Blue Skies Tomorrow (15 page)

Dorothy stopped in front of her childhood home, a two-storied Craftsman. “As long as it’s only temporary.”

Helen stared at her friend. Dorothy seemed happy to live with her in-laws, but perhaps she was having problems. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” Dorothy shook back her brown curls and laughed. “Just because my parents drive me crazy doesn’t mean you won’t get along fine.” She pushed the carriage up the street. “I’ve got to get Susie home for her bottle. Say hi to my mom. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.” She tried to smile at her friend, but this past week, smiling took as much effort as walking had during her recovery from polio. Find the muscles, feel the muscles, use all your will and strength to make them move.

“Tick.” Jay-Jay giggled and swatted Helen’s knee.

“Ow!” She pulled up her leg. “I told you to leave the stick.”

“My tick.” Storm clouds gathered on his face.

“Sweetie, please.” But pleading never caused the storm to break, did it? Not with the father and not with the son.

Her stomach clenched. She leaned over and put on a firm face. As Ray said, she had to assert her authority. “Sweetie, give me the stick.” But her voice betrayed her and faltered.

“No!”

“Oh, you poor baby.” Mrs. Carlisle trotted down the walkway. “You lost your Daddy book, your toys, and now your mommy wants to take away your stick.”

“He’s hitting.”

“He’s a boy.” Mrs. Carlisle swept up her grandson. “And he’s a baby. He doesn’t know better.”

A chill raced through her. How would he learn better unless she taught him, and how could she teach him when his temper terrified her and the Carlisles spoiled him? Was that how they’d raised Jim?

“Let’s find your room.” Mrs. Carlisle bounced Jay-Jay on her hip and headed for the house. She chuckled as he tapped her arm with the stick. “Yes, a fine stick for a fine boy.”

Helen picked up her suitcase and her sagging resolve, and followed her mother-in-law into the darkened house, the drapes drawn as always to control the temperature.

“You’ll be in Dorothy’s old room,” Mrs. Carlisle said to Helen as she climbed the stairs.

Despite their childhood friendship, she couldn’t recall what Dorothy’s room looked like. Helen and Betty and Dorothy played at the Jamisons or out in the neighborhood.

Mrs. Carlisle swung open a door. “We brought up the furniture from the garage. We packed it last year when she got married.”

Helen stepped inside the narrow room. A twin bed with a white chenille bedspread hugged one wall, and a dresser sat next to the closet on the opposite wall. A utilitarian room, which cried for a throw rug or a picture on the wall, but Helen smiled. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”

“Now, Jay-Jay, let’s get you settled in. You’ll be in your father’s room.” Mrs. Carlisle opened the next door.

The image assaulted Helen’s eyes. On the wall hung pennants in Antioch High’s black and gold, and Jim’s jerseys for football, basketball, and baseball. Helen gripped the doorjamb. He had been a senior when she was a sophomore. Why would a handsome star athlete pay attention to a cripple girl? Helen worked hard and went to every game, memorized his every play, and flirted with him constantly.

If only she hadn’t.

“Come on, baby boy. See what your daddy played with?” Mrs. Carlisle showed Jay-Jay model cars and a top and a wooden truck.

Helen glanced around, breathing hard. While Dorothy’s room was bare, Jim’s room was a shrine. True, many families preserved their dead sons’ rooms, but Jim had married three years before Dorothy.

No wonder Dorothy never invited Helen over to play.

“I need—I need to fetch the other suitcase.”

“All right. We’ll be up here.” Mrs. Carlisle pulled a book off the shelf. “This was your daddy’s favorite.”

Helen stared at her small son in his father’s room, surrounded by his father’s possessions, and dread gripped her heart.

This was where Jim learned to be who he was.

She whirled away and headed downstairs, clutching the banister because her left foot dragged.

Once outside, she filled her lungs with clean Delta air. “Lord, please don’t let my son grow up to be like his father.”

At the end of the block, a woman approached. Mrs. Novak.

Oh no. Helen hadn’t talked to her since the fire. How much had Ray told her? Did she know the horrible things Helen had said? Did she blame her because Ray hadn’t come home last weekend?

Ray’s absence brought a mix of pain and relief. Someday Helen would have to face him, but how? And how could she face his mother today? But if she turned around or crossed the street, Mrs. Novak would know Helen was avoiding her.

