The Night Children, Page 2

  Frowning, Donnie did as he was told, making sure to keep his hands well out from his sides. Standing there was a pilot, dressed in the uniform of the British Royal Air Force. He was wearing a leather flying helmet, and there was a scarf pulled tight around his mouth. He was small, at least six inches shorter than Eddie; painfully thin, too. He was holding a Webley, the pistol enormous in his slender, gloved hands.

  “What’s your name and rank?” he asked.

  “Donnie. Corporal Donnie Brixton.”

  “Which unit are you with?”

  “506th Infantry,” Donnie said after a pause.

  “506th? What’s your nickname?”

  “Why?” asked Mike.

  “So I know you’re not Nazi spies. Your nickname, tell me.”

  “Currahees,” said Donnie.

  “Good.” The pilot lowered his weapon, but he didn’t take his finger from the trigger.

  “What about you?” Donnie asked. “Didn’t think the Brits had any men this far out.”

  “And you were right.” He removed his helmet and loosed a cascade of brown hair, then tugged at the scarf to reveal a face that belonged on the front of Titter magazine. Donnie’s jaw dropped, and the others must have had a similar reaction, because the girl laughed at their expressions, a sound that seemed to make the forest shrink back.

  “Now I can see your gum as well as smell it, thanks, boys.”

  “You’re a woman,” said Mike, picking up his rifle.

  “And you’re a sharp one,” she replied.

  “What are you doing out here?” Donnie asked, collecting his own pistol and holstering it. “Are you alone?”

  She nodded, tucking her weapon into a huge pocket in her jacket.

  “I was escorting a bombing run, heading east, AAs took me down.”

  “But you’re a broad,” said Mike.

  “Your friend there,” she said, leaning in to Donnie and tapping her temple. “Is he shell-shocked? Or just a little slow?”

  “Got to admit it’s a little weird, Corporal,” said Henry. “Out here alone, a woman. How do we know this isn’t a trap?”

  “Yes,” said the girl, her voice laced with sarcasm. “I’m German. The Führer ordered me out here especially to lure down four hopeless American boys, all of whom—presuming, Mr. Brixton, that you are the leader of this ragtag group and you’re a corporal—have attained the superior rank of privates.” She barged between Donnie and Mike, picking up her parachute and shaking it loose. With a deft swirl she wrapped it around her shoulders, tucking it into the collar of her jacket. Then she looped her satchel over her shoulder to hold the improvised cape in place. “The success of the Nazi war effort and the Third Reich depends entirely on me luring you lot into a cunning trap. So come on, follow me.”

  Donnie was speechless. He looked at Mike, who was fuming, then at Henry and Eddie, who both shrugged. After what seemed like an eternity he finally opened his mouth.

  “What’s your name?”

  She grinned at him.

  “Flight Sergeant Joan Forbes.” She snapped a sharp British salute. “His Majesty’s Royal Air Force.”

  0028

  “We heard the antiaircraft guns, the night before last, right?”

  Donnie stoked the fire as he spoke, the timid flames topped with his steel helmet and surrounded by a perimeter of wood to conceal the light. All five of them hunkered around it, shoulder against shoulder, grateful for the warmth even though it was barely enough to seep through their gloves into the numb flesh of their fingers. Water stirred inside the helmet, slowly coming to the boil.

  “Yes,” said Joan, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and staring into the flames. She was remarkably skinny, her face gaunt with shadows beneath her sharp cheekbones. And yet there was no denying she was attractive, dazzlingly so in the firelight, and when she smiled her eyes brightened in a way that made Donnie’s throat tighten. She was still wearing her parachute like a shawl, the white silk almost invisible against the eerie glow of the snow, and she clutched her satchel to her chest. “We were heading for Heilbronn, follow-up raids. I was an escort, but I took some flak and that was that.”

  “What do you expect?” Mike said. “Letting a broad fly a plane. Only you Brits would be that stupid. What next? Pig pilots?”

  He snorted at his own joke, but Joan didn’t even seem to hear him.

  “I managed to bail, landed a few miles north of here. Had no idea where I was, other than smack bang in the middle of the Ardennes. But I knew Allied forces had to be south of my position, so I headed this way.”

