Read Online The Forgotten 500 by Gregory A. Freeman - Free Book Online Page B

and the frequent gestures and glances toward him made Musgrove think he must be the topic. His best guess was that the other villager was saying the American had to go or the Germans would come looking for him, and Musgrove’s host was saying he could stay. The two men argued harshly, with vigorous gesticulation and raised voices, but finally Musgrove’s host told the other man to leave and slammed the door in his face. Then he came back toward the table, muttering something to the women, who seemed alarmed by the argument. Musgrove didn’t quite know what to think. He was grateful that the man had defended him, but he was more worried than ever that the Germans were coming for him. When the man did not sit down at the table to finish his meal, Musgrove knew he was right. The big villager grabbed Musgrove by an arm and pulled him from the table, walking to a small bedroom in the back of the house and motioning for him to get under the bed. Musgrove didn’t know exactly what was happening, but he figured he had no choice but to follow the man’s instructions. He got down on the floor and slipped under the heavy wooden bed, his heart racing as he lay there waiting for something else to occur. He could see the man walk back into the main room and sit down at the table, resuming his meal and talking to his wife. Musgrove lay quietly, trying to slow his breathing, just waiting. From his vantage point under the bed, he could see only the floor in the bedroom and into the other room, nothing higher than knee level. Musgrove lay there for about two hours, alert and anxious, waiting for whatever was going to happen, and finally there was another hard knock at the door, more like a pounding.
    Before the man of the house could get to the door, it was flung open so that it banged against the wall and caused the women to gasp with fright. There was a lengthy conversation between the visitor and the man of the house, but this time the visitor spoke with a German accent and clearly had the upper hand. Then the conversation stopped and the only sound was a pair of boots walking across the wooden floor. Musgrove was sweating and his heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he was sure it must be heard throughout the house now, and his eyes were frozen on the swath of floor that he could see from under the bed. He scooted back against the far wall another half inch, trying to hide himself as best he could.
    His whole body tensed as he saw the big black boots, shined so bright that they stood out against everything in this drab village. They walked around the farmhouse, the heels clicking on the floor, and Musgrove was not surprised when they started walking right toward his hiding place. He knew without seeing anything more than the boots that this was a German officer looking for the downed airman. This is it. They’ve got me. God, please just don’t let them kill this family for helping me.
    The boots walked right into the small bedroom and stopped, no more than a couple feet from Musgrove’s face. He couldn’t take his eyes off the shiny black leather. They remained motionless for a moment, the house totally quiet, Musgrove praying that he could remain perfectly still, perfectly silent. All the German officer had to do was bend down and look under the bed, where Musgrove had little room to hide himself from view, and the airman would be captured. But he didn’t.
    After a long, long time, the boots turned and walked out of the room briskly, stomping through the main room and out the door. Musgrove breathed again.
     
     
     
    The officer was looking for Musgrove because he was the only crewman missing from his bomber. The other nine had been captured already and were on their way to a prisoner-of-war camp.
    Musgrove’s experience was typical of the airmen drifting down in Yugoslavia. On the ground, the local villagers were counting parachutes too. They wanted to send help to every American who made it out, before the Germans