Full Moon Waning

By Nicholas G. L. Petryszak

A story of two WW2 Polish veterans who immigrate with their families to Canada. About their often hapless search for success, with help from a mix of characters with bad intentions. Of friendship, loyalty, love and love betrayed. Of mistakes made and plans gone wrong. Of fears, real and imagined; driven by hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823007481

Nicholas G. L. Petryszak

Full Moon Waning is my third novel. As a former university professor and administrator, I have also published a number of academic articles. Recently retired from my professional career, I have now begun my fourth novel. I live in Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada. Apart from writing, I enjoy working out and being in the outdoors.

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FULL MOON

WANING

NICHOLAS G. L. PETRYSZAK

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2023 Nicholas G. L. Petryszak. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/27/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0747-4 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0748-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter 1     Not To Be Forgotten

Chapter 2     A New Beginning

Chapter 3     The Welcome

Chapter 4     Cross Country

Chapter 5     A Job

Chapter 6     An Opportunity

Chapter 7     Some New Friends

Chapter 8     From Good To Bad

Chapter 9     Tania

Chapter 10   A Problem With A Friend

Chapter 11   Some Good News

Chapter 12   It Gets Worse

Chapter 13   A Walk On The Beach

Chapter 14   A Dinner Date

Chapter 15   Some Old Friends Come To Visit

Chapter 16   A Chat Over Coffee

Chapter 17   Just Another Night Out

Chapter 18   Scorched Earth

Chapter 19   A Good Company Man

Chapter 20   Not So Convincing

Chapter 21   The Next Generation

Chapter 22   A Vodka Moment

Chapter 23   Not A Secret Anymore

Chapter 24   One Problem Solved

Chapter 25   One Last Phone Call

Chapter 26   Don’t Worry About A Thing

About The Author

DEDICATION

T o all those, who came to this country, looking for something better and tried so hard to find it, without any help. This book is a small attempt to remember a few of them.

CHAPTER ONE

NOT TO BE FORGOTTEN

J ózef was thinking about his mother and father, his sister Renata and his brother, Tadic. He was sitting in the rear turret of a Lancaster bomber. The engines of the plane trembled steadily and with purpose, committed to reaching Germany. As a Pole in the Royal Air Force, Józef was a tail gunner. His job was to watch for silhouettes of Messerschmidt 109’s and Junker 88’s, against the brightness of a full moon. It was two o’clock in the morning. Holland was below them. They were flying at twelve hundred feet.

He had been flying in Halifax and Lancaster bombers with the Polish Forces, RAF for two years. This was his third tour. A large number of planes in his squadron had been destroyed, since he had begun flying in 1942. He had lost many friends. Józef knew that he might also die. The fact that he was only twenty-two years old, mitigated the reality of his own mortality.

Józef spoke into his face mask on the intercom to Stanislav, the pilot. Stanislav was a close friend and drinking companion. He spoke in Polish.

Strzelam serią testową. Odpuszczam teraz. I am firing a test burst. Letting go now.

He squeezed the trigger of his machine guns. The roar was deafening and the empty, ejected shell casings, covered the turret floor.

Józef spoke again over the intercom Wszystko wydaje się w porządku. Stojan przy szyprze. Everything seems fine. Standing by skipper.

Stanislav replied in Polish, although their English squadron leader forbade it. As English was only to be spoken during combat missions and in communications with the air control tower.

‘’Potwierdzono. Acknowledged."

Speaking in English over the intercom, to the whole crew, Stanislav gave an order.

‘’Radio and intercom silence in effect. Everyone stay alert. This is where we lost two aircraft in the last sortie."

Watching the sky, Józef reached into his sheepskin jacket for the Benzedrine pills they had all been given. Taking out two of the small blue pills, he put his head back and swallowed them. He knew that before long he would feel better, better than good.

It was always bitterly cold in the rear turret. Especially when they flew at high elevation. The sheepskin jacket, pants, boots and gloves helped. But the turret was small and cramped and it was difficult to move around and warm up.

The night sky was empty. Lots of stars and the moon seemed close. The plane suddenly dropped as it hit an air pocket. Empty shell casings rolled about on the floor. His thoughts wandered. He thought again about his family as he watched the lights of a small-town pass below in the darkness.

