my son who must go in search of the pilot and not my husband. One part of my heart cried out in anguish at the thought of sending my boy on such a dangerous mission, but I knew that this war was my son’s war too.
That night was yet another long night without sleep. But, thanks be to God, the boys found the pilot and brought him back to our home. They arrived here just before dawn. The pilot had landed in a tree and had not only been badly cut but had also broken his leg. We discussed sending him immediately south into Switzerland, but he could not travel on foot, and the roads were much too dangerous because the Germans knew an American pilot was down.
When the boys arrived at our home with the pilot, Pierre took me aside. Was I willing to hide this man here on our farm until the Resistance could find a way to smuggle him west to the Allied lines? My blood ran cold, but I answered yes without hesitation.
As my husband left to get help from others in the Resistance, I looked away, wondering if I had just made a terrible mistake. It was then that I saw Jean-Henri looking at me. His eyes were filled with so much pride and so much gratitude that everything was suddenly all right. We hugged each other and cried together as the men carried the American into the barn, found him a hiding place, and then set to work erasing any trace of him.
That day was awful beyond belief—trying to act as if everything was normal; fearing the soldiers would come at any minute; hoping against hope that we had not missed any bloodstains or left any other evidence that a wounded man had been treated in our kitchen.
Just before noon, the soldiers came. They had found the parachute in the tree and the blood on the ground. They knew the pilot was alive and were searching every farmhouse, every outbuilding, every shop and home in the village and the surrounding area. They were savage in their anger and threatened to kill ten people for every person who aided the downed flyer.
But they did not find him. Unbeknownst to me, Pierre had built a false half wall in the hayloft. After putting the bandaged lieutenant in there, the men moved enough hay in front of it to cover it completely. The soldiers searched, threatened, ranted, and raved, but in the end, they went away with nothing.
Last night, our little family knelt together and gave thanks to God for his overwatching care. We also pled for Him to protect us and the pilot until we could get him to safety.
Chapter 43
Moselle, France
Sunday, August 13, 1944
Today is my twenty-ninth birthday. And today has been the worst day of my life.
This morning at 3:37 a.m., the Gestapo came to our little château.
Gestapo. The State Secret Police. The very word sends stark fear into the hearts of people all across Europe.
A full day had passed since we brought the American pilot to our home, and we had relaxed somewhat, thinking we were safe. We were not. Looking back now, obviously someone betrayed
us. Who would do such a thing in this community of ours? One of the villagers? A collaborator? A family member hoping for some leniency for one of their own? It doesn’t matter. It was done.
When the police battered on the door, Pierre and I leaped out of bed. We barely had a moment before they burst into our room with guns drawn. They threw Pierre against the wall, and the officer in charge shoved me into a chair. Moments later there was a crash from down the hall, followed by a scream from Jean-Henri. I leaped to my feet, and Pierre hurled himself at his captor. Colonel Horst Kessler, the officer in charge, was from Strasbourg. We had seen him in the village on more than one occasion. He had always been pleasant and courteous to me. But as I tried to stand, he struck me across the face with the back of his hand, cutting my cheek open with his ring. The soldier guarding Pierre clubbed him on his bad leg, and he went down, screaming in pain.
When another soldier marched Jean-Henri into the room, I started to get up again.
“Madame,” Kessler said coldly. “If you move again, I shall have you taken out and shot. Do you understand me?”
I sank back down, fighting hard not to break into tears.
“Get him up.” The colonel motioned with his pistol at Pierre. Two soldiers stepped forward and dragged him to his feet. The colonel stepped over to Jean-Henri. He smiled, then bent down and looked into our son’s eyes. “Petit garçon—little boy,” he said in a conversational tone, “where has your father hidden the American airman?”
Jean-Henri met the officer’s gaze with open defiance. “I do not know.”
I had never been so proud, or so frightened, as I was at that moment.