A Memory Between Us (33 page)

For Charlie’s sake, Jack grinned at the reporters. “‘Ven Herr Goering says, “Dey’ll never bomb dis place,” we “Heil! Heil!” right in Herr Goering’s face.’ Insert your own raspberries,” he said about the verbal salute after each “Heil!”

He decided to leave them laughing. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a pile of forms waiting for me.”

From under the canvas canopy of a GMC truck, he peered at his plane.
Special Delivery
had been passed to a rookie, and Jack named his new ship
Silver Salvo
. Some prankster changed the lettering to read
Silver Salvage
, but Jack repainted it. As he liked to point out,
Silver
had no more holes than the camouflaged planes.

The light snow that had fluttered around the Forts on takeoff now squished under the truck tires on the way to interrogation. The men piled out, picked up coffee and donuts at the Red Cross counter, and entered the briefing room.

Joe Winchell waved Jack’s crew over to his table. “Hiya, fellas. How was the mission?” He sent the bottle of scotch past Jack.

“Never been so disappointed.” Fred Garrett, the right waist gunner, poured a shot of whiskey. “Came back with our gun barrels still taped. Not one bullet fired.”

Winchell made a note on his form. “Did you see any enemy aircraft?”

“Only from a distance.” Bob Ecklund, the copilot, warmed his square hands on his coffee cup. “The Little Friends kept them away. We saw some dogfights.”

Jack chewed on his donut, and bits plunked into his empty stomach. Flight rations didn’t substitute for a full lunch.

“What a difference an escort makes,” Oggie Drake said in his nasal voice.

“Dead right,” Jack said. On this mission 801 fighters accompanied 750 bombers. After escort duty, the fighters hit the deck and strafed airfields. The new procedure made the bomber boys worry the fighter jockeys would abandon them to seek ace status, but Jack agreed with General Doolittle’s order—to destroy the Luftwaffe in the air, on the ground, and in the factory.

The crew related every detail of the mission—the heavy flak, the inability to bomb the primary target of the Bosch Electrical Equipment factory, the dropping of
Silver
’s salvo on the city center, and the loss of the command ship with Brig. Gen. Russ Wilson, CO of the Fourth Combat Bombardment Wing.

After Winchell gathered his data, Jack and his crew went to the equipment shed, turned in flight gear, and retrieved personal items. On the walk to the mess, Jack lagged behind to review letters he had received the day before.

Ruth’s letter came first. She wrote him frequently and deeply. Jack savored her forgiveness and the unwarranted second chance, but where was this going? Physical intimacy was impossible, but did that rule out a future together? All he knew was a visceral urge to love her, protect her, and provide for her.

Yesterday’s letter heightened that urge. Jack scanned her strong, tiny script. Ruth suspected her Aunt Pauline was taking advantage of her, and Jack didn’t doubt it. Despite Ruth’s sacrifices, this hag swung the ax of the orphanage and demanded more, more, more.

The next section of the letter made his blood boil. He couldn’t punch out Aunt Pauline, but his fist itched for Burns’s chin. In the hospital Ruth had brushed off propositions unfazed, but this fellow fazed her. She described his harassment in cautious terms, but behind her self-doubt, Jack saw fear.

“Hi there, Major Novak.”

Jack glanced behind him. Lieutenant Polansky, his newest pilot, approached with an officer he didn’t know. “Hi, Polansky. Great job today. You kept her in tight formation.”

“Thanks, Major.” The kid’s round face broke into a grin, and Jack had an urge to give him a lollipop.

The two men passed Jack up on their way to the mess. “Your squadron commander?”

“Yeah,” Polansky said, his voice low but not low enough. “There’s a born leader. The right man in the right job.”

Was it prideful to glean satisfaction from those words? Surely it wasn’t wrong to love your job and want to do it well.

Jack fanned out three more letters, one addressed by Dad’s typewriter, one in Ray’s script, and one in Walt’s jagged capitals.

Walt encouraged him to stay in the military, not a surprise. When Walt had decided to become an engineer, he had to stand up to Dad. The rebel supported another rebellion, but was that what Jack needed to hear?

On the other hand, Ray’s letter stunned him. Jack opened it again.

I’ve been thinking about your career dilemma. I pray God will make his will clear, and I’ll support whatever choice you make. Remember, the pulpit is only one place to serve the Lord. You can also serve him on your base, where you interact with men who would never set foot in church.