  “What’s with the ’chute?” asked Eddie.

  “I wasn’t lying when I said I heard you from a mile away. Didn’t know if you were good guys or bad guys, so I left it there as a decoy and waited to see who approached. Luckily for me, it was you chaps.”

  “Yeah, you are lucky,” said Mike. “Lucky we didn’t spot you first and think you were a German.”

  “Yes, I’m still quaking in my boots, Private Levy, at the thought of what might have happened had you actually been walking with your eyes open and your mind on the job.”

  Her sarcastic humor was strangely infectious and Donnie found himself smiling. For some reason, even though the forest remained graveyard quiet, even though the moon still loomed overhead like a dangerous, grinning fool, some of the fear had ebbed away. Maybe it was having a woman for company, it made him think of home, of Betty next door. It made him feel safe.

  “Seriously, though,” he said. “I didn’t think you girls were allowed in the RAF.”

  “Technically we’re not,” she said. “Technically I’m in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, but that’s such a mouthful. Most of us WAAFs are just civvies, we transport planes at home, and do a great deal more to keep our boys safe on the front.”

  “And you?” Donnie asked.

  “Well let’s just say when you can outfly and outgun and outswear every single chauvinistic arse of a pilot in the King’s Air Force then they can’t keep you away from the action for long. I convinced them to give me a Spitfire and there you have it. Sixteen successful missions then one lucky Kraut with an 88 and here I am drinking tea with four fine American gentlemen.”

  “Coffee,” said Donnie, fishing a tin from his pack and tipping some pre-roasted beans into the boiling water. The smell of it seemed to fill the air instantly, reinforcing that feeling of calm. “And I’m not sure if we qualify as gentlemen.”

  He gave the coffee a stir with his knife, then gestured to the helmet. “No cups, I’m afraid.”

  “As long as it’s hot,” said Joan, scooping up the helmet and taking a mouthful. She winced as she swallowed, then passed it to Eddie. “What about you? Why so far from your foxholes?”

  “We’re looking for someone,” said Donnie. “A sergeant left camp a day and a half ago, took seven men with him. Then they disappeared, haven’t checked in since. We were sent out to find them.”

  “Or to find out what happened to them,” added Henry.

  “Right,” said Donnie. “So …”

  He trailed off when he saw Joan’s face. It seemed to have grown thinner, almost skeletal, her lips a razor-thin line. She glanced at him—her eyes dark, no trace left of that brightness, that sparkle—then quickly back at the fire.

  “What?” Donnie asked.

  “Eight men, you say? Were they heading north?”

  “Yes, did you see them?”

  She didn’t reply, lost in the quiet rage of the flames.

  “Joan, what?”

  “Don’t go after them,” she said, and with that soft whisper the forest found its power once again, the silence crashing down around him with such force that even the fire seemed to shrink. She looked up at him again and Donnie’s skin crinkled into gooseflesh. “Turn back, there’s nothing for you to find up there. Nothing good.”

  “What do you mean?” Donnie just about managed to find the words. “Did you see them?”

  “I saw,” she started, swallowing hard. “I don’t know, I don’t know what it was. I didn’t think it was real. But trust me, something bad happened to them. Your friends are gone, you can’t help th
em. And if you try …”

  They all watched her with wide eyes, watched her seem to shrink into her parachute.

  “If you try, if you go after them, then something bad is going to happen to you, too.”

  0055

  “I don’t trust her.”

  Mike spat the words into Donnie’s ear even though there was no way Joan could hear him. She stood by the charred remains of the fire twenty yards away drinking the last few swigs of coffee from the helmet. Eddie was chatting to her, his arms gesticulating wildly, although Donnie couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “There’s a reason she doesn’t want us to keep going. Something she ain’t telling us. I know it.”

  “Like what, Mike?”

  “How the hell should I know? Ask me, she’s probably a spy. Hitler’s got a whole army of ’em, broads just like her who sound right and look right but who’ll gut you while you’re swooning over ’em. She already admitted she was sent here to trap us.”

  “She was joking.”

  “Yeah? Maybe, maybe not. She’s been sent to knock us off the trail. There’s something up there, something they don’t want us to find. A base, or a weapon, maybe just a load more Hun troops ready to make the push down to Bastogne. Maybe Adolf himself is up there wearin’ furs and makin’ snowmen.”

