A Distant Melody (17 page)
“Take the controls,” he said. “I’m checking out the back.”
“Why? They’d tell us if something was wrong back there.”
Walt caught a flash of alarm in his copilot’s eyes. Yeah, something was wrong. “Take the controls,” he said. He unplugged his headset, swung his legs to the side, and maneuvered over the open passageway that led down to the nose compartment.
“Good takeoff, Novak,” J.P. said, “but you’re right. Mushy.”
He smiled and patted his flight engineer’s shoulder when he passed. J.P. was the only crewmember who didn’t call him Preach.
Walt squeezed around the top turret apparatus in the back of the cockpit and squirmed through the door to the bomb bay. The B-17’s interior was cramped enough in regular clothes but was awfully tight in his sheepskin-lined B-3 flight jacket and with a seat-pack parachute slapping the back of his knees.
He clutched the metal supports as he walked the narrow aluminum catwalk in the bomb bay. The engines’ power vibrated through his gloves and sheepskin-lined boots. The auxiliary tank looked fine.
When he entered the radio room, four men sat up straighter on the floor.
“Hiya, Preach.” Bill Perkins took off his headphones at his seat at the radio desk. “What’s up?”
“Flying heavy in the tail. I’m checking her out.”
Al Worley scrambled to his feet and blocked the door to the waist compartment, which was closed to keep the men warm. “I don’t think you should go back there.”
“All the more reason to go.” Walt shoved the little man to the side with the back of his arm.
“Really, Preach. Luggage all over the place,” Harry Tuttle said.
Walt opened the door and moved to step through. He couldn’t. He could only stare.
Luggage lay heaped on top of the housing for the ball turret, and stacks of wooden crates filled the tubular waist compartment. He read the labels on the crates—bourbon, gin, rum.
What on earth?
The crates weren’t there when he did the preflight inspection. Guaranteed. When? How?
The parachute.
He’d set his parachute on the pilot’s seat before preflight. This—this was why it disappeared. This was why he had to trudge all the way back to the equipment shed and fill out all the stupid forms to get a replacement. This was why the men insisted Walt enter through the nose hatch instead of the waist.
“What’s going on here?”
Silence. He faced his men. “I repeat—what’s going on here?”
Bill fidgeted with the radio cord. “Well, we stocked up so we can sell to the Brits. Cracker said not to tell you. He knew you’d get riled up, because you hate booze.”
Walt’s fists clenched as tight as his gloves allowed. “It’s not the booze, it’s the weight.”
He picked up a duffel and tossed it into the radio room so he could get through the door. Just how much weight was there? He counted forty-eight crates. If each crate weighed forty, fifty pounds, he had about a ton of cargo.
He waded through the bags to the left waist window and threw a duffel to Mario Tagliaferro, who stood in the doorway, mouth wide open. “I need some help,” Walt said.
“What are you doing?” Mario asked.
“Ditching the weight.” Walt lifted the top crate by the window and slammed it down in the space he had cleared on the floor. Now he had room to work.
Al pushed past Mario. “Hey, that’s our profit.”
“Profit? Fat lot of good that’ll do if you’re at the bottom of the ocean.” He dropped another crate, with a satisfying crunch of breaking glass.
“Stop it!” Al leaned over the crates Walt had moved, his face red and twisted. “We put a lot of money in this.”
“Too bad. Stupid investment. Would’ve frozen anyway.” He slid the Plexiglas window open. The Arctic wind gusted in and knocked his breath away. He braced himself against the slipstream and heaved a crate through the window.
Al grabbed his elbow. “You can’t do that.”
Walt whipped around, fury hot in his veins. “I can and I will. If you don’t want to join your cargo, you’d better get to work.”
One of Al’s eyebrows twitched, as if he knew Walt just might follow through on his threat. He grumbled and backed off. “Just ’cause you don’t drink doesn’t mean we can’t have our fun.”
Walt plugged in his headset by the window. “Fontaine, recalculate the fuel consumption data with an extra two thousand pounds of weight.” He pointed to Al, Harry, Mario, and their startled passenger. “And you—get to work.”
“Yes, sir,” Al said, no mask over his hostility.
Over the next few minutes, Walt and the men dumped the crates into the Arctic Ocean five thousand feet below. Despite the cold, sweat dampened the sides of Walt’s undershirt. The exertion and some muttered prayers took the edge off his rage.