Józef was born in a tiny village, near the Polish city of Lublin. His family owned a small farm there. After the Germans invaded Poland, he told his father he was going to England to join the Polish air force, which was part of the RAF. He wanted to fight for his country and kill Germans. With the help of the Polish underground, he and other young Poles arrived in London a year later.

When he was younger, Józef’s father had fought the Germans and the Russians. His grandfather had been taken prisoner by the Russians never to return. His great grandfather had also fought the Germans and Russians. War for his family, and killing Germans was a tradition. And so, his family had understood when he left home, to go to England and fight.

Now he was a Flight Sergeant; trained as a navigator and rear gunner. He was due for a one month leave after four more missions.

He was in love with a woman he had met at a dance, two months ago in Blackpool. Her name was Margaret. Her father had fought in the Boer war. Margaret was beautiful, with a dark completion, black hair and green eyes. She was also very English.

Józef thought to himself, ‘I must marry her, if I survive from all of this. I shall ask her. I know I love her.’

Still thinking of Margaret, he reached under his seat for his coffee flask which was full of rum. As he bent down, he looked out the bottom of the turret to suddenly see tracers from a Messerschmidt 109. hurtling over his head. Some of the bullets tore pieces off the top of his turret with a huge, shuddering explosion. Cold air rushed in.

There were screams on the intercom and he yelled back in English now, Huns below and to the rear at eleven-thirty. Close to port. Returning fire!

Other voices came over the intercom. Loud and full of panic I’m hit. Oh hell. I’m hit.

Within a few seconds, the 109 had circled back to fire again. Józef squeezed off another hundred rounds. The roar of the machine gun was deafening. The wind howled as it came through the holes in the shattered glass of the turret.

You fuck, he shouted. You German fuck.

He saw from his own tracers that some of the shells he had fired, actually hit the 109 as it passed over. There was now smoke coming from its fuselage.

Józef spoke on the intercom to Stanislav I got the son of a bitch.

Michael, the co-pilot yelled over the intercom. Stanislav is hit. I’m hit. We need morphine. 109 starboard…above…two o’clock.

Bullets tore into the side of the bomber. The navigator moaned over the intercom. Now, the whole plane was full of smoke. Another 109 hurtled above Józef. He frantically fired off a whole belt, as the 109 dived. Josef’s feet slid on the empty shell casings. Some of them flew out the broken portions of the turret. He looked at the floor and he saw it was wet.

His thoughts came to him in rapid flashes. ‘Must be the coffee. I must have spilled it.’

He felt the inside of his sheepskin pants which were also wet. ‘Or maybe I’ve pissed myself,’ he thought.

He actually had done that once before.

Michael begged over the intercom, Morphine for fuck sake. I can’t reach it. Stanislav is down. He’s not moving.

No one else in the plane replied.

Then Józef spoke For God sake Andrew, help him.

Andrew was the navigator, who sat near the pilot and co-pilot. He didn’t answer. Only silence.

Anyone? Reply.

No reply from the bombardier. No reply from the front turret. No reply from mid-ship’s turret.

Josef cursed loudly The intercom must be broken.

He unstrapped himself from his seat and knelt down to crawl from the turret, through the narrow exit hole, to the fuselage area. His right, upper leg was suddenly filled with electric pain. He grunted and rolled on his back.

The German shot me. Oh God.

He let go of his leg and lay there. ‘Now what?’, he thought.

He rolled over onto his stomach and tried to get onto his knees on the floor of the turret.

‘Pain bearable. Yes, I can do it,’ he said to himself.

Józef tried to crawl, but he felt his right thigh getting wetter from the blood inside his flight suit.

Speaking out loud, he said, Fuck it, I must keep going.

He entered the rear fuselage from the turret and stood up. Shell casings lay everywhere and anywhere there was smoke. He looked up to the mid-ship turret. Ladislaw hung in his seat, limp. There was blood all over the glass of the turret. He wasn’t moving. Józef felt his wrist. There was no pulse and no reflexes.