Mrs. Novak waved. “There you are, Helen. Your sister said I’d find you at the Carlisles’.”

“I just dropped off the first suitcase.” She hefted up a smile.

Though her eyes were blue instead of gray, Mrs. Novak had the same soft gaze as Ray. “I’m sorry about the fire. I’ve been praying for you.”

“Thank you.” Her throat clamped shut. She didn’t deserve sympathy.

Mrs. Novak opened her pocketbook, and her black eyelashes flitted against cheeks redder than usual—and blotchy. “I received a letter from Ray today.”

“A letter?” Why would he write a letter when he was so close?

“He enclosed a note for you.” She held out a piece of paper. “Please don’t blame yourself.”

Chill bumps ran down Helen’s arms. “Blame myself?”

“You two had a—a quarrel after the wedding, didn’t you?”

Helen gave a sharp nod.

“So, please don’t blame yourself.” Mrs. Novak took Helen’s hand and pressed the letter into it.

Her fingers could barely move, but somehow she unfolded the letter.

Dear Helen, May 10, 1944

By the time you receive this, I’ll be on my way overseas for a combat tour. While this may come as a surprise, I’ve debated this decision for some time. In my supply position I impede the war effort, but as a pilot I can do my country some good.

I need to make one thing perfectly clear—this decision comes from prayer and reflection over many months, and nothing you said prompted this in any way.

However, it’s best for me to leave for a while. I pushed you into something you weren’t ready for, and I apologize. I admire you greatly and care for you deeply, and I regret how things ended. Please accept my apologies.

I will be praying for Jesus’ healing hand in your life. He will strengthen you and comfort you when you sit at his feet.

Helen’s head felt full of molten lead. “Combat?”

“I know.” Mrs. Novak swiped tears from her cheek. “In his heart, Ray isn’t a soldier. He isn’t cut out for this.”

Helen scanned the letter. “Why?” she whispered, although her own accusing words screamed the answer.

“My father-in-law says he saw it at Easter, that Ray feels he needs to prove himself.” Her voice broke. “I can’t imagine why.”

Helen could, and the shame of it crushed the wind out of her. “Oh no.”

“I shouldn’t be afraid for him, but I can’t help it. Grandpa Novak says we have more to fear if Ray doesn’t go. He says if Ray doesn’t do this, he’ll never be able to live with himself.”

For the first time in years, Helen longed for her old leg braces to steady her. How could they say she wasn’t to blame? Her rash words drove a gentle man to face grave horror and danger.

15

No. 1 Combat Crew Replacement Center
Bovingdon, Hertfordshire, England
Wednesday, June 7, 1944

Ray’s eyes adjusted to the interior of the hut, a long tube of corrugated tin. A couple dozen cots lined the walls, and three potbellied coal stoves ran down the aisle.

“A Quonset hut,” the officer next to Ray said, punctuated by cuss words.

“Rookies.” A man lounging on a cot spoke from behind a girlie magazine. “You want to sound like a fool, go ahead and call them Quonset huts. Here they’re Nissen huts.”

Ray crunched over dirt clods on the concrete floor and tossed his duffel on a cot. “Better than a foxhole on the Normandy beaches.”

Down came the girlie magazine. “Say, Pops, what are you doing over here? Need help setting up your rocking chair?”

Ray tipped him a smile. “Sure. Let me help you out of your high chair first.”

The laughter said he’d passed his first test. If only the tests looming before him would be so easy.

“Captain’s here, rookies. Line up outside.”

Ray trooped outside under a pewter sky with the other eleven newcomers.

The captain, a compact man with thick features, looked familiar. “Welcome to the CCRC, men. I’m Captain Hawkins.”

Ray smiled at the man’s Maine accent. Only two years before, Cadet Hawkins had been one of his best students at Kelly Field.

“Guess what, men? Everything you learned in stateside training is dead wrong. You think you can fly on instruments, but you can’t. You think you know how to fly in formation, but you don’t. And you think you’re ready to take on the Luftwaffe, but I’m here to tell you, you aren’t. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” But Ray stiffened in position. The Training Command did its best to adapt to suggestions from the combat theaters.