  “So why don’t the Germans just kill us?” Donnie asked.

  “Because it causes too many questions. Cuddy dies and they send us. We die and they send someone else. They die and sooner or later the whole 101st marches up here to find out what’s going on. No, they’re sly. She’s sly. She scares us off south and we go back sayin’ we didn’t find anything and leave them well alone.”

  Donnie had to admit that he had a point. If Joan was a spy, a German agent, then that’s exactly what she’d be doing. But she wasn’t. He didn’t know how, but he was sure of it.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “Because we’re not turning around. Hell, we couldn’t if we wanted to, there’s nothing back there but Panzers. We keep going, we find whatever it was she saw and we know for sure what happened to Cuddy.”

  “And her?” Mike said. “Somethin’ tells me she ain’t gonna come with us.”

  Donnie sighed, pulling his collar tight around his neck, the night so cold he could have been hollow, a breeze blowing inside him from his feet all the way up to his skull. Joan must have sensed him looking, because she turned and smiled, and in that smile he saw that even though she was strong, even though she could probably survive out here longer than any of them, she didn’t want to be on her own. Out here, being on your own would make someone as crazy as the forest and the moon.

  “She’s one of us,” he said, patting Mike on the shoulder. “She’ll come.”

  He left Mike to his muttered curses, walking back to the fire.

  “Empty?” he asked Joan, nodding at his helmet. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’d put my tin back on and soaked myself.”

  She smiled, handing it to him. There were a couple of mouthfuls sloshing around inside and he knocked them back, grateful for what little warmth the coffee still had. He tipped the beans away, then planted the helmet back on his head.

  “We’re going north,” he said.

  “But—” Eddie started.

  “North, those are our orders. I believe you, that you saw something. But we have to see it for ourselves.”

  “You won’t like it,” Joan said, getting to her feet. “I can promise you that.”

  “I don’t like anything I see in this place, but I’ve got a job to do. We all have.” He picked up his pack, heaving it onto his back. “You with us?”

  She sighed. “Well, seeing as I’m out here with no rations, no map, no clue to where I am—not to mention what you’ve told me about the Germans moving in south of here—I don’t really know what other choice I have. Lead the way, Corporal.”

  Donnie nodded at Henry, who started trudging through the snow. Eddie followed, stumbling, then Joan. Donnie kicked out the fire, sweeping snow over the ash to hide it. Then he set off after them, hearing Mike right behind him, the other man still mumbling: “I don’t trust her.”

  0216

  It was snowing again, had been for maybe fifteen minutes now. The flakes drifted down slowly, delicately, but their graceful beauty was an illusion, one quickly spoiled as the world began to disappear. It was as if somebody was taking a giant eraser to the forest, wiping out the tops of the trees, then the branches, then the trunks, and finally the ground, leaving them in an ocean of utter nothingness where they would quickly drown. Out here, snow was as dangerous as mortar shells. And it wouldn’t be a quick death, no, nor a peaceful one. It would be a protracted, painful end as the chill crept through your marrow, locking itself in your bones and muscles, paralyzing you like a spider bite and leaving you for the forest to devour at its leisure.

  “You see anything at all up there?” Donnie called ahead to Henry. “You want to stop?”

  “No, this is right,” said Joan from Donnie’s side, checking her own compass. “We haven’t strayed off this bearing, and neither did I coming south. Kept the line as straight as I could in case I had to retrace my steps.”

  “How much further?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. My watch got broken when I bailed. But it was after nightfall when I found the … When I found your friends. Maybe eight or nine. Maybe later. It won’t be much longer.”

  Donnie nodded. They’d have to stop again soon anyway and eat something. They had packed enough rations for three days, but now they had an extra mouth to feed, and when the weather was like this even the egg disappeared fast. With any luck they’d find out what happened to Cuddy tonight; then they could worry about what came next. They couldn’t turn around and head back to an occupied camp, but there were Allied positions west of here that they could trek to in a day or two.