Letting Ladislaw’s hand go, he turned to Andrew the navigator and bombardier. Cannon fragments had decapitated him. Portions of his skull were smeared on the chart table and the fuselage wall. Andrew had grown up in a village in Poland, close to Józef’s. Józef now looked down at the Flight Engineer, who lay sprawled on the floor to the aircraft. The front of this flight suite was torn and bloody and he was motionless. There was blood running from his mouth. Józef put his fingers on the man’s throat, searching for a pulse.

‘Dead,’ he said to himself.

Józef entered the cockpit. Stanislav was slumped over in his seat.

Michael was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, holding onto the wheel of the aircraft. He looked up at Józef and spoke He’s dead. Shot in the chest. I’ve got a round in my shoulder. I can still fly, I think. Listen Józef. Put a shot of morphine in my armpit. Open my jacket and put tensor tape around my whole shoulder area, as tight as you can. Pull Stanislav out of his seat and lay him on the floor. Then sit down in his seat and help me fly this thing. We’re turning back. Number two engine is smoking and I can’t seem to maintain oil pressure.

Józef listed to Michael’s short precise orders. He followed each of them, one by one and as quickly as he could. First the morphine. Then the bandage. Then Stanislav. Then he was sitting beside Michael.

After strapping himself into the seat, he reached again for the medical kit that he had placed beside the pilot’s seat, on the floor. Taking out a razor blade from the bag, he slit open his sheepskin flying overalls and then his uniform trousers that he was wearing underneath. Everything was soaked in blood. He took an alcohol swab and wiped his leg clean, injected a shot of morphine into the fleshy part of his thigh and applied a tourniquet. The small gaping hole in his thigh stopped pumping out blood, almost immediately.

‘Its not too bad,’ he thought to himself.

Michael asked, Are you going to make it Joe?

Yes, I will. Józef replied. I’m not going to let those Germans kill a good-looking guy like me. There are too many women I know who would consider my death a real tragedy. I’ve got to save myself for them. The hole in my leg is small and clean and the shell went straight through. I hope I killed that German who hit us. I did see a portion of his wing fly off, after I fired."

Michael coughed and said, Joe, we’re in trouble. We could go down any time. We’ll have to drop our load, either over Holland somewhere, or wait until we get over the channel. We can’t land with all those bombs on board.

Let’s drop them now, Józef replied. Then we can gain altitude.

Michel looked at Józef with some curiosity and said, I think we’ll try to drop them in a field. We don’t want to endanger civilians. Right?

Józef was now feeling the effects of the morphine Yes, of course you’re right.

Then he said in Polish, Boze, ocal nasze zalosne osly. God save our sorry asses.

We’ll have to gain elevation, to drop the bomb load, Michel explained quietly.

I don’t have enough strength in my shoulder to pull her up. Joe, put your hand on the wheel. When I tell you, pull on it slowly towards you, until I say stop. Okay?

Yes, Mike. I understand. Just don’t kill us.

Michael started coughing again.

Józef said, That coughing. It sounds like you might be lung shot.

I don t know if I am or not. I just want us to get out of this fucking mess. Joe, now start to pull her up.

Józef slowly pulled on the wheel. The plane shuddered and the wheel shook and the plane gained elevation, nonetheless. The sound of the engines was deafening.

When they had gained sufficient elevation, Michael gave more instructions Joe, that lever by your right hand. Push it forward now!

Józef did this and the bomb doors opened.

Michael continued According to my chart, we’re going over some farmers’ fields. Okay Joe. Go back to the bombardier’s station to release the load. Look through the bomb site to confirm the location. I’ll hold the ship steady for three minutes. When you identify the site, flip the cap off the release button, count to three over the intercom and release the load.

Michael coughed again. There was blood on the side of his lip. Purple frothy blood. Józef looked at Michael, saw the blood and he knew then that he was lung shot. Having hunted boars on the farm in Poland, he knew the signs of a shattered lung, when he had shot poorly. He didn’t say anything more to Michael. Józef thought to himself, that Michael would be dead as soon as his lungs filled with blood. Hopefully, they would reach England before that.

Józef got out of his seat and went back to the bombardier’s station. He pulled Andrew’s body onto the floor, beside his map table. There was blood everywhere. Sitting in the bombardier’s seat, Józef looked down the bomb site. From the light of the moon, he could make out water, ditches and fields.

