A Memory Between Us (31 page)

“All caught up? I don’t want to intrude.” Aunt Gloria peeked out of the kitchen.

Ruth set aside her concerns and walked over to give her favorite aunt a hug. “It’s your home. You can’t intrude.”

“Don’t you look wonderful? So smart and polished. Your parents would be so proud.”

Ruth swallowed hard. She hoped her aunt was correct.

“Come, see the cake before I cut it. Your aunts Peggy and Ruby pitched in some butter and sugar.” Aunt Gloria led her into the shiny little kitchen. On the counter sat a cake iced in blue, decorated with yellow wings similar to the ones Ruth wore on her uniform.

A cake for Ruth? The yellow and blue wavered into green. “I’m glad Bert’s with you.”

“So am I. I wish we could do more.” Aunt Gloria glanced to the kitchen door. “Don’t worry. Maggie’s not too unhappy. She has your spirit. She’ll turn out just like you.”

Ruth wiped her eyes. Successful at a price? Forgiven but damaged? She wished so much more for her baby sister.

38

Bury St. Edmunds Airfield

Wednesday, February 16, 1944

Jack let out a low whistle. She was naked and she was blindingly beautiful.

The brand-new B-17 stood on the hardstand, flaunting her silver skin.

Some muck-a-muck in Army Air Force HQ decided camouflage paint slowed down the planes, but Jack suspected the calculation involved dollars rather than miles per hour.

“Some rookie’s gonna get stuck with her,” the man next to him said.

“Poor fella,” came a voice from behind. “That’ll attract every gun in Nutsy-Land.”

Colonel Castle walked over, his forehead furrowed. More of these silver birds were coming, most likely, and the grousing would build—Uncle Sam didn’t know what it was like, didn’t care, and wanted to kill them all.

Jack had to nip it in the bud. He laid a hand on the chin turret. “Let some rookie crash this beauty? Not if I can help it. I want her for myself.”

“What? Are you flak-happy, Novak?”

“I’m the only sane man here.” Jack strode down the length of the plane, ducked under the wing, and stroked the cool aluminum skin. “Look at this baby. Fresh off the assembly line, no dings, no patches, and look at these waist windows.”

Reluctant murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd.

“Boeing listened to us.” He patted the Plexiglas with its square hole for a gun. “They enclosed the windows. Less wind, less frostbite. And they staggered the windows, so the gunners won’t bump backsides anymore.”

“What’ll you name her, Major—
Target Practice
?”

Jack studied the men’s laughing faces. “Come on, boys. How many times have you been in a pinch and prayed for a few more mph? I’ll already have it.”

“You’ll need it. Call her
Clay Pigeon
.”

“Yeah?” Jack walked back and forth in front of the men. “Do you honestly think camouflage paint protects us? Does it stop bullets? Does it fool the Fw 190s? Come on, olive drab at twenty thousand feet? What are we trying to blend in with?”

“What about the gray paint underneath? The flak worries me, not the fighters.”

Jack turned to the gangly lieutenant, who had an awfully good point. “Our contrails give us away most of the time anyway. I’m convinced the natural finish will not make a difference.”

The CO stood by the tail of the plane with a trace of a smile. He cocked his head to one side, summoning Jack.

“See you later, boys,” Jack said. “Don’t get your grubby fingerprints all over my new girl.”

He trotted after Castle. His friends insisted he needed a new girl, but Jack knew better. He still needed to drill the lesson of his failure into his thick head.

When Jack caught up, Castle chuckled. “Give them a day, and they’ll be grumbling about how Major Novak got dibs on that swell plane.”

“I hope so. I gather she’s the first of many.”

Castle nodded. “Many changes coming.”

Jack strolled by his CO’s side. The new year brought lots of change when Gen. Dwight Eisenhower took command of the European Theater of Operations. To command the Eighth Air Force, Eisenhower appointed Gen. Jimmy Doolittle, one of Jack’s heroes for his aviation racing records and his leadership of the daring bombing raid on Tokyo in April 1942. Doolittle inherited twenty-eight bomb groups and eleven fighter groups, some with sleek new P-51 Mustangs with the range to cover any target.

Castle cleared his throat. “Some of the changes might affect you.”

Jack snapped his gaze to the colonel, then gave an indifferent mumble. Although he was finished with angling and manipulation, his heart picked up a notch. Thorup had served as executive officer for many months and deserved a higher position.

