The Homecoming (6 page)

“Americans, we are friends,” the man shouted. “We see you come in. We are Dutch.”

“I know,” Shawn answered, the gap between them closing. He wished they would stop yelling. “We saw you too.”

“That is B-17, yes?” the teenage boy shouted, pointing toward their plane. Just then a gust of wind whipped the wool cap off his head. He caught it before it hit the ground. “I know my planes; they fly over us all the time. B-17s, B-24s. The British bombers, Lancasters, and Halifaxes. But B-17 is my favorite.”

“Quiet, Johan,” the older man said. “You talk planes later. My son wants to be a pilot, I think, not a fisherman. Are any of your men hurt?”

“Not too badly,” said Shawn. “Just a little banged up. We do have one who can’t walk, took some shrapnel on our last mission. But he’s doing okay now.”

They shook hands; the father and son’s faces were full of excitement, as if Shawn and his men were liberators, not downed airmen. “We are so glad to see you,” the father said. “We never see Americans here, never hear how the war is going. The Germans keep us in the dark always. Make our lives terrible.”

“Speaking of Germans . . .” Manzini whispered to Shawn.

“Sir, my name is Captain Collins, and this is Sergeant Nick Manzini.”

“I am Wouter Beekman, this is my son, Johan.”

“Mr. Beekman, are we safe here? How far away are the Germans? I didn’t see any as we flew in.”

“They are not many up this way. Our village is small, all we do is fish. At the start of the war, there were over a hundred soldiers running a work camp nearby. Inside there they treated people terribly. Thank God, it closed down two years ago. Now is just a small garrison of soldiers stationed at the south end of our village, maybe four or five men. I don’t think they are good soldiers, though. They talk like they resent being here, as if the war is passing them by. But they rule us like each is a king, and we are their subjects. No one in the village helps them.”

This was encouraging news. “Will they come here?” Shawn asked.

“Not easy to get back here through the dunes,” Mr. Beekman said. “It’s to our advantage. But I think they will send someone to my home soon, which is why I come. My house is the last and closest one before the dunes begin. Everyone in the village would hear your plane coming in, so low and so loud. I think the Germans will send someone to see what happened.”

“Then you better get back,” Shawn said. “We’ll come with you in case there’s trouble.”

A pained expression came over Beekman’s face. “Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t want trouble, for you or for me.”

“What do you suggest?”

“You and your man follow us but stay back by the dunes. We will wait in our home until the Germans come to check. Act as if nothing happened. I will tell them, yes, I hear your plane fly over my house, look up, and see you fly past us, out to sea. You were wise to land where you did. They don’t ever come this far back on the beach; their vehicles get stuck in the sand. They may just believe me and go away. Then we bring you food and water for the night to take back to your men.”

“What if they don’t believe you?” Shawn asked.

“Then, I think . . . trouble comes.”

Nine

Shawn and Manzini followed the Beekmans back toward their cottage, all the while young Johan kept looking over his shoulder at them, smiling. Just up ahead Shawn could see the dunes coming to an end. Mr. Beekman turned and motioned for them to stop at a certain spot, just inside the shadow of the last dune.

“We go alone from here. I have some food for you, but I think not enough for all your men. You are hungry, I am sure.”

“We haven’t eaten since early this morning,” Shawn said.

“I will send Johan to our friends nearby. All will help us.” Beekman looked at his son. “Johan, you must tell everyone do not come to the beach, or we will all be in danger. First, you come into the house, and we will see what we have and what we still need.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Thank you so much for your kindness, Mr. Beekman,” Shawn said. “We are in your debt.”

Mr. Beekman turned and put his hand on Shawn’s shoulder, then looked deeply into his eyes. As he spoke, tears began to form. “You don’t understand,” he said. “You are an answer to my most fervent prayers.” He turned. “Now we go, before the Germans come.” He and Johan hurried off around the corner and were gone.

“What do you make of that?” asked Manzini.

“I don’t know,” said Shawn. “But I’m glad God connected us with someone willing to help.”

“You sure got some connection to the man upstairs,” said Manzini. “All the guys see it. Not just me.”

