Blue Skies Tomorrow (24 page)

A chill scurried up her spine. But with the Allies on the Siegfried Line at the German border, the war in Europe promised to wrap up by the end of the year. Even if it didn’t, Ray would finish his tour and come home with his compassionate eyes and strong arms and sweet kisses.

No. Not for her. Helen zipped the paper out of the typewriter, set it to her right, and picked up the next form.

She drew an uneven breath. The deeper their correspondence grew, the more she loved him, but the more she had to be scaring him away.

23

Bury St. Edmunds Airfield
Friday, September 15, 1944

Glenn Miller’s orchestra blasted out the opening chords of “In the Mood,” and three thousand men in Hangar One whistled and cheered.

Ray had heard the song many times on the radio and phonograph, but it had never sounded as clear, crisp, and vibrant as it did live at the party celebrating the 94th Bomb Group’s 200th mission.

In olive drabs, Maj. Glenn Miller played his trombone to the side of the stage—a musician, not a showman. Ray admired the humility that led him to give up his popular civilian orchestra and enlist in the Army Air Force to entertain troops abroad.

England was no safe haven, what with rumors of a pending poison gas attack and with V-1 buzz bombs flying overhead with fiery tails.

Still, Walt came as well. Ray glanced out the corner of his eye at his youngest brother, the only man in civilian clothes. No one grumbled about the presence of the air executive’s brother, a veteran of the Eighth Air Force before the 94th Bomb Group even arrived.

Boeing had sent Walt as an engineering advisor to some classified unit of the U.S. Strategic Air Forces, most likely analyzing intelligence on German jet fighters.

After the applause for “In the Mood” died down, the orchestra played “Moonlight Serenade,” Miller’s signature number.

“Allie loves this song,” Walt whispered.

Ray murmured his understanding. Playing with engines and visiting his brothers wouldn’t compensate Walt for missing his wife, especially now that she was expecting.

When the concert concluded, Ray and the other officers rose to leave. The enlisted men would stay for a dance led by Glenn Miller’s orchestra, but the officers’ dance was in the Theater Building with the Griffiss Airacobras, the band of the U.S. Strategic Air Forces.

Ray looked in vain for Jack among the top brass, and then he and Walt walked out into the damp night, careful to stay on the path and out of the mud.

“Amazing.” Walt glanced around. “When I flew, we had no more than six bomb groups, and we were glad to dispatch a hundred planes for a mission. Now we have forty groups and can put up two thousand planes. Can’t fathom it.”

“Is it hard to be back here?”

Walt tipped his head to one side. “Difficult memories, yeah. But some good ones. Nothing like the camaraderie from going through rugged times together.”

“Hiya, Pops.” Leo Goldman jogged past with Buffo, Radovich, and Sig Werner, the new radar operator on the crew. “Free drinks. You’d better hurry if you want good bar position.”

Ray grinned. “Pick me up a cup of coffee, would you?”

Buffo clapped meaty hands to his chest. “A dagger to my heart. This grand celebration calls for the imbibing of a copious volume of liquid cheer.”

“All right, all right. Make it two cups of coffee.”

Ray’s officers groaned, waved him off, and continued on their way.

He nudged Walt in the arm. “You miss that?”

“Sure do. My men called me Preach.”

The brothers passed a truck filled with local girls brought in to dance, and entered the Theater Building. The band sat on a stage draped with red, white, and blue bunting. Overhead hung a banner emblazoned with “200” and the image of a squadron of B-17s.

“There’s Jack.” Walt pointed to a table not far away.

“Good, Ruth made it,” Ray said. “Say, so did Charlie and May.”

Everyone greeted each other. Walt had met Charlie and Ruth on his tour, but not May.

While May wore a subtle pink gown, Ruth turned heads in peacock blue. Most women seemed to resent Ruth’s type of knockout beauty, but May didn’t.

When Walt leaned his elbows on the table, his prosthesis thumped. “So, Charlie, Jack told me you were shot down over the Netherlands. You must have stories.”

“Not many,” Jack said. “Most of his experience is classified to protect the Dutch Maquis.”

Charlie sipped his coffee. “Once we liberate Holland, I’ll bore you to death.”

“What was the hardest part?” Ray asked.

Charlie stuck a coffee spoon in his mouth, gazed at the ceiling, and made the spoon bob up and down. “The helplessness. Everyone at home thought I was dead, and I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even help the Resistance. If I got caught as a downed airman, I’d be a POW in a Stalag Luft, but if I committed sabotage, I’d be shot as a spy.”

May snuggled close to her boyfriend. “You made the right choice.”

“Make another good choice,” Jack said. “Give up testing radar and come back as the best bombardier in the Eighth.”

“Jack Novak!” Ruth’s eyes flashed fire. “Don’t you dare meddle.”

He grinned and sang “Pistol Packin’ Mama” with a western twang.

She laughed and whacked him lightly in the arm. “You goon.”

Jack turned to his brothers. “Mind if Charlie and I take the ladies out for a dance?”

“Not at all.”

But when they left the table, a dark blanket settled over Ray’s mind. Dancing held no appeal, partly so he wouldn’t abandon Walt, but mostly because of memories of his last dance—with Helen at Walt’s wedding. If only he could dance with her now, let her cry her hurts onto his shoulder, kiss her honeyed hair, and speak words of comfort rather than writing impotent letters that took weeks to arrive.

Her bridesmaid’s dress had been yellow, a rich golden yellow.

“Too bad things didn’t work out with you and Helen.”

Ray blinked and glanced at Walt. “The man gets married and suddenly he’s a mind reader.”

“It’s a survival skill.” Walt nodded sagely. “I was right?”

