On Wings of the Morning by Dan Verner

the house. Hans reluctantly agreed. “I do not want this radio taking you away from your responsibilities with the farm.”
    “It won’t, Papa. I’ll have more energy from listening to aircraft as they call each other.” Sometimes Otto saw silver transports, including the new DC-3, as they flew high over the farm. He knew that the pilots were in radio contact with the ground, and he wanted to listen in. That would be so swell.
    And so Otto put the radio in his room, ran the antenna and ground wires out the window and turned it on the same evening it came in the mail. He put on his headphones and heard the hiss of static and then a burst of German. With a shock he realized he was listening to Radio Berlin, which was no doubt spouting some sort of Nazi nonsense. In fact, he thought it was Hitler himself ranting. Otto quickly dialed past that, searching for aircraft transmissions. He finally found a channel for American Airlines and listened late into the night, lost in a new world.
    Listening soon became a nightly habit, and he heard not only aircraft transmissions but also the BBC World Service. He felt like he had a front-row seat on what was happening abroad. With what the Nazis and Italians were doing in Europe and the Japanese in Asia, war was inevitable. The powers that were could try to avoid it as much as they could, but Otto didn’t see how Britain and even the United States could stay out of the conflict. He knew there was plenty of sentiment in the U.S. to stay out of any war; even his hero Colonel Lindbergh was an isolationist. Well, time would tell.
    Otto had been listening for about two months and was in the barnyard one afternoon raking up material that gathered there. It was a tedious and smelly task. He saw a line of cars coming up the drive and felt instinctively that they had not come for a friendly visit.
    “Papa! Papa!” he shouted, running toward the barn. Hans appeared at the entrance, pitchfork in hand. Otto pointed to the cars. Hans tossed the pitchfork to Otto and then went into the house, emerging with his Mauser from the war. He apparently had the same feeling as Otto. Mata and Maria came out. “Get back in the house, Mata, Maria,” Hans ordered. “There’s going to be trouble.”
    Mata and Maria obeyed instantly although Otto could see them peering out the window. “Get away from the window!” Hans shouted. Then the cars were upon them and there was no time to look around.
    The cars slid to a stop and twenty men got out of them. Otto recognized some of them. Smith was the apparent leader, with his sons close behind him.
    “Get off my land!” shouted Hans, raising the rifle. “You are up to no good and I order you off my property.”
    Smith just grinned and kept walking toward them. Otto lowered his pitchfork so that it stuck out like a lance.
    “Nazis can’t own property in this country,” Smith snarled.
    “Well, then I am not a Nazi, so you must leave.”
    “You ARE a Nazi,” Smith shouted in a sudden fury. “And a spy! There’s the antenna to your Nazi spy radio.” He pointed to the wire running between the barn and house.
    Hans looked up quickly. “Nein. That is the antenna for Otto’s shortwave that he listens to airplanes with.”
    “Or you broadcast secrets to your Nazi handlers. Let’s just have a look at this spy radio.” He turned toward the house.
    “NEIN!” shouted Hans and shot at Smith’s feet. The dirt kicked up and the bullet ricocheted away into the pasture.
    Smith stopped short and turned, his face contorted by fury. “Now you’ve committed assault, you stinkin’ Hun.”
    “I am defending my home,” Hans said, standing his ground.
    Steve ran around the little group with something in his hand. Otto ran toward him. Steve lit the match he was holding and, diving into the barn, threw it on the nearest pile of hay. The dry material exploded into a fireball. In seconds the barn was engulfed in flames. Otto heard the cattle lowing in fear.
    Smith