Okay. Location confirmed, he said into his face mask, over the intercom.

Bomb release button ready. Counting. One. Two. Three. Bombs gone.

The plane suddenly gained elevation, as it’s heavy load fell to the earth. Józef returned to the pilot’s seat.

Okay Michael. Let’s get back to the airdrome. Right?"

Michael looked pale and when he replied, he slurred his words Yes, Joe we’ll get there. We should gain elevation now. Our oil pressure is low, but hasn’t decreased any more. Maybe we can make it. Keep your fingers crossed. It’s still three hours flying time to the coast of England, if German fighters don’t sniff us out.

He coughed again and spit out blood on the floor beside him.

God, I feel bad. Real bad, and I’m beginning to get cold. Must be shock. Józef, I have a bottle of rum under my seat. Please get it for me. Take the cap off and pass it over.

Józef leaned over and found the bottle. He also pulled out from the pocket of his flight suite two Benzedrine pills.

Here Michel, wash this down. He gave one of the pills and the bottle of rum to Michael. Michael swallowed it and took a long drink of rum. Josef swallowed the other pill and drank from the bottle that Michael had passed back to him. In another pocket, he found his cigarettes. He lit one and gave it to Michael and then he lit one for himself.

The engines droned on steadily.

They didn’t speak about the dead men on the plane. Michael studied the instruments and glanced now and then at the map that rested on his knees. Józef watched the darkness and the waning moon above them. He remembered a story about his grandfather who had been a mayor of their village in Poland before he was born.

The story went like this. When his grandfather was twenty-four years old, Russian soldiers had come to his small house in the village of Uscimow. They broke the door down, pushed his wife and two-year-old son to the side, made him kneel on the floor and then shot him in the head, in front of his whole family. Before he died, his grandfather had said to those soldiers, I didn’t know cowardly pigs like you would know how to shoot a gun. The Russians had suspected his grandfather of sabotaging one of their supply trains.

Józef thought to himself, ‘What a brave man my grandfather must have been. I wonder if I can be that brave and strong, facing death. We will see how strong I am. But I don’t think I am going to die right now, just as long as Michael keeps breathing.’

All of a sudden, the plane lurched hard to starboard and Józef banged his head on the side of the cockpit window.

What the hell! Number two engine is stalled. Now we’re finished!

Józef looked out the window at the still propeller of number two engine.

Those fucking Germans got us into this mess. Can we make it Mike?

Maybe if we have luck. Maybe God will give us a break and let us go home. Then he said in Polish, Bog nas wyzwoli. God deliver us.

Both of them had to hold on to their wheels, to keep the plane steady. The shuddering of the aircraft was terrible. The shaking was making Michael’s wound bleed.

Józef passed the bottle of rum back over to Michael, who took another long drink and passed it back. As he drank from the bottle, Józef looked at Michel and then said, God get us out of this mess. Please God.

Michael spoke quietly now. There was a rasp in his voice. Joe, if a German fighter picks us up, we’re finished. As soon as we’re over the French coast, I can signal for a fighter escort. If they can’t protect us, at least they can see where we may have to ditch in the sea. Okay?

The bomber now shook so badly, it was as if the rivets which held it together would pop out at any minute. Both Józef and Michael held onto their wheels, trying to keep the plane level. The light of a new dawn was slowly advancing towards them. They were now over France and getting close to the coast.

Are you okay Michael?

Yes, I think so. Joe. I want you to go back to the navigator’s table and send a signal on the Morse key. I have circled the coordinates on the chart. Ask for a fighter escort. Here’s the map with our position on it.

Anything you say, Józef replied.

He went back to the navigator’s table. The Morse key was covered in blood. He took his sheepskin glove and tried wiping the blood away. It didn’t work very well. Trying to remember his Morse code, he sent the message. He repeated everything twice. He thought to himself that he didn’t want to drown in the English Channel and he sent the message yet again.

After he finished sending the message he looked about. There was just him and the dead men there. Looking at each of them, he wondered if their souls were still on the plane.

He said aloud, Guys, don’t hang around here. We’ll be alright. Please. Go on ahead of us. I know we shall see one another again, but not right now.

Józef returned