In front of the control tower, Castle stopped and faced Jack. “I have two things to discuss with you. The first concerns your career. I know you put in long years of training to be a pastor.”

“Yes, sir.” Three very long years.

“However, I’d like you to consider a military career. You’re the sort of man we want in the Army Air Force after the war is over.”

Jack’s tongue dried out and stuck to his teeth.

“Have you considered staying in?”

He pulled his tongue free. “Sometimes I—I think about it.”

“At some point soon, you’ll have to decide. Certain positions would be better for a man who won’t leave after the victory parade.”

“That makes sense.” His mind whirled. Colonel Castle thought he’d do well in the military, but he could feel Dad’s strong stare. “
You’d better do more than think about it, son. You’d better pray about it.”

Jack swallowed hard. “I’ll think about it. I’ll pray about it.”

“Good. Now, for the second matter. I received a call from High Wycombe. Another evadee from Bury has returned to England.”

Jack grinned. Nothing like returning evadees to boost morale.

“I need you to head down to identify the man—standard policy to make sure German spies don’t creep in.”

Jack’s grin broadened. “From my squadron?”

“Your crew.”

“My crew?” His smile drifted back down. “Impossible.”

“The man claims to be Capt. Charles de Groot.”

39

Prestwick Air Base, Scotland

Thursday, February 24, 1944

Ruth fastened a strap across her mock patient’s chest to secure him for unloading. “There you go, Private. Thank you for pretending to fly with us.”

The supply clerk grinned. “A nurse like you makes a fella want to get hurt.”

She smiled, although she’d heard similar comments on countless occasions. “Don’t do anything rash. Wouldn’t Hitler love to see all our men in the hospital?” She placed her foot in a stirrup to climb up and check the man in the top tier.

Brisk, salty Scottish air billowed through the cargo door of the C-54. While nurses were dying, pinned down on the beach at Anzio in Italy, Ruth ran drills, drills, drills. After the 815th MAETS arrived in southern England, Ruth’s flight was sent on Temporary Duty to Prestwick to help the 811th begin trans-Atlantic evacuation. However, they were grounded by bickering brass. Gen. David Grant, the Air Surgeon, pressed for air evacuation, but Gen. Paul Hawley, who ran the U.S. Army hospitals in Britain, wanted none of it. Meanwhile, the hospitals teemed with men who needed long convalescence or could never return to duty.

“Watch his head, boys.” Sergeant Burns directed two men with a litter toward the door.

When Ruth moved her foot to a lower stirrup, someone fondled her bottom. She whipped around—Burnsey. “Hey!” She kicked at him, slipped, clipped her head on the top litter, and collapsed over the supply clerk.

He braced her shoulders. “What a nice surprise.”

Ruth groped with her toe for the stirrup. “Sergeant Burns, how dare—”

“When a girl’s this pretty, she doesn’t have to be graceful.” He set his hands on her waist.

“Ain’t that the truth?” the clerk said. “You can trip over me any time, doll.”

Ruth struggled to climb down without Burnsey’s help. She knew where his hands would go. Just helping, he’d say. Feet on the floor, she shook him off. “Sergeant—”

“Make it fast.” He strode down the aisle to the door. “We’re being timed.”

The jerk, always making it her fault. Ruth stamped her foot and loosened the clamp on the next litter. She had to work faster than ever, and by the time the last litter was out, she was breathing hard. On the tarmac, she circulated among the pretend patients, unfastened straps, and folded blankets.

Burnsey stood on the steps to the cargo door and stretched his hands wide over the men. “‘Arise, and take up thy bed, and walk.’”

The men chuckled and got to their feet. Ruth carried a pile of blankets to a truck parked by the C-54. The nerve of him, quoting Jesus Christ.

Footsteps pounded behind her. “Well, gorgeous, impressed by the Bible verse?”

“I’d be impressed if you obeyed the Bible.” She plopped the blankets in the back of the truck.

Burnsey draped his arm over the tailgate. “Anything to win you over.”

She sent him an acidic glare. “Start by watching where you put your hands.”

“My pleasure.” His gray-green eyes glinted. “I’ll watch where I put my hands—very closely.”

Her chest contracted in a crush of terror, but frustration battled to the top. She’d tried direct orders, coldness, laughing him off, and reporting to the chief, but Burnsey grew bolder every day.

“How was their time?”

