A Distant Melody (19 page)

An explosion overrode the thunder of engines. The left wing lifted, and Walt fought to right
Flossie
. “Any damage?” The gauges for engines one and two looked fine.

“Clear.” J.P. stood on a platform in the back of the cockpit, his head in the Plexiglas top turret.

“Clear,” Harry said from the waist.

“Looks okay. Some dings,” Al said from the ball turret. Only he could see under the wing.

Too close. Walt felt sweat on his upper lip, or was it condensation from the oxygen mask? He peeled off the target with his squadron and increased airspeed.

“We missed,” Mario said from the tail. “Our bombs fell too far north.”

Walt sighed. The flak burst must have thrown off the aim at bomb release.

“Uh-oh.” J.P. spun his turret around. “Fighters. Three of them. Two o’clock high.”

“I see ’em,” Harry said.

“A little closer, and I can get them,” Abe said, his bombsight exchanged for the right nose gun.

Walt watched with dread and fascination. The famous Luftwaffe swooped down in Focke-Wulf 190s, among the finest fighter planes in the world. Long, yellow noses identified them as Goering’s best “Abbeville Kids,” named after their home airfield in France.

White flashes zipped toward Walt. Three of
Flossie
’s machine guns opened up. The cockpit filled with the cough of J.P.’s gun and the clatter of bullet casings on the metal floor. The Fw 190s rolled to their left, following their prop torque. Walt nudged the wheel slightly left to evade.

Cracker yanked his wheel.
Flossie
careened to the left. J.P. cried out. Walt heard a crack and a thud behind him.

They were going to collide with
My Eileen
. Walt tugged his wheel right to counteract Cracker. “What are you doing?”

“Evasive maneuvers.”

“Not like that! Not in formation.” He glanced over his left shoulder. No sign of Frank. “Mario, where’s
My Eileen
?”

“She’s out of formation,” Mario said. “Turned to avoid us—just missed—caught our propwash, fell back.”

Out of formation. Most dangerous place to be. Sitting duck for the Luftwaffe. “Come on, Frank. Get back in formation.”

“She’s coming back,” Mario said.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing up there, Preach?” Harry said. “Had those Krauts in my sights till you knocked me down.”

“Our copilot’s idea of evasion.” He looked behind him. J.P. sat on the turret platform, forehead in his hands. Blood oozed between his gloved fingers. “J.P.! You hit?”

“No. Cracked my head when I fell. I’m okay.”

“One bogie at five o’clock low,” Mario said.

Walt fixed a glare on Cracker. “Keep your hands off that wheel.”

“You’ll get us all killed, you—”

The words he used burned Walt’s ears. “Hands off. That’s an order.”

Sharp pops under the fuselage. “I got him,” Mario cried. “I got him. Smoke off his engine.”

“Ah! I’m hit! I’m hit! Blood! Blood all over.”

Al in the ball turret. Walt craned his neck, though he couldn’t possibly see anything. “Harry, get him out of there.”

The fighters left to pick on another squadron. Walt worked the wheel between his fingers as if he were milking a cow. “Come on, Harry. Get him out.”

“I got him.” Harry swore, and Al screamed. “A lot of blood. Can’t find the wound. Where were you hit, Worley? Come on, show me.”

“I’ve got the first aid kit. I’ll go back, give him some morphine,” Bill said from the radio room. “Oh no. The syringe— it’s frozen.”

Lord God in heaven, help him. We’re still an hour from
base.

“Um, Preach? We found the wound,” Harry said, laughter in the background.

Laughter?

“Al wasn’t hit. A hydraulic line in the ball turret was. The red liquid isn’t blood—it’s hydraulic fluid.”

Laughter had never felt so good, never in his life, not even with Allie. He couldn’t wait to tell her this story.

When they landed at Thurleigh, Walt and Sergeant Reilly inspected the plane and finished Form 1A. Other than the broken hydraulic line and a few dings,
Flossie
looked great. Only Cracker dimmed Walt’s mood.

A sick feeling churned his stomach as he watched the copilot swagger around, slapping backs and ruffling hair. During debriefing, he’d have to report Cracker’s poor judgment and insubordination. At this rate Cracker would never exchange his gold second lieutenant’s bars for silver first lieutenant’s bars as Walt had. But he couldn’t leave Cracker’s discipline to the squadron commander. No. To prove his leadership to the brass, to the crew, and to Cracker, he’d have to confront the man, and now.