Shawn didn’t know what to say. For the next ten minutes, they sat crouched behind some tall dune grass, trying to stay warm, but it was hard. The dampness in his pants seemed to freeze right through to his bones. His legs ached. They both watched the cottage for any activity, their eyes adjusting to the oncoming darkness. A few moments later they saw Johan leave and head south down the road out front. Fifteen minutes passed and they heard the sound of a loud car engine coming from the same direction. They looked toward the cottage and saw a Kubelwagen, Germany’s uglier version of a jeep, drive by between the dunes and the side of the cottage, stopping abruptly out front.

“Uh-oh,” Manzini whispered. “Not good.”

“Just stay put,” Shawn said.

They couldn’t see the front door but quickly heard a loud banging then a man yelling in German. They heard Beekman’s voice answering back. The German shouted something else.

“C’mon,” Shawn said, “let’s move to that back wall, but stay behind me.”

Shawn and Manzini hustled toward the back of the cottage, ducking behind a stack of wooden crates near the back window. Shawn heard the German barking out demands and making a racket inside. He heard Beekman’s voice respond quietly. Shawn didn’t understand them, but it was clear Beekman was afraid. Shawn peeked through a pair of weathered, wooden shutters partially closed over the window. A young German officer in a long gray overcoat was holding Mr. Beekman up against a wall and screaming into his face.

“Nick, sneak around the other side there and see if this guy’s by himself.”

“Right,” said Nick and hurried off.

Shawn looked back through the window. The German was slamming Beekman back and forth against a wall. Beekman said something, pleading. The German slapped him hard across the face. As he did, he let Beekman go, and he fell back toward a table. He cowered and put his hands up to protect himself. The German then started hitting him with a stick he picked up by the fireplace, over and over again. Shawn couldn’t just sit there. As he stood up, the front door swung open. Young Johan rushed in and jumped on the back of the German, yelling and pounding him with his fists. The German threw him off, then turned on Johan, hitting him across the face with the stick.

“No, please!” Mr. Beekman yelled.

Shawn rushed around the other side and came in the front door just as the German removed his pistol from its holster. His back faced away from Shawn toward Beekman, now backing up against the table. Shawn pulled out his knife and ran at the officer; their bodies slammed together with a crash. The German fell face forward and Shawn landed on top of him. In a moment, Shawn’s knife was sticking through the German’s heart from the back. The German let out one loud, painful cry then went silent, his face lying sideways on the wooden floor, eyes staring ahead, seeing nothing.

Sitting on the young officer’s back, Shawn couldn’t believe what he had just done. He shook his head and took in a deep breath. He had just killed a man.

He had probably killed hundreds of people flying
Mama’s
Kitchen
, but that thought had never really found a home. They were just dropping bombs on factories and buildings, not on real people. But here was his knife sticking out of a man’s back, a man he had just killed.

“Thank you,” said Beekman, bending down toward Shawn. “You saved my life. He was about to shoot me.” Shawn looked up into his gentle eyes; the left side of Beekman’s face was all red and chapped from where the German had slapped him.

Shawn got up as Mr. Beekman went over to Johan still lying on the floor. Just then Manzini came through the door, his rifle leveled, ready to shoot someone. “You okay, Cap?” He looked down at the dead German, then at the knife sticking out of his back. “Way to go, sir. Bagged a Kraut, close up.”

“He was beating Johan with a stick,” Shawn said. “When Mr. Beekman tried to stop him, he pulled out his gun.”

“Hey, don’t need to explain anything to me. Only good Nazi’s a dead Nazi, you ask me. On the upside, this Kraut was by himself. That jeep thing is empty.”

“More will come in an hour or so,” said Beekman, “when he doesn’t come back to report.” He helped his son to his feet. Johan’s face was bleeding and starting to swell.

“Are you all right, Johan?” Shawn asked.

“I am now,” he said, wincing as he smiled, looking down at the dead German officer. Then he looked at Shawn. “Thank you for saving us.”

“What were you arguing about?” Shawn asked the father.

