Blue Skies Tomorrow (21 page)

Ray had never felt so exposed, even when he’d forgotten his towel and had to air-dry after swimming in the San Joaquin. He could still see Helen’s amused shock and feel her kiss.

He shook his head hard. “Boys, keep an eye out for fighters.”

“Excellent idea,” Buffo said. “There’s a Nazi airfield about ten miles ahead.”

“Can we skirt it?”

“They’ll still see us.”

“Say, Pops.” Goldman’s grin pushed up his cheeks. “Still got our bombs. Can’t let them go to waste.”

Ray shifted in his seat. He didn’t like the idea, but his duty was to seek a target of opportunity. Perhaps they could destroy planes on the ground and keep them from the air.

“All right. Buffo, you can use that Norden bombsight for once.” With radar-bearing Pathfinder Force planes in the lead, most of the bombardiers had nothing to do but flip the toggle switch when the PFF plane dropped.

“Nine thousand feet. Leveling off for the bomb run.” Ray ripped off his oxygen mask and activated the Automatic Flight Control Equipment. With the AFCE and the bombsight, Buffo adjusted
Jump
’s course to line up the target.

In a few minutes, the airfield came into sight with crossing runways, blocky hangars, and flecks of planes. Flak burst in ugly black polka dots about a thousand feet too high.

“Strangest-looking planes,” Buffo said. “Almost triangular.”

Ray frowned. At the Eighth Air Force bases, rumors festered about experimental Luftwaffe planes. “Schmidt, make sure the strike camera’s on.”

“Yes, sir,” the radio operator said. “We want proof of this. I don’t want to hear any more clucking in the Nissen hut. We’re no chickens.”

“True,” Buffo said. “But we’re laying some eggs. Bombs away.”

Jump
bounced higher, relieved of her load.

“Oh no,” Burgess whined from the tail. “Three fighters. Five o’clock high.”

Ray groaned and shoved the wheel forward. A fighter could outdive a heavy bomber, but any extra speed would help, and the changing altitude would throw off the aim of the flak gunners.

“Okay, boys,” Goldman said. “Remember your training. No chatter. Don’t forget to lead. Fire in short bursts so you don’t burn out your gun barrels.”

The airspeed indicator read 270, the maximum according to the manual, but Ray aimed for 310, knowing pilots had pushed it to 350 or above. The higher the speed, the longer it would take the fighters to close the gap, and the better fix his gunners could get.

“They’re firing,” Burgess cried. “Ha! Look at that. The tracers aren’t even close.”

Too far away. Good. Perhaps they were young and inexperienced. Perhaps they’d use up their ammo and fuel before they did any damage.

Ray’s ears popped. The seat belt cut into his thigh.

“They’re coming,” Burgess said. “One at six o’clock level, one at five, one at four.”

Six o’clock? Didn’t every Luftwaffe pilot know a rear attack on a Fort was suicidal?

“Got one in my sights,” Paladino called from the right waist. “Hewett, Finley, be ready for the break.”

Ray glued his gaze to the controls. His heart whapped against his ribcage.

Guns chattered, pops rang out on the fuselage, Hewett swung his guns overhead, and a shadow flashed over the cockpit. Hewett cursed. “Missed.”

“Damage?” Ray said.

“Took a shot at me,” Paladino said. “Just added some ventilation holes.”

“He’s coming right at me,” Burgess cried. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

“Well, shoot, you dimwit,” Goldman said.

“I am. I am.” Then he whooped so loudly, Ray cringed from the volume in his earphones.

“Well, I’ll be,” Finley said from down in the ball turret. “The dimwit got the first kill. Look at him tumble. Woo! He exploded.”

Ray’s stomach contracted. A man had died a fiery death, and everyone rejoiced. But the next fighter made a pass and laid a row of bullets across the wing. The only way for his ten men to survive was for the other two men to die or decide to leave.

What a horrible thing war was. But Ray had chosen it.

The ground zoomed closer. When he leveled off, he’d lose speed and bear the worst of the attack. What altitude should he pick?

The deck. He’d hit the deck.

He laughed at the thought. He took her down to fifty feet and buzzed white houses with red roofs. People on the ground held their hats against the propwash and gaped at the sight.

Ray kicked the rudder to slip to the side around a church spire. He’d always wanted to see Germany, but he didn’t think he’d see it so close until after the war.

“The fighters are staying away,” Tucker said from the waist.

Of course. They wouldn’t fire on their own people.

Once out of town, Ray went down to twenty feet, even though Goldman cussed and wiped his hand over his mouth. The low altitude would limit the fighters’ maneuverability.

Ray scanned the landscape. He tipped his wing over a tree, and let
Jump
live up to her name to cross a power line.

“Me 109 coming in,” Tucker said. “Steep dive, four o’clock high.”

Bullets and cuss words flew from the top turret behind Ray.

Jump
rocked hard and leaped ten feet.

“Who’s the dimwit?” Burgess said. “Stupid Jerry didn’t pull up in time.”

Ray’s chest crushed. A second man had died, a boy like those in the back of his plane.
Lord, please make this stop.

“Ha! Now who’s the chicken?” Burgess called. “He’s leaving.
Auf wiedersehen
, you chicken. Bawk, bawk, bawk. Anyone know how to say ‘chicken’ in German?”