Ruth whipped around. Lieutenant Shepard addressed a sergeant with a stopwatch.

“Thirteen minutes and eight seconds.” Even slower than usual.

Burnsey trotted up to the chief nurse and saluted. “In our defense, ma’am, we made a great comeback. Lieutenant Doherty had a little fall, but we pulled together after that.”

Lieutenant Shepard directed motherly disappointment at her, and Ruth slammed her tongue against the roof of her mouth so she could sift her words. “Lieutenant Shepard, Sergeant—”

“No need to thank me.” Burnsey patted her on the back. “We’re a team.”

“You should be grateful to have such a good partner, Lieutenant. Now, come with me.” The chief nurse turned and walked away.

Ruth glanced around at the stretchers and blankets. Burnsey would have to clean up, and boy, would she hear about it. She followed Lieutenant Shepard to the next C-54.

“Lieutenant Jensen?” the chief called. “Please come with me, dear.”

May exchanged words with her tech and joined Ruth about twenty feet behind the chief. “What’s up?”

“I have no idea.”

“How was your drill?”

A groan rumbled out. “Over thirteen minutes. Burns made me fall.”

“He made you fall?”

“He grabbed—he grabbed my bottom.”

“Oh, Ruth, maybe it was an accident.”

“An accident? His hand, my bottom.” She cupped her hand to demonstrate.

May tucked a curl behind her ear and frowned. “Did you tell Lieutenant Shepard?”

“Not yet.”

“Good.”

“Good?” Ruth stared at May. “What on earth do you mean?”

May’s mouth squirmed. “I’m—well, I’m concerned. You need to be careful. People are talking.”

“People are talking because Burnsey’s a snake. Everything he says has a double meaning, and he twists things—”

“Ruth.” Her brow creased. “I think your dislike for him is affecting your work.”

How could she say such a thing? “My dislike? You think my—my reaction is the problem? No, it’s his actions.”

May shifted her feet, glanced over Ruth’s shoulder, then returned her gaze. “I’m afraid—well, I know what horrible things you’ve been through. You know—you have to know it affects how you relate to men. Your judgment of Burnsey may be based on your past, not on reality.”

“Is that right, Freud? I’m insane, am I?”

“No.” May pressed her fingertips together and set them against her lips. “No, you’re not insane. You’re just—well, you’re still healing.”

Like a slap to the face, but was it the slap of betrayal or the slap of truth?

“Ladies? Come with me, please.” Lieutenant Shepard inclined her head.

Ruth moved her feet in a mechanical way after the chief. May had the annoying ability to always be right, but was she right about this? Yes, her past affected how she dealt with men, but was that why she saw lechery in Burnsey when everyone else saw friendliness?

She glanced over the airfield, the major trans-Atlantic hub, where new bombers and fighters and crews arrived from the U.S., along with mail and cargo. Her stomach rose and fell like the dunes that separated the airfield from the Firth of Clyde.
Lord, is May right? You know what Burnsey really means. If I’m wrong, please show me, but if I’m right, please help me.

Lieutenant Shepard led them into the Nissen hut that served as HQ for the evacuation squadrons. When she reached her office, she smiled at May. “I like many things about flight nursing—leaving the physicians on the ground, making the decisions in flight, and wearing trousers on the job. Today I found a new benefit. I’ve seen nurses sweat out missions men flew, but today I watched men sweat out a mission nurses flew, or pretended to fly.”

Ruth and May exchanged a puzzled glance.

Lieutenant Shepard opened the door. In a chair by the window, silhouetted against the afternoon sunlight, sat a man. He stood slowly, a skinny man in an Army officer’s uniform, walking with a limp, and as he approached, the light receded and his features came into focus.

“Hello, May,” he said in a familiar bass.

Ruth gasped. As always, May had been right all along.

May gripped Ruth’s arm. “No, it can’t—it can’t be. Charlie?” The face was thinner and paler, but the kind eyes and smile hadn’t changed. “It’s me.”

May’s fingers dug into Ruth’s flesh. “I thought—I thought—oh, Charlie, I’m so sorry.”

His smile sagged, but he hiked it back into place. “It’s okay. You thought I was dead.”

Oh no, he thought she’d found someone else. Ruth pried May’s fingers off her arm. “What are you waiting for, honey? Go to him.”

May closed the gap with halting steps, and she pressed shaky hands to his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I gave up on you. I never should have given up.”