Ghost of the Snowlands

Chapter 1

World War I: 1918

…a disobedient wild eyed brat…

It was early September, and the trees had begun turning their magnificent shades of fall. The reddish cinnamons and bright yellows were the favorites. When one thinks he’s seen it all, nature reinvents herself with new brilliant colors. A soft breeze stirred the cool fall air with the light scented fragrance of wheat in the fields. Overhead, the sun glistened brightly between scattered clouds, giving the world a fresh clean appearance.

The day had passed peacefully into the late afternoon until the silence was shattered by the high pitched wail of a crying child. Everyone knew the spanking was long over due, and Albert Brauner’s patience was worn to threads. When the old man dropped the switch and released the boy, he ran for the safety of the house.

“I warned you about playing around that shack! I better not ever see your face around here again! Do you understand?! Now get your belongings and go home!” shouted Albert. He was red faced and sweating heavily. The words trailed off as Logan scampered through the door and into the den.

“Now Albert, he’s just a child and nothing of importance was lost,” argued his wife, Martha. Both stood outside the cottage watching field hands pour buckets of water on the smoldering remains of an empty storage building. Luckily, the wheat had been removed and only a dozen or so cloth sacks had been lost.

“That boy almost burnt down the barn, not to mention the wheat we’ve stored! What if he’d caught the house on fire?! If the wind had changed, who knows what might have happened! I thought the war was bad, but this boy, well, I’ve got a good mind to paddle him again so hard, he’ll stand to eat at supper time!”

“Just calm down, Albert. It’s under control.” While Martha spoke to her husband, Logan’s two brothers rushed to help him gather his belongings and stuff what little food they could find into a nap-sack

. “Where is that boy?!” shouted Albert.

When the old man opened the front door and stepped across the threshold, Logan grabbed the sack and jumped through an opened window. When his feet hit the ground, he raced along a narrow dusty trail that led to the nearest road and headed in the opposite direction away from the house. His feet could not move quickly enough. He was breathing hard and slowed to a trot, before stopping to catch his breath. The spanking had worn off a little, but not by much. No one needed to tell him; he was in deep trouble. Logan could only imagine what would happen when this news reached home. And where was he headed anyway?

Logan stood in the road. For a ten year old boy, he was small. He had reddish blonde hair, freckles, and dark brown eyes. He wore his favorite pair of stained lose fitting overalls and an old leather aviator’s cap to hide the fact his hair was red. His Pa-pa had given him the cap as a gift for his tenth birthday. For his age, he was extremely smart and very determined when it came to demanding his own way. Although Albert Brauner would later call Logan, “A disobedient wild eyed brat that plays with matches;” he did have several redeeming qualities. He was extremely resourceful and could usually be counted on in the midst of a difficulty to help his brothers, especially if he were bribed with a reward. According to Logan’s way of thinking, each new day of this Great War effort that kept him out of school had the makings of an exciting brand new adventure. For the past five days, he and his two brothers, Brynner and Michael, had been helping Albert harvest his crops. It had been Logan’s job to assist his brothers in mending the sacks before they were filled with wheat and sewn shut. That was when the trouble had started.

It was getting late. In another hour it would be dark, and home was another five or six miles distance. The thought of walking alone at night was not what bothered Logan, at least not right now. Logan wiped his eyes and tried to think. In a moment, he made up his mind. He’d run through the forest to Uncle Franz’ house and hide in one of the barns. He could stay there for the night, and in the morning decide what to do.

Franz Steiner, an engineer and metallurgist by trade, lived a half mile from the newest German air base and almost three miles from Albert Brauner’s farm. At thirty-five years of age, he stood comfortably among his peers with his past accomplishments as no small feat. With a fair complexion and blonde hair, he was ruggedly handsome. Although the war had greatly altered his life, there was nothing he enjoyed more than spending time with his two sons, Hans and Jules. They lived on the outskirts of Metz in a white bricked cottage settled on eighty acres given to him by his father who had passed away seven years before. The home sat on a small knoll, facing a dead end road covered with thick grass which served as a landing strip. This two hundred fifty meter strip ran parallel to the newly constructed German air base, Jagdgeschwader I, or JG I, under the leadership of Commander Herman Goring. A narrow densely populated plot of trees separated the two airfields.

Closer to the cottage, Franz’ father had built two spacious wooden barns that served as hangars for the damaged fighters. Beyond one temporary shelter, air base personnel had delivered two Fokker D VII’s which sat motionless in the grass. Holes as wide as a man’s fist riddled the colorful clothed wings of the great machines. Each plane stood as a testimony to the savage battles being fought in the skies above the Fatherland. The pilots who landed these crippled planes counted themselves fortunate, perhaps even lucky to have returned from battle. At that time few pilots lived to tell their tales.

The next day, Franz knelt in the barn beneath a badly damaged Fokker placing saturation mats below the cowling area to absorb oil leaking from the engine. Injured in war from a mustard gas explosion and unable to regain his health; he now worked long hours repairing and scrapping damaged planes from the nearby German airfield. A strong odor of straw and petrol filled the air inside the barn.

“Come in here and help me support this wing!” shouted Franz.

Logan peeked from the edge of the loft. The night had been a long one and now it was mid-afternoon. He was cramped and hungry and wanted to crawl down, but decided to wait until his uncle and cousins returned to the house. Meanwhile, he’d continue to watch the road for any sign of Albert Brauner.

Jules hurriedly looked over one of the newly delivered biplanes counting bullet holes from enemy machine gun fire. He was a handsome fourteen year old boy, and the duplicate of his father when he was about that age, tall with blonde hair and blue eyes. Although he enjoyed doing all the things young boys did his age; he frequently helped his father repair the engines.

“I found a parachute in one of the Fokkers!” shouted Jules, “may I keep it!?”

“Oh, I suppose,” answered Franz, “unless someone claims it.”

Slim chance of that happening, thought Jules, turning once again to look at the ragged machines before entering the barn.