Susan Tate Ankeny - The Girl and the Bombardier

Copyright 2020 by Susan Tate Ankeny

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

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Diversion Books

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New York, NY 10016

www.diversionbooks.com

First Diversion Books edition, September 2020

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63576-717-9

eBook ISBN: 978-1-63576-714-8

Printed in The United States of America

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Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication data is available on file.

Dedicated to the memory of Godelieve Van Laere Pena, Ren Loiseau, Margot Di Giacomo, Andr Duval, and all the French patriots who hid Allied airmen and guided them home.

FEBRUARY 8, 1944

From fifteen thousand feet, the young bombardier could have seen the French countryside waiting below, but he never looked down. He closed his eyes and clung to the ledge above the open escape hatch. A steep dive had failed to extinguish the wing fires. The B-17 was going down. Crouched beside him was the navigator. Neither had parachuted out of an airplane before. Why practice what you have to do perfectly the first time? the smug training officer had explained. With feigned bravado, the bombardier smiled at his crewmate who yelled to be heard above the thunder of the remaining two engines still powering the plane, Good luck, Lieutenant Tate.

The top turret gunner jumped into the compartment, and behind him only his feet and lower legs visible was most likely the copilot. It was time. Lieutenant Dean Tate sat down and pushed himself from the plane. The cold struck like a bullet. He looked down expecting to see blood, and found instead glaring up at him from his chest pack the word Bottom.

Panic seized him. After an eternity of several heartbeats, he remembered a parachutist hed met saying a chute would work upside down, but the release cord would be on the users left instead of right. Knowing he should free-fall longer to speed his descent and avoid being caught in machine gun crossfire, but afraid the upside-down chute wouldnt open on the first try, he grabbed the metal ring and pulled. A white cloud unfurled above him.

Exhaling, he looked up. A German Ju 88 headed straight toward him. With the parachute open, he didnt seem to be losing any altitude; an easy target. The pilot flew over his parachute, causing him to swing underneath like a pendulum. He watched the German circle back and come in again. The engines grew more determined, the plane picking up speed. Dean focused on the twin propellers spinning closer. He felt no hatred for the German pilot, believing he probably didnt want to be here either, fighting someone elses war. Then the plane flew close enough for Dean to see the pilots face. The German raised his hand and waved.

A Messerschmitt 110 crossed the sky, and Dean knew Nazi soldiers would be waiting on the ground to arrest him. They were probably watching him now. Absorbed by the German escort fighter, the ground rose up quickly below him.

Slamming onto the frozen earth back-first, intense pain like an electrical shock told him he was alive. Unable to breathe, the sky became a white blanket suffocating him. A voice in his head commanded, Get up! Hide!

Struggling to disengage the parachute with fingers numb from the cold, he wondered what had happened to his gloves. Once released, he untangled himself and stood on unsteady legs. An ancient church materialized not more than thirty feet away; its stained-glass windows glowed benevolently in the muted midday light.

Excited voices floated into the churchyard from beyond a hedge. There wasnt time to hide his chute. He staggered toward the church. Someone grabbed his arm and asked in a whisper, Deutsch?

American, he said, before everything went dark.

NOVEMBER 2003
PORTLAND, OREGON

I had heard the story about Dad being shot down over France so often I knew it by heart. Or at least I thought I did. Tears streamed from his eyes every time he got to the part where the cockpit window was covered in blood and the pilots eye hung down on his cheek. After World War II, nobody talked about combat stress, and few veterans suffering from psychiatric problems received any treatment. Most were given rest, exercise, and occupational therapy, if they were given anything at all, left to endure nightmares they kept to themselves. Dads generation accepted its duty both while fighting the war and when returning to their lives after it ended, doing what they had to do to forget. Who could blame them? While most men never talked about their war experiences, my dad told his story of being rescued by the French Resistance to anyone who would listen.

He became a father late in life, after spending years in and out of hospitals due to back surgeries and crippling arthritis. He lavished me with his time and attention. Dad had an unlimited capacity to enjoy the world. I adored him. After he retired, I tried persuading him to return to France. Over the years, the people who had helped him escape wrote letters filled with gratitude for what they called his help in their liberation and invited him to visit. But my dad never did anything for himself. He said he wanted to leave me a legacy; his happiness came from knowing he would leave everything he had worked hard for in his lifetime to me, his only child. I wondered for the first time if the reason he never returned to France might not be that simple.

Now, the unthinkable had happened: he was gone. Mom had slipped out to lie down, leaving me cross-legged on the floor surrounded by cuff links, tie clips, and neatly folded cardigans patiently awaiting their fate. I lifted a lifeless gray sweater and inhaled, hoping for cherry vanilla tobacco, finding instead the stale, chemical scent that always hung in the nursing home.

Beside me were two boxes, both on the verge of disintegrating with age. One contained Dads air force uniform, and inside the other I found neat stacks of envelopes, black-and-white photographs, and loose notebook paper covered in Dads delicate, cursive script. From a Manila envelope I pulled his typed memoir, the title neatly centered on the cover page: A Tribute to a Gallant Few. Rummaging deeper, I found mission reports, bombing records, dog tags, and the fake identity cards he used to travel by train in France.

There were letters from people whose names I knew as well as my own: Andr Duval, Ren Loiseau, Margot Di Giacomo, Jacques du Pac, and Godelieve Van Laere. The names were so familiar I had forgotten these people were French Resistance members who fought and risked their lives for the liberation of their country and for the lives of Americans like my father. I lifted a bundle of faded pink envelopes bound together by a thick rubber band.

Lassigny, France
Saturday January 17, 1945

Dear Lieutenant Tate,

I wait a long time before writing. I have learn English and only after many months I feel able to write a letter. I hope you remember me, I am the blond Belgian girl with whom you got acquainted in February 1944 on a Saturday night. My name is Godelieve Van Laere. My family will be please to receive some news from you. In a letter which you sent to Capt. Edelston you told that you were an instructor now. Why you are not a parachute instructor? You jump very well!