Ray sighed. “Yeah.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“Marriage made you bold too.”

“Well, are you?”

Ray gazed at the dance floor, where dozens of couples swayed to “Stardust.”

“Does she know you love her?”

Ray stared at Walt. “I didn’t say—”

“Mind reader, remember?” He tapped his temple.

Ray smiled. “She doesn’t know.”

Walt leaned closer, his hazel eyes serious. “Learn from my mistakes. Tell her.”

The band changed key and played “Long Ago and Far Away,” as cruel a choice as “Stardust.” He raised half a smile. “Mind reading, boldness, and great wisdom—marriage has been good for you.”

“Sure has. Heed my wisdom, gained at great cost.”

“Why don’t we get some coffee?” Ray stood, shrugged off his service jacket, and draped it over his chair to reserve it.

He had no intention of following his baby brother’s advice. Helen had made progress as she chronicled Jim’s appalling abuse. In the unlikely case that she had romantic feelings for Ray, a confession of love would distract her from this progress. And if her interest was platonic, his confession would end the correspondence and undermine months of healing.

Ray weaved through the crowd toward the bar and smiled at the irony. He loved Helen too much to tell her he loved her.

Naval Magazine, Port Chicago
Wednesday, October 4, 1944

The Navy corpsman stared at Helen, but then how many female civilians entered the dispensary at Port Chicago?

Vic was busy with the trial, but why did he have to send Helen for a confrontation? Despite her flipping stomach, she smiled. “I’m here to see Dr. Thompson on official business for the Judge Advocate’s office.”

“Sure, ma’am. I’ll see if he’s in with a patient.”

“Thank you.” Four men in dungarees sat in the waiting room—two black, two white. To ease public outrage, the Navy had rotated in two white divisions to load ammunition.

A window framed in raw unpainted wood showed a view past buildings in various states of repair down to a newly built pier, where a freighter docked for loading.

Helen’s breath caught. What if the Navy’s promise to improve safety conditions was as hollow as the promise of a fair trial for the accused mutineers? Many of the written testimonies had been transcribed inaccurately, and Vic was disgusted by the prejudice and intimidation in the prosecution’s questioning. The NAACP was even sending their chief counsel, Thurgood Marshall, to watch the trial and report the racism.

The corpsman ushered Helen into an office, where Dr. Thompson stood beside a desk.

Helen extended her hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Helen Carlisle. It’s good to see you again under better circumstances.”

A smile creased his pudgy face, and he shook her hand. “Why, yes. You helped after the explosion. A doctor’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. My father’s in the Army Medical Corps.”

“Army? Not Navy? I may forgive you, my dear.” He showed her a chair across from a dented metal desk. “How may I help?”

She couldn’t avoid this, not with a man’s freedom at stake. “My boss, Lt. Victor Llewellyn, serves on the defense team for the mutiny trial. One of his defendants, Petty Officer George Washington Carver Jones, was treated for a broken arm after the explosion.”

His face hardened. “I sent my written testimony.”

A single clinical sentence describing the injury, but nothing about how he was unable to work. Helen drew a deep breath and studied the battleship-gray desk covered with stacks of papers, medical books, and prescription pads. “Sir, I know how busy you are, but the defense is on the stand. The prosecution stated that ‘there are plenty of things a one-armed man could do on the ammunition dock.’ A statement from you could protect an innocent man.”

“Innocent? They’re a bunch of shiftless, lazy . . .” He gave her a sheepish smile. “My apologies. I’ve been away from feminine company too long.”

Helen’s stomach turned. However, his condescension gave her an idea. “Isn’t it a shame the name of the Navy is being dragged through the mud because of this case? I—I’m a Navy widow myself.” She blinked. She quivered her lips.

“Oh, Mrs. Carlisle. I’m so sorry.”

A shameless act, but for a worthy cause. She raised her head and gave it a little shake. “For my husband’s sake, for the sake of our son, I hate to see the Navy defamed. If even one innocent man can be acquitted—and such a good man—perhaps . . . perhaps . . .” She opened her pocketbook and fished out a handkerchief.

“Well, of course, of course. Let me write out a statement.”

A few minutes later, Helen stepped out into the sunshine and showed the paper to Esther Jones. “The man’s a disgrace to his profession.”

Mrs. Jones raised eyes the color of coffee beans. “You did it.”

Helen groaned and headed for the train depot. “Only after I waved my handkerchief and invoked the memory of my dead husband.”

“Oh dear. I hope that wasn’t too painful for you.”

“He’s been dead almost two years, and I don’t miss him one bit.” Her honesty slapped her across the face and stopped her in her tracks.

Mrs. Jones’s eyebrows shot up, but then her mouth softened, and she settled a hand on Helen’s elbow. “For every bad man, God made plenty of good ones.”

The thought of a good man on a bomber base in England and another in the brig brought true tears to her eyes. “Men like Carver.”

“And Lieutenant Llewellyn.” Mrs. Jones guided Helen to the depot. “He’s very fond of you.”

Helen blinked her eyes clear. “Let’s get him this testimony.”

“I owe you.”

“No, I owe you for being part of a world that tolerates this nonsense. I didn’t see—I didn’t know how bad it was until I started this job. The horrible things people say, the way you’re treated. Oh, it makes my blood boil.”

“Maybe that’s the purpose. I knew the Lord would use Carver’s trials for good, and now I see how. This case is showing the ugly underbelly of this nation, and if enough people take notice, something can be done. May the Lord raise up his people against injustice.”

“Mrs. Jones, you’d make a fine preacher.”

She turned with a gaze warmer than coffee. “Call me Esther.”

Helen hoped her smile was just as warm. “Only if you call me Helen.”