“He asked me if I saw your plane. I told him what we discussed, that I saw it fly out to sea. He called me a liar, yelling, trying to intimidate me. I said I wasn’t lying, where would I hide a plane, but then he saw the food I was gathering on the table. He said it was too much food for me and Johan and insisted I was getting food to help you. He started to beat me, and then Johan came in.” Beekman paused a moment. “It was good you used your knife. If he shot me, or you shot him, the rest of the garrison would be here in moments.”

Shawn nodded. “Well, if they’re all going to be here in an hour or so anyway, we better get moving. I’ve got an idea. We’ll drag this German back to our plane and leave his body there in the sand where they can easily see it. When they come here, you can tell them the truth . . . you saw our plane trying to land on the beach as we flew by the cottage. Just say you told this German that, and that he headed down the beach looking for our plane. It’ll be dark then. I’ll have my men hiding around the dunes, waiting to ambush them. You said there were only four or five, right? We can easily take them out. They’ll stop at his body, figure we killed him, and before they can react, we’ll attack.”

Mr. Beekman smiled and pulled his son to his side. “It’s a good idea, but not a good plan.”

“Why?” asked Shawn.

“If you kill them all, it will only bring the wrath of the Germans down on our whole village. Everyone pays then. You remember I said you are answer to my prayers?”

Shawn nodded. Mr. Beekman looked at Johan and said, “It’s time for you to be brave, Johan.”

“Why, Father? What do you mean?”

“Remember what we have talked about, our plan to leave here and go to England, if God ever made it clear that we could?”

“We’re going to England? Tonight?”

Mr. Beekman shook his head. “No son, not
we
. . . tonight
you
go in our boat, and help these men to escape.”

Johan pulled away. “No, Father. I can’t leave without you. We can all escape. There is plenty of room on the boat.”

“No, Johan. Someone must be here when the Germans come, to buy you all time to get far away. If they come and find this man here dead, then find the plane, and that we both are missing, they will know that we have helped them. They will come after us in their patrol boats with vengeance, to destroy us. It has to be this way.”

Johan burst into tears and flung himself into his father’s arms. Mr. Beekman turned to Shawn and Manzini, tears streaming down his face. “I think I have a plan that will get you and your men safely to England by morning. With my Johan. But you must act quickly. There is very little time.”

“What do you want me to do?” Shawn asked.

“First, Johan, get your things together,” he said, smiling through his tears. “Tonight . . . you will be free . . . in England.”

“But Father—”

“Johan, there is no time to argue. Get your things. We will be together, after the war. You are getting older. I can’t take the chance that they will come and take you away, off to fight for them or to work in one of their camps . . . or worse. I will be fine here. What do they care about an old man?”

“But if I take the boat, how will you fish? You will have no work.”

“Our friends will care for me. You know this. I will find work. But you must go. I will stay here, and when the war is over, you will come find me. Here, take this.” He reached up and lifted a framed picture off the wall.

Shawn saw it was Mr. Beekman and a woman, probably his wife, and Johan when he was much younger.

“When you see this, pray for me,” he said to his son. “And I will pray for you every day.” He turned to Shawn. “Captain, you must send for your men right away. Bring them all here. My boat is in the other direction from where they are, tied at a jetty a few blocks down the beach. Johan knows where, and he knows how to get from here across the North Sea to England. I’ve charted the course and we’ve talked about it many times. Johan, you know where I’ve hidden the maps on the boat.”

Johan nodded.

“How long will it take?” asked Shawn.

Beekman looked at the clock on the wall. “If you leave now, you will be well out to sea before the Germans figure out what has happened. Darkness is on our side. You will probably not get across the sea before daylight, but with God’s help, you could make it to English waters. My prayer is that you will find an English ship, and they will help you make it the rest of the way. The Germans have few ships patrolling these waters, mostly submarines. They will not bother a boat so small. And no one will even see you until dawn.”

“Manzini, go get the guys.”

“Got it.” And he was gone.

“Captain, you must change into some of my clothes, and your sergeant when he returns. Johan knows what to do on the boat, but he will need some help. The rest of your men can stay in the cabin below until you reach safety. Johan, did you get any more food?”

“It’s outside in the wagon.”

“Very well. Now go, son. Get your things together.”

Johan did as he was told.