  As impossible as it was, the snow had plunged the forest into even greater depths of silence. Donnie felt like he was underwater, kept swallowing to pop his ears the same way he did when he dived too deep in the quarry back home. Occasionally there was the whipcrack of a branch breaking under the weight of the fall, but other than that the crunch of their feet in the fresh drifts, and the chattering of their teeth, was the only sound.

  “So,” he said, wanting to speak, to say anything to make the silence less deafening. “You got a fella back home?”

  “Two,” Joan said, looking at him over her shoulder. Her skin was icy blue, her eyes the color of chestnuts.

  “Two?”

  “I have two fellas,” she said this with a clumsy American accent, “and a lady, too.”

  Donnie tried to whistle, but the cold turned it into a sigh.

  “I didn’t take you for that kind of girl.”

  “I’m not,” she said, laughing. “I’m engaged, to a dope named William. We’ve got two kids already, George and Grace.”

  “Seriously?” Donnie said. “You don’t look old enough.”

  “Thank you. I’m probably older than you think. George is six, I had him when I was twenty-one, before the war. Grace is four, from back when I’d never have dreamed of being up in a Spitfire.”

  “Got a picture?”

  Joan bent down and reached into her boot. She pulled out a transparent envelope which contained a letter and a photograph. He recognized the letter. They all had one tucked away in a pocket; I’m sorry I didn’t make it home, please don’t forget me, I love you. She handed him the photo. It had obviously been taken in a studio: a tall, bony man wearing glasses and a goofy grin; a kid on each knee, the little girl clutching a doll and looking out of the shot, her face blurred as though she’d turned just as the picture had been taken, the boy fair-haired and holding a toy plane above his head. Joan was there, too, standing behind the others in a dress uniform as if she were a canvas backdrop, rounder in the face, her cheeks flushed, her hair up, and a smile that could have lit the scene without a single photographer’s flash.

  Beautiful, Donnie nearly said, settling for, “You miss them?”

  “Of course,” Joan said, tucking the picture back in the envelope and slid
ing it inside her boot. “More than anything. Well, the little ones anyway. William, he’s … he’s what we call a wet blanket. But he’s good, and he’s safe, and he loves me. He works for the government, nothing important, just number crunching in Whitehall.”

  “Wet blanket, eh? Why you with him?”

  Joan shrugged, obviously embarrassed.

  “He’s my parachute. When I come back, when I come home after a mission, he makes sure I land safely.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but didn’t. “What about you?”

  “A gal? No.” He shook his head and thought of Betty, Betty his neighbor, his best friend, Sweet Betty Marmalade who got married a year ago to a milkman called Joe. “No, I kind of missed the boat on that one. We maybe had—”

  “Pssst.”

  Donnie turned, saw Mike a dozen yards behind them half lost in the falling snow. He was holding up his hand. Donnie stopped, making the same signal to Henry and Eddie up front.

  “Trouble?” said Joan.

  “I hope not,” he replied, scampering over his own footprints until he reached Mike. The other man was staring the way they had just come, the snow a curtain of gauze which smudged everything into nothing. Donnie stared into the forest, turned to bone by the idiot moon, and the forest seemed to stare back.

  “What is it, Mike?” he asked. Mike didn’t reply, he didn’t blink. Donnie’s flesh squirmed, and he swore he could feel somebody’s eyes crawling over him. He squinted into the haze, nothing there aside from the sentient trees thinking their old, slow thoughts.

  Mike turned to him, and there was fear there in the darkness of his eyes and the way his jaw clenched. Donnie didn’t like it. Mike was a sonofabitch, but he was a brave sonofabitch, no doubt about it. He was too stupid to be anything other than brave.

  “What is it?” Donnie repeated.

  “Can’t you see it?” he whispered, flecks of spit in the corners of his mouth.

  “See what?” Donnie said, shaking his head. “Mike, there’s nothing there, just trees.”

  “Between the trees,” he replied, his words little more than breath. “Don’t you see them?”

  Donnie looked into the snow. He looked between the trees, where the flakes fell and danced in tight spirals. He looked and did not blink, looked at those shifting loops of white against white which seemed for an instant to form shapes there—not quite solid, not quite not, like figures waiting just under the skin of the world—then split apart to be nothing more than snow again. He looked, and he saw, and felt the forest peel away a piece of his sanity as a trophy.