The crew stood on
Flossie
’s right, shrugging off flight gear and recounting the mission in loud voices to the ground crew. Walt caught Cracker’s eye and motioned him over in front of the left wing.

Walt ran his hand down the smooth edge of a propeller on engine one. “I’ve put this off too long. It’s time we had a talk.”

“In private, huh?” Cracker peeled off his flight helmet and smoothed his blond hair. “I don’t appreciate this. When you chewed me out, you did it in front of the men, but when it’s time for you to eat crow, you want to do it in private.”

Walt gripped the propeller tip so hard he was amazed it didn’t snap off. The man’s pride knew no end. “I’m not eating any crow.”

“You’re not? Well, then, you’re wasting my time. I’ve got logs to fill out.” He looked over Walt’s head and moved to step around him.

Walt raised an arm to block him. “This is the problem— your arrogance and your incompetence. I can’t decide which is more dangerous.”

“Incompetence?” Cracker jutted his chin out. “I saved your tail today.”

“Saved?” Walt moved closer. It’d feel good to put a fist in that smirking face, but that wasn’t how officers solved problems. “You think you saved my life? That’s the arrogance I’m talking about. You almost got us killed—twice now. That’s plain incompetence. You don’t know the ship, you don’t know her limits, and you don’t know the regulations.”

“Regulations?” Cracker’s chin stuck out more, right in Walt’s face. “Regulations are for cowards who can’t think on their feet.”

For the first time in years, Walt itched for a fight, but he wouldn’t give Cracker the satisfaction. “Regulations are common sense. You don’t make evasive maneuvers—”

“You’re just afraid to admit my actions—not yours—saved the day.” He jabbed Walt in the chest. “You’re afraid to admit I’m the better leader.”

“Arrogant, incompetent, and deluded.” Walt thrust a finger in Cracker’s face. “Like it or not, I’m in charge. I’m responsible for the success of our mission, for the safety of the plane, and for the lives of these men. I will not let you interfere. Now, this is an order. You do your job, you stay out of my way, and don’t you ever show up with a hangover again or—I don’t care who your family is—I’ll—”

Footsteps thumped beside him.

“You want to kill me, Novak? Do it man to man.” Frank stormed up and shoved him.

He stumbled to the side. “Whoa, buddy, not what you think.” He gestured to Cracker, who snickered and sauntered toward a truck.

“I swear. That jerk.” Frank ran over and spun Cracker around. “What on earth do you think you’re doing? Nine men on my plane. I’ve got a wife and four kids at home. No room in this squadron for idiots like you.”

“Hey, back off!” Cracker pushed him away.

Frank threw a wild punch, and Walt grabbed Frank’s arms from behind. As much as he’d love to see Cracker beaten to a pulp, he didn’t want Frank to get in trouble. “Come on, he’s not worth it.”

“I’d like to break that pretty-boy nose.” Frank strained against Walt, his face redder than his hair. “You’d better apologize.”

“Apologize? You’re crazy.”

Walt grunted and tightened his grip on Frank’s flailing arms. Already a crowd was gathering, rooting for a fight. “Apologize, Cracker. You owe him.”

“You’re both crazy. We didn’t get shot up, did we? Thanks to me.” Cracker shouldered his way out of the crowd.

If Walt hadn’t been occupied with Frank, he would have given in and thrown a punch of his own. “Arrogant fool.”

“You said it,” Louis said, his face set hard.

Abe nodded. “Yeah. You make a mistake, you own up to it.”

Finally, everyone saw Cracker for who he was, but it didn’t feel as good as expected to see him overthrown—not when his blunder could have cost eighteen lives.

Frank’s arms went limp in Walt’s hands. “My dad turned to drink after the last war. Now I know why.”

21

Riverside
November 7, 1942

Allie stepped off the bus and hugged herself against the chill. An older couple at the bus stop gave her an appreciative smile. Allie smiled back, proud of her Red Cross uniform—a gray dress with white collar and cuffs, and a white cap with a gray veil in the back. It represented Clara Barton tending the wounded on Civil War battlefields, decades of wartime aid and disaster relief, and Allie’s own small sacrifice.

She hurried down a street in an undesirable part of town. Twilight had fallen, and no light issued from street lamps or windows. If it did, a Civil Defense warden would pounce on the perpetrator. The CD had been stricter than ever since Japanese planes dropped incendiary bombs in the Oregon forest twice in September.

