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

stopped her companion abruptly with her arm. The old nurse shrugged her off.
    She asked Henry something gruffly in an unfamiliar language.
    Henry forced himself to think calmly. What should he do? Pretend to be a French-speaking Swiss?
    The old nurse repeated her question in French: “ Qui êtes-vous? ” Who are you? she asked.
    Henry couldn’t pretend to be French with her. Be honest, Henry. Hope for the best. He fumbled around his collar to pull out the metal chain of his dog tags. “American flier,” he muttered. His voice sounded miles away. “Plane down. Hurt leg. Serial number 092…”
    With that, he crumbled to the ground and lost consciousness.
    â€œMake sure you drain that foot. The nurse told me the break wasn’t bad. It’s just the possibility of gangrene to worry over. Give him penicillin. If you don’t have any, I can get some into the country. President Roosevelt will be most unhappy if an American boy loses his foot when you can easily save it. So would your chief of surgery. He and our ambassador are very good friends. Do you understand?”
    A woman’s voice translated in German. Henry heard the crisp crinkle of new money.
    He forced his eyes open against the glare of hot lights. He found himself in a starched white world. White walls, white sheets, white lights. A face popped into his vision – a pale, bald, and flaccid face with reflective glasses. Henry couldn’t make out the eyes behind them.
    â€œHello, son,” said the face. The voice was kind. “Don’t worry about a thing. Uncle Sam’s here.”
    Henry felt himself rolling. “They’re taking you to surgery. Nurse Weir tells me the fracture is a clean break. That’s excellent news. But they need to drain your ankle of blood and pus. Nasty wound, son.” The round face came within an inch of Henry’s and whispered, “How did you get here?”
    Henry looked at the bespectacled face, looked at the white masks blocking the faces of the other people surrounding the gurney. Instinct told him never to reveal the old schoolteacher, not even to another American. “I flew, sir,” Henry answered.
    The round face smiled. “Good man. You remember that, son. I’ll be waiting for you when you get out.”
    Huge white doors slammed behind Henry’s gurney and shut the American voice out. A rubber mask came down over Henry’s face and gassed him to sleep.
    Henry awoke in a cold, stark ward that reeked of antiseptic. In twenty other beds men slept, groaned, or played solitaire. There was a man sitting in a white iron chair beside him. A briefcase was on his lap. He sifted through a huge pile of papers, which kept cascading to the floor. The sound crashed through the ward.
    â€œAh, Lieutenant Forester. Feeling better?”
    Henry was groggy, but the fever was gone and his head was clear. He propped himself up on his elbows to check the bottom of his bed for the lump of two feet. His left leg swung above the sheets in a sling. A cast reached up his shin. Thank God. Only then did Henry turn to the man. “Do I know you, sir?”
    â€œWe’ve met, son. Saw you as they wheeled you into surgery. Your dog tags let me trace your name. My name’s Samuel Watson. Special assistant to the US Ambassador here in Bern. But most of the fliers call me Uncle Sam.”
    He tucked his papers together. “We’ll only have a few moments to talk. Do you want to get home, son?”
    â€œOf course, sir.”
    â€œThen let me tell you a few things. Officially, the Swiss are neutral. American and German fliers are equally safe here. The Americans are interned in Adelboden. There are about five hundred Americans in the camp there now. It’s a good deal – in the mountains, beautiful. You can play baseball, tennis, even attend college classes until the war ends.”
    Watson scooted his chair closer.
    â€œBut here’s the thing.