When the booze was gone, Walt returned to the cockpit. He took his seat without a word to his copilot. Sure enough, the elevators had been re-trimmed. Must have gained altitude. He plugged his headset in and pressed the mike button on the control wheel. “Pilot to navigator. Fontaine, do you have those calculations?”
“Um, yes.”
“And . . .”
“And—we probably wouldn’t have made it.”
“What if we’d had engine trouble?” He glared at Cracker, who wouldn’t meet his eye.
“Um, no. Definitely not.”
“Okay, crew, get to praying. Pray your stupid stunt didn’t cost us too much fuel on takeoff. That water is icy down there.” His fury cooled with the satisfaction of being proved right. “If you’d been honest with me before we left, you could have gotten your money back. I might even have let you keep a few cases.”
One more point to drive home hard. “Dishonesty always has a price.”
Bedford, England
September 9, 1942
“Like a fairy tale,” Frank said.
“Yeah.” Walt stuffed his hands in the pockets of his flight jacket and glanced over the embankment to the Great Ouse River. Thanks to Cracker’s scheme, they’d landed on fumes the other day, but thanks to God’s mercy, they landed. Now Walt was actually in England, in Bedford, where John Bunyan wrote
Pilgrim’s Progress
while in prison, and swans actually swam in the river.
The place didn’t remind him so much of a fairy tale—more like the colorful pictures in the black and white checkered Mother Goose book Mom used to read to him. “I half expect Little Miss Muffet or Wee Willie Winkie to run by.”
“I’d rather see Lady Godiva.”
“Hey! You’re a married man.”
Frank cocked his head to the side. “Speaking of naked ladies, gotta get something for my Eileen.”
Walt laughed and turned right onto who-knew-what street. During the invasion scare in 1940, the British had torn down the street signs to confuse German paratroopers. Now the American invaders were confused. Bedford’s streets lay like wheel spokes, not in a grid like Antioch’s. Walt and Frank passed the Swan Hotel on the right and the tall white spire of St. Paul’s cathedral on the left. A fourteenth-century cathedral— he couldn’t believe it.
Frank turned left. “This street looks good. Lots of shops.”
“Not much in them.” Walt peered through the store windows at the empty shelves. Across the street, a line of women and old men stood outside a store called “Marks & Spencer.” Must be a grocery. The people showed the results of strict rationing, all thin and pale. Some airmen from the 306th swaggered around the line and flirted with the prettiest girl with gum-smacking Yankee vigor.
“Let’s check in here.” Frank nodded to a jewelry store and ground his cigarette butt into the flagstone sidewalk. “Can’t wait to see what the Brits do when an Irishman waves money in their faces.”
Walt stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dark store. A man with wispy gray hair and a worn tweed jacket stood behind the display case. “How may I assist you?”
Frank leaned one forearm on the case and pulled out his wallet. “Looking for a grand necklace for me wife,” he said in his fake Irish brogue.
Walt stifled a smile and looked down through the glass at a collection of gold crosses. One grabbed his attention. Long-stemmed flowers formed the four arms of the cross. “Excuse me. What are these flowers called? On this cross?”
The jeweler glanced over and sniffed. “Those would be called lilies, sir.”
“Oh yeah. Like Easter.” Leave it to the English to make a man feel like an uneducated dolt. Lilies—he knew that. Why did he think of Allie? Oh yeah. One day she’d worn a dress with a big lily up the side. Sure was pretty on her. That cross would look pretty on her too.
“Getting something for your girlfriend?”
Walt looked up. “Hi, J.P. Didn’t see you come in.”
“Ah, Sergeant Sanchez,” Frank said. “Faith and begorra, it’s good to be seeing you this fine afternoon.”
J.P.’s eyebrows drew together at Frank’s accent, and Walt fought a chuckle.
Frank’s eyes lit up, and he turned back to the Englishman. “Must be doing your heart good to be seeing so many fine American lads. Don’t you be worrying. We’ll be getting you out of this war as we got you out of the last one.” He was breaking every rule in the handbook the American servicemen received about dealing with the British, and he sure was enjoying it.
“He’s joking,” Walt said. “We know you can handle yourselves. We’re only over here to get in a few licks of our own.”