“My job is to get you ready before you’re assigned to a bomb group.” Hawkins tapped his cigarette between sausage-like fingers. “Yesterday was D-Day, boys, in case you’re too stupid to know, and the Eighth Air Force dispatched over two thousand bombers. We lost only one due to enemy action. However, one crashed on takeoff, one on landing, two B-24s collided, and a rookie sliced his wing through the undercarriage of his squadron commander’s B-17, forcing the major to ditch at sea after his crew bailed.” He pointed his cigarette at the men, as if they’d caused the accidents. “Stupid rookie mistakes.”

Ray started to frown but stopped himself since he stood at attention. Hawkins had been a friendly young man, but war had toughened him beyond recognition.

Hawkins’s gaze hit each man like a schoolmaster whacking his pupils with a ruler. “You will not make similar mistakes. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

Hawkins squinted at Ray, and his eyebrows bounced.

Ray gave him a slight nod.

Hawkins flipped a page on his clipboard. “All right, boys. At ease. You have half an hour to settle in. Report to mess at 1200, then at 1300 you’re due at the Link Trainer. All dismissed except Lieutenant Novak.”

After the other men filed into the hut, Hawkins erupted in a grin and pumped Ray’s hand. “Boy, it’s good to see you. What on earth are you doing here?”

Ray chuckled at the familiar personality. “Always wanted to see England.”

“Come on. You’re the best instructor we’ve got.”

“You need combat experience to be an instructor now. They transferred me to supply.”

“You’re kidding. No wonder you came here. You’re born to fly.”

“Yep.” Although incomplete, his explanation satisfied everyone, except those who knew him well. Letters from home had caught up with him at the Preparation for Overseas Movement Center. Mom was scared, Dad incredulous. Grandpa’s letter hit hard when he wrote, “I know you won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t do this, but remember, you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone.”

Maybe, but he needed to prove it to himself.

“Say, Novak, why don’t you join me for lunch so we can catch up?”

“Sounds great, but first I’d like to ask a favor, sir.”

Hawkins laughed. “Sir?”

Ray raised a salute and a smile. “You outrank me.”

“All right,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “What’s the favor?”

“My brother’s with the 94th Bomb Group. Could we let him know I’m here?”

“Sure.” Hawkins beckoned with a sweep of his hand. “We’ll call Bury St. Edmunds.”

They headed south down a muddy road away from the living sites and toward the airfield and the technical sites—the administrative buildings, supply stores, and maintenance shops.

Hawkins gave Ray a sheepish smile. “Sorry about what I said about stateside training. If I don’t drive the cockiness out of these fellows, they’ll never survive their first mission, much less a thirty-mission combat tour.”

“Yep. You can work with ignorance but not cockiness.” Ray smiled as a squadron of twelve Flying Fortresses emerged from the cloud cover. “Beautiful.”

“Formation’s too tight,” Hawkins said over the throb of forty-eight Wright-Cyclone engines.

“Looks right to me.”

“That’s one of the differences between training and combat. We get turbulent weather over Europe, need to fly looser formations to avoid collisions, especially under fire.”

Ray’s lungs felt tight. If someone shot at him or a plane dived at him, his instinct would be to swerve, to collide.

Hawkins turned down a side road lined with more Nissen huts, and a jeep passed. “Last time I saw you, you got me in trouble for buzzing the tower after graduation. I think of that whenever I write up a fellow for buzzing. Least once a week.”

Ray chuckled. “Hated to write you up. That was the only time, if I recall. Unlike that other fellow in your class—Rivers, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, Ted Rivers. Got his head blown off by a Luftwaffe shell.”

Ray stopped in his tracks, unable to breathe.

Hawkins faced him, and his cheek twitched. “Sorry. Forgot you’re a rookie. That’s what it’s like over here. You get used to it.”

Ray nodded, but he never wanted to get used to violent deaths of promising young men.

Hawkins led him into a Nissen hut partitioned into offices. He shrugged off his flight jacket and hung it on a coatrack. “Have a seat. This may take a while. Your brother’s name and position?”

“Maj. Jack Novak. He’s a squadron commander, unless he’s been promoted recently. He’s due.” The chill of the metal chair worked through his wool trousers.

Hawkins spoke to the operator, sandwiched the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, and flicked his cigarette lighter.

The yellow flame sparked Ray’s memory. The fire at Helen’s house had served as a sign for Ray, just as the Lord used fire to consume Gideon’s offering, overcome his last reservations, and send him to war against the Midianites.