“
Huhn
,” Ray said. “
Feiges Huhn
means ‘cowardly chicken.’ ” But the pilot was no coward for turning away. Not at all.

A herd of cows scattered in front of him, and a blue haze glimmered ahead. The ocean.

A bittersweet smile spread over Ray’s face. “We made it, boys.”

Antioch

The sunrise illuminated jagged rims of glass around the Carlisles’ living room window. Fifteen miles hadn’t protected Antioch from blast damage.

Was Jay-Jay all right? Helen hustled up the front walk despite the fatigue gluing her left foot to the ground. Vic held her elbow to steady her.

Mrs. Carlisle flung open the front door and wrapped twiggy arms around Helen. “Thank goodness, you’re all right. I was so worried.”

Helen glanced over Mrs. Carlisle’s shoulder. Fine time for her mother-in-law to get affectionate. “How’s Jay-Jay? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. Barely even woke up. You know what a heavy sleeper he is.”

Helen nodded with a gulping laugh. “Yes. Yes, he is.”

Mrs. Carlisle raised red-rimmed eyes. “The first blast nearly knocked Mr. Carlisle out of his armchair. We thought it was an earthquake, but then the second blast shattered the windows. We ran upstairs, and there’s our little angel, sitting up in bed. He frowned at me, said, ‘No wake up,’ and dove under the covers.”

“Where is he? Where’s my little boy?”

He stepped into the doorway in his blue and white striped pajamas. Helen scooped him up and kissed his sleep-warmed face and tousled curls. “My baby. Thank you, Lord.”

“Lieutenant, thank you for keeping Helen safe.” Mrs. Carlisle lifted her arms as if to hug Vic, then lowered them. “The radio didn’t report what happened until after midnight, the phones are out of service, and you two weren’t home. We were so worried. When they said it was at Port Chicago—oh dear. We thought poor little Jay-Jay was an orphan.”

Helen sank to the porch step and clutched her son. She never thought her job would endanger her life.

“Where’s Mr. Carlisle?” Vic asked.

“Checking the damage at his furniture store, the dress shop, and with his tenants.”

Vic took Mrs. Carlisle by the shoulders. “Make sure Helen gets plenty of rest. And send a telegram to her parents. This will be national news.”

“Oh yes, could you?” Helen asked.

“Of course.”

“I’m going to my parents’ to get a few hours sleep. I’ll stop by George and Betty’s on my way. As for the rest of town, when my mother hears the news, so will all of Contra Costa County.”

Helen rested her cheek on Jay-Jay’s soft head. “Thank you, Vic.”

Only Ray remained to be notified, but that letter would have to wait until evening, because Helen’s eyelids felt as heavy as blackout curtains.

Bury St. Edmunds Airfield

Ray leaned back in the upholstered chair in the Officers’ Club and cradled a cup of coffee. Someone pounded “One O’Clock Jump” on the piano with more enthusiasm than skill.

His smile rose with the steam from his coffee. Later tonight he’d write Helen about today’s experience. He had faced his fears, and the Lord got him through. No matter what else life threw at him, he knew he was no
feiges Huhn
.

“There he is, the talk of Bury St. Edmunds.” Jack sat in a chair across from Ray. A smile tilted his mustache.

“Guess I could do it.”

Jack dipped his chin. “Sorry I doubted you.”

“It’s all right. I doubted myself.”

“No one doubts you now. I tell you, the Eighth Air Force had a banner day. First Division took out a station where the Nazis build those robot buzz bombs, Second Division helped British ground troops break out of Caen, and Third Division hit oil targets, but everyone’s talking about the photos you fellows took.”

“Good?”

“Outstanding.”

Ray nodded. Intelligence must have seen something useful.

Jack unwrapped a canvas bundle on his lap and pulled out a corrugated rubber hose. “Bodey was right. The oxygen equipment is sound. But you’re right too. Look close.” He stretched out the hose, and minute cracks appeared.

“Wow.”

“Plane’s older. All that exposure to cold broke down the rubber, gave you slow leaks.”

Ray sipped his coffee. “Apology accepted.”

“Oh, you’re not out of the woods yet—literally.” Jack chuckled and pulled a mangled leafy branch from the canvas. “We found this wrapped around the radio direction finder antenna.”

The football-shaped device was mounted on the belly of the plane. Ray reached for the branch.

“I can’t believe—” Jack’s laugh sputtered out. “I can’t believe you buzzed Germany.”

Ray smiled at his trophy. “A souvenir of Deutschland.”

Antioch

Although it was two o’clock in the afternoon, it looked as if it were two in the morning with the living room windows boarded up.

“How can I help?” Helen asked.

On the couch under a lamp, Mrs. Carlisle glanced over the top of
McCall’s
magazine. “Oh, I’m all done. I’m just taking a break during Jay-Jay’s nap. They have meatless recipes in here this month.”

Helen glanced around. Expecting work, she’d tied up her hair in a scarf and put on an old red gingham blouse from the charity donations after the fire. Now she had nothing to do, and for once, her agendas and committee plans didn’t entice her.

“I’ll see if Betty needs help.”

“Good idea. She’ll be relieved to see you.”

Helen walked down C Street, past her childhood home. Her parents had rented it to a man from Philadelphia working at the Fibreboard Paper Products research facility at the old Riverview Union High School, Ray’s alma mater.