Under a War-Torn Sky by L.M. Elliott Read Free Book Online

pinholes were tearing open. Would it hold long enough to get him to the ground? The snow might cushion his landing.
    â€œPlease, God, please.” Henry braced himself for impact.
    Ka-thump . A snowdrift swallowed him. Searing pain ripped up his left leg. Henry pulled the chute down over him and didn’t move, hardly breathed, as he listened to the sound of other planes buzzing by overhead.
    At last it was quiet. Still Henry waited until he was shivering inside all that fleece before kicking himself free of the wet, melting snowdrift. It was twilight and the rose-washed countryside looked oddly serene. Bury the chute, he remembered, bury it so it can’t be seen. He staggered to a bramble, stuffed the chute into its roots, and covered it with muddy snow.
    Henry sat down. His left ankle was already swelling and straining his boot. Sprained? Broken, maybe. Could he walk on it?
    Henry opened the escape kit and pulled out one of its three morphine syringes. Taking a deep breath, he injected the painkiller into his leg. Then he crammed part of the kit’s C-rations into his mouth. It tasted awful. He had no appetite. But Henry knew he wouldn’t get far without something in his stomach. He hadn’t had anything to eat since 5:30 that morning.
    Henry stood, winced, and began limping west, towards the sunset. He had no idea whether he was in Germany, France, or Switzerland. All he knew was that west was the way home.

Chapter Five
    Henry clenched his fists to keep from crying out as he skidded down the hillsides. He swore he could feel the bones of his left ankle scraping together with each step. Whenever he came to level ground he hopped on his right foot. But he certainly couldn’t outrun any Nazis this way.
    He scanned the horizon to see if he could spot another American limping along. Could any of his crew be alive? Did they need help? Could they help him?
    He saw no one. He was completely on his own.
    Move on, boy. They’ll be out looking for you.
    Henry came to the edge of a pine forest and picked up a fallen limb to use as a crutch. But it was heavy to drag and soon his vision began to blur with exhaustion. Finally, he found the beginnings of a road. It was narrow and muddy from the March thaw. He followed it, not knowing what else to do. He berated himself for throwing away his .45. What a hothead, what an idiot. If he still had his gun he could at least put up a real fight. Now all he could do was hide.
    At a crossroads, a wooden sign of arrows pointed the way to several towns: STRASBOURG, NEUF-BRISACH, GUEBWILLER, MULHOUSE. Henry was not reassured by the names. Strasbourg and Guebwiller sounded distinctly German. He couldn’t tell about Mulhouse. Of the four, Neuf-Brisach was the only one that sounded French. He clung to his hope that if he was not in France, he was in Switzerland. He knew that both German and French were spoken in that country. He chose the path to Neuf-Brisach.
    Within a few minutes Henry saw a scattering of houses. They were half-timbered, held together with mortar and a latticework of wooden beams that made diamond patterns. They looked just like gingerbread houses pictured in a book of fairy tales his mother used to read him.
    He thought of Lilly reading books at bedtime, and the way the moon shone through his curtains. Henry’s eyes welled up with tears. How was he ever going to get out of this mess? He could barely walk.
    As he stood worrying, Henry spotted a solitary bicyclist. It was hard to make out the rider in the spreading gloom of nightfall. But the sharp lines of a rifle didn’t break the silhouette. He pedalled stiffly, as if he were old. The man had to be civilian. Maybe he’d help. But then again, if he was in Germany, could Henry really expect a German to aid an American flier?
    Henry stood his ground. He had no other options. It was obvious that his ankle needed tending. And clearly the cyclist had already seen him, standing there in a flight