Please pardon my bluntness, but were you called to be a pastor? I’ve never known you to struggle, not in high school or at Cal or in the Army Air Force. However, in seminary it seemed as if you forced yourself to fit and to succeed. I wonder, if you were not the namesake and image of a gifted and strong-willed pastor, whether you would have pursued the ministry.

Jack frowned and folded the letter. Dad thought Jack was meant to be a pastor, but Ray didn’t, and both men loved the ministry.

Then the last letter. Dad encouraged his prayer and obedience and insisted Jack’s desire for adventure would fade over time.

Jack stopped under a tree. Crews sauntered into the mess hall for a first-class combat meal, clapping each other on the back, joking, and reliving the mission. Jack relished the smell of steak, snow, aviation fuel, and something better and deeper—the smell of fear faced and overcome, of competence discovered, of camaraderie developed—the excitement Dad thought he’d outgrow.

Would he?

When the war ended, would he suddenly have a passion for the ministry? Would he be ready to leave the vigor of military life?

Jack tucked the letters in his flight jacket and headed for the mess. He was twenty-nine years old. He doubted he would change that much.

41

Friday, March 10, 1944

Ruth inserted a glass straw into Lieutenant Halperin’s mouth. He murmured his thanks and drank chicken broth from the Thermos, not much of a lunch, but it had to do for the ten patients confined to litters. Up front, Sergeant Burns distributed sandwiches to twenty-two ambulatory patients in folding metal bucket seats.

“Nurse?” In the top litter, Lieutenant Grodzicki leaned over the edge, and a sheet of black hair flopped over his forehead. “I need a bedpan.”

Ruth winced. “We’ll land at Meeks in an hour. Can you wait?”

“I suppose so.”

She sighed. The first evacuation flight was bound to have glitches, but this was a monster of a glitch—no bedpans or urinals in the seventy-five-pound medical chest. Did they expect the patients to hold it for fifteen hours from Prestwick to New York? At least they were stopping at Meeks Field in Iceland and at Harmon Field in Stephenville, Newfoundland.

Lieutenant Halperin nudged the straw out of his mouth. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Delicious?”

His wide-set brown eyes twitched. “I’m thankful for what the good Lord gave me.”

“But … ?”

He squirmed. “Well, it tasted odd, ma’am, and it had stuff in it.”

“Stuff?” Ruth angled the jug toward the window and peered inside. Flakes floated in the bouillon, but what were they? She twisted the Thermos. A crack ran up the inside.

“Oh boy.” The altitude and temperature must have cracked the lining and leaked insulation into the soup. The second glitch. In the rear of the C-54, Ruth inspected the empty containers and found cracks in half of them.

“Nurse?” Lieutenant Grodzicki called down the aisle. “I can’t wait.”

“An hour. You can wait.”

“You said an hour ten minutes ago. I can’t wait.”

The other men made suggestions, all of them crude. Ruth had to improvise, but how? Her gaze fell on the Thermos jugs, and she smiled. Why not?

She picked one up and returned to Lieutenant Grodzicki. “Use this.”

His eyes flew open, and then he drew back, his lip curled.

Ruth laughed. “It’s all right. We have to throw it away. The lining leaks.”

“Never in all my livelong days.” He shook his head and pulled the Thermos under his heavy pile of blankets.

Ruth retrieved the flight manifest, then put on her headset and plugged it into the wall jack at the rear of the plane. “Flight nurse to navigator, requesting altitude and temperature.”

“Navigator to flight nurse. Altitude 7,100 feet, temperature minus twenty.”

Ruth logged the information, thankful for her fleece-lined leather flight suit. The cabin heater only raised the temperature to a balmy zero degrees.

She ducked down and gazed out the rearmost window. Before her, the propellers of the two right engines left circular smudges on the clear sky. Below, the ocean curved, its surface nubbly like the skin of an orange. The sound of conversation and the drone of engines faded as she took in the expanse of blue.

Finally, flight. The brass had decided to send home men who needed at least 120 days of convalescence, a sign the big invasion was imminent. They were emptying hospital beds to make room for casualties.