Allie squinted at house numbers and frowned at her own pride. Could she even call her work a sacrifice? She read to the men, helped them write letters, served coffee, and played the piano in the recreation room. She never broke a sweat or dirtied her hands, much less placed herself in mortal danger like Walt, Jim Carlisle, or Louise Morgan’s husband, Larry. The closest she’d come to danger was in her dreams. Twice she’d dreamed of Walt flying under fire. She’d written him about the first dream and regretted it as soon as the envelope tipped down into the mailbox. How improper to tell a man she dreamed about him.

Allie stopped. Cressie’s house had to be the tiniest bungalow she had seen, probably a living room and kitchen, one bedroom and a bath. Even in the dusk, she could see the house was yellow—not subtle, but sulfurous.

What would the ladies from St. Timothy’s think to see Mary Miller’s daughter enter such a house? She laughed and knocked on the door. They’d never see her, because they’d never set a well-shod foot in such a neighborhood.

“Allie? Is that you? Come in, love.”

She gasped. Women packed Cressie’s miniature living room—Cressie, Daisy, Opal Morris, Mabel Weber—why, the entire Ladies’ Circle.

“Surprise! Happy birthday!”

Happy birthday? Tears welled in her eyes. She clapped her hand to her chest and felt the cross from Walt. Two surprises for her birthday. Walt’s gift arrived a week before, but for the life of her, Allie couldn’t remember mentioning her birthday to him.

Cressie crushed Allie in a hug, and then pulled back and clucked her tongue at her. “You’d have thought someone died by the look of those tears.”

She sniffed them back. “Oh my. Thank you, everyone. Thank you, Cressie.”

Cressie turned for the kitchen and flipped her hand over her shoulder. “Daisy’s idea, love. Daisy’s idea. We all put in a bit of butter and sugar for the cake.”

Allie turned to Daisy, whose brown pompadour defied gravity. “Oh, I don’t need a cake.”

“Sure you do. You made me sad ranting to your mom about not getting one.”

Allie’s stomach knotted at the memory of the scene she’d made—in front of Daisy, no less.

“Ooh, is that new?” Daisy took the cross in her hands. “Sure is pretty.”

“Isn’t it? My friend Walt sent it from England.”

“What’d Baxter get you?”

“Earrings.” She smiled, relieved at what she
hadn’t
found in the jeweler’s box.

Daisy’s forehead puckered, and her gaze bounced between Allie’s bare earlobes.

“He bought the wrong kind. I don’t have pierced ears.”

“Didn’t even notice.” Daisy rolled her eyes. “Just like a man.”

Allie didn’t want to be critical, but somehow Walt noticed she didn’t own a cross, while Baxter failed to notice her ears weren’t pierced.

Cressie returned with a white cake and had Allie sit in the seat of honor, where the upholstery sported giant red and orange roosters strutting on a turquoise background. A spring poked her thigh. She crossed her ankles to relieve the pressure and set her elbow on a doily on the armrest. A purple doily. Where had Cressie purchased such thread, and why?

Yet the confidence that allowed Cressie to use purple doilies appealed to Allie. Cressie never fretted about appearances and propriety and what people thought—only what the Lord thought.

At least Cressie had better taste in her baking. The cake was almost as sweet as the friendships that produced it.

Cressie refilled the ladies’ teacups. “I apologize for not having coffee. I love you, Allie, but not enough to give up my coffee.”

Allie laughed. Since coffee was scarce, rationing was scheduled to start November 29 and would provide less than a cup a day. Everyone grumbled, but Allie didn’t mind tea.

Tea. Did Walt drink British tea and eat genuine British fish and chips? Had he been to London to see Big Ben and the Tower and Buckingham Palace?

Much too soon, the ladies rose to leave. Allie lingered to thank her hostess again. While she waited for the others to depart, she studied a photograph on the wall. A handsome young man in a dark suit gazed down at a young lady in a white shirtwaist and long, slim skirt. Allie drew in her breath. Cressie hadn’t been plain; she’d been ugly—coarse features, a broad mouth and crooked nose, and thick black eyebrows. Age had been kind to her. Extra pounds softened her features, and gray hair reduced the effect of the eyebrows. Yet her husband adored her—in the photograph and now, some forty years later.

“I love that picture,” Cressie said. “Doesn’t Bert look smitten?”

“That’s what I noticed. Was this taken when you were engaged?”

Cressie snorted. “Couldn’t have been. We married out of necessity—oh, not like young people do nowadays. You see, Bert was orphaned at eighteen. He had five little sisters to care for, a house to mind, and a business to run. He needed a wife, and fast, and I was the only marriageable girl in our Kansas town.”