The jeweler straightened his thin shoulders. “Would you gentlemen care to see anything?”
Frank fingered one necklace. “Sure and me wife would like this sapphire.”
“Nothing for me,” Walt said.
“What about your girlfriend?”
Walt glanced over at J.P. This story of his required as much maintenance as an aircraft engine.
“Saints be blessed, Walter. ’Tis your Allie’s birthday soon, ’tisn’t it?”
“’Tisn’t it?” He raised an eyebrow at Frank, who shrugged.
Walt had no idea when Allie’s birthday was and no business buying her jewelry, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off that cross. He didn’t remember Allie wearing a cross. Surely he could make some excuse for a gift like this. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll take this cross.”
The jeweler boxed it up, and Walt’s misgivings melted away. She’d like it. Pretty, distinctive, and a sign of her faith. Besides, it felt nice to buy her something.
J.P. picked out a bracelet for his girl in San Antonio. “Another plane came in from Prestwick after you two left—with some news.”
“Yeah?” Walt stroked the velvet box in his pocket. He’d never bought jewelry before.
“That missing crew from the 367th Squadron made it— but barely. Ran out of fuel off Ireland, ditched the plane in shallow water, and walked to shore. The next tide washed their Fort out to sea.”
“Wow. So we’re down to thirty-three planes.” Walt held the door open, and the men walked out into weak sunshine. One plane from the 423rd Squadron had disappeared in a bright flash not long after takeoff. “At least the men made it this time.”
“Yeah.” J.P. nodded across the street to a half-timbered pub, full of airmen on liberty. “I think the booze did them in.”
“They weren’t drinking, were they?”
“Nope. Had a full load in the back of the plane. Sound familiar?”
Walt tripped over a flagstone. “You’re kidding.”
“Uh-uh. Al Worley—he turned even whiter than usual when he heard. And Harry and Mario—they’re singing your praises.”
“Glory be, ’tis wonderful news.”
Walt laughed. “Knock it off, Frank. We’re out of the store.”
“Sorry. Can’t help myself. But say, that is good news. Tell the CO. Cracker will crumble in your hands.”
“Nah. I forgot to tell you. Talked to Colonel Overacker this morning. Seems Cracker’s from some hoity-toity family. Can’t get rid of him. And Overacker doesn’t want to switch crews. He knows Cracker’s weak. That’s why I got him.”
“That’s a fine compliment,” Frank said.
Walt snorted. “I’d rather have a fine copilot.”
Riverside
October 8, 1942
“I couldn’t pick if I were her either,” Daisy Galloway whispered, then stuffed more popcorn in her mouth. “Bing Crosby or Fred Astaire? Bing Crosby or Fred Astaire? They’re both dreamy.”
Allie shushed her—again. Daisy guffawed during the cartoons, crunched popcorn during the newsreel, and chattered during the movie. Allie had seen
Holiday Inn
before, but not this week’s newsreel, which showed U.S. aircrews landing in England after a mission over Nazi-occupied Europe. She had strained her eyes looking for Walt. Although he couldn’t say where he was stationed due to censorship, his references to Mother Goose and
Pilgrim’s Progress
indicated he was in Great Britain.
“Oh, Fred. Definitely Fred,” Daisy said when his tap-dancing feet set off firecrackers.
“Oh, Bing. Definitely Bing,” she said when he crooned “White Christmas.”
Allie sighed, but she did enjoy her outings with Daisy after Ladies’ Circle every Thursday, her day off from the Red Cross. What a joy to tell Walt she now had friends, fun, work, and a good church, all of which brought purpose and contentment, despite Mother’s comments that Allie had abandoned her.
The house lights flipped on, and the ladies filed out of the Fox Theater, a Mission Revival building with a bell tower over the box office.
Daisy sang “I’ve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo” as they strolled across Seventh Street in the sunshine.
Allie frowned at a crowd ahead of them. A shipment of something scarce must have arrived at the grocery. Beef? Coffee? Even bobby pins would be nice.
“Sugar,” Allie overheard.
“Sugar.” She gripped Daisy’s elbow. “They have sugar. Do you have your ration book?”
“Yeah. Do you?”
“Yes.” Allie opened her pocketbook. She always took the family’s ration books when she went out. The apple trees were in peak production, and now they could make applesauce. For once, she’d make Mother happy.