With flight came flight pay, which would silence Aunt Pauline and delay a confrontation about how she had deceived Ruth. Shame had led Ruth to carry the whole burden for her family, and it had blinded her to her aunt’s lies. But now she saw clearly. While stateside wages rose, prices were controlled—and Uncle Clancy and Aunt Pauline prospered. Regardless, as Maggie’s legal guardians, they required cautious handling.

“What’s up, gorgeous?” Hands snaked around her waist from behind.

Ruth jumped and whipped around. “Don’t touch me.”

Burnsey held up his hands in surrender. “Need help with vitals?”

“Of course. It’s your job.”

He stepped closer and backed her against the chill aluminum. “Why don’t you start with me? Whenever you’re near, my heart rate goes up.”

Ruth swallowed a nasty taste in her mouth and shouldered past him. “Whenever you’re near, my blood pressure goes up.”

He laughed. “I love a girl with spunk.”

Her pulse throbbed against the collar of her jacket. Everything she did encouraged him. He took silence as acceptance, comments as banter, and insults as spunk.

Burnsey loved spunk. Jack loved fire. Both men were handsome, charming, and persistent, yet with Jack she felt safe, while with Burnsey she felt threatened.

Ruth used a stirrup to reach the top litter. She smiled at her patient and checked his Emergency Medical Tag, which noted the loss of both legs below the knee when his P-47 crashed on takeoff. “Lt. John Grodzicki,” she said to Burnsey to check on the flight manifest.

“What do I do with this?” The patient raised the edge of his blanket to reveal the Thermos.

“I’ll take it.” She handed it down to Burnsey. “Please put this in the back. Careful, it’s almost full.”

He peered inside. “You didn’t want your broth? Say, anyone still hungry?”

“No!” Ruth flung up one hand, and Lieutenant Grodzicki howled with laughter.

Ruth laughed too. “That’s not broth. It’s—we don’t have a bedpan. The Thermos—the lining cracked. Most of them did. They’re ruined anyway. I figured …”

Burnsey did a double take and lifted a grin. “Aren’t you a clever little girl?”

Wasn’t he a condescending little boy? When Ruth’s patient stopped laughing, she put a thermometer in his mouth and wrapped her fingers around his wrist to time his pulse.

Jack was right that she needed a watch in this job. He wrote every day, sometimes only a few scrawled lines after a mission, and sometimes pages. All his letters revealed a humbler man, no less able, but learning his own strength wasn’t enough, nor was it meant to be. Every day she found more in him to enjoy, to admire … to love?

No, she couldn’t let that happen. There was no happily ever after. She was forgiven but damaged. And Jack understood. Never again would he hold her or kiss her or love her, which filled her with sad relief. Yet she closed her eyes.
Lord, I wish you would make me normal.

“Nursh?”

Ruth’s eyes popped open. Lieutenant Grodzicki grimaced and twisted his wrist in her grip. She loosened her hold. “I’m sorry. Heart rate—um, 72.” She plucked out the thermometer and rolled it until the ribbon of mercury appeared. “Temperature 98.5.”

“Check,” Burnsey said.

Ruth folded back the blankets to check the bandages around his stumps. “No signs of bleeding or infection. Any pain, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, it’s coming back something fierce.”

“Sergeant Burns, when was his last shot of morphine?”

“Let’s see, at 0500. Over five hours ago.”

Ruth tucked the blankets around the lieutenant. “I’d say it’s time for another dose. Sergeant Burns, would you draw up a quarter grain please?”

Ruth lowered herself to the floor so she could check on Lieutenant Halperin. She logged his vitals on the manifest and checked the casts on both arms.

Burnsey returned and wagged a syringe in front of his chest. “I have to load cargo from my uncle when we land at La Guardia, but then I’m free. How would you like a fancy dinner in New York?”

She held out her hand for the syringe. “I’d rather starve.”

Something unsettling flickered in his eyes. “Too bad.”

Glass shattered and tinkled on the metal floor. Ruth glanced down to shards of glass, a tiny puddle of liquid, a needle, and a plunger. She gaped at Burnsey.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Too bad you dropped it.”

“Me?”

“I’ll draw up another syringe.”

“Don’t you dare.” She marched to the rear of the plane. “Clean up your mess, Sergeant. I’ll get the med.”

However, when she reached the medical chest, her hands shook so hard she couldn’t insert the needle through the rubber stopper. The man was dangerous. Why wouldn’t anyone believe her?