In Perfect Time (3 page)

Comiso Airfield, Sicily

Roger walked over the stubbly grass toward Headquarters with Shelby. Patchy clouds hovered over the Sicilian plain, sloping down to the Mediterranean to the southwest. If his
squadron kept getting grounded on good flying days, he’d never get the thousand hours of flying time needed to go home.

“Uh-oh,” Shelby grumbled. “Here comes Klein.”

Grant Klein marched in their direction, head down for once. The man usually strutted about like he owned the airfield.

“Say, Coop, the DFC,” Shelby said in a loud voice. “Imagine that.”

Klein raised dark eyes, snorted, and passed them by. “Didn’t know they gave out medals for losing planes.”

Roger turned and shoved down the smoldering, painful truth. “You see, it’s called the Distinguished
Flying
Cross. You’ve got to fly to get it, not sit around schmoozing with Parrish.”

Shell nudged Roger’s arm, his eyes too wide. “Didn’t you hear? Parrish is rotating stateside. We have a new squadron commander.”

Roger rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it, I did hear. Good news for you, Klein. You won’t be flying only milk runs anymore. Might get yourself a medal too.”

Klein’s look turned even darker. “You’re a jerk, Cooper.”

He grinned at Shelby. “More good news. I got promoted from lazy bum to jerk.”

“With hard work and determination, anything is possible.”

Klein stomped away. “Only promotion you’ll ever get.”

“True.” Roger resumed his trek to HQ. Not like he wanted a promotion anyway. He just wanted to log his hours and survive the war.

“Heard anything about the new CO?” Shelby asked.

“Not even his name. About to find out. I’ll fill you in later.” Roger waved off his friend and ducked in the open flap of the Headquarters tent.

A tall officer in his forties leaned over a field desk, wearing
a lightweight leather flight jacket, khaki trousers, and the crush cap favored by airmen. Same as Roger wore. Except this man had a major’s gold oak leaves pinned to the collar of his khaki shirt.

Roger saluted. “Sir! Lieutenant Cooper reporting.”

“At ease, Lieutenant.” The officer raised light eyes. “I’m Major Bill Veerman, your new squadron commander.”

Veerman? Like one of Roger’s favorite bandleaders, a young up-and-comer. In fact, the major had the same kind of look about him, lean and blond and narrow faced. “No relation to Hank Veerman, I presume.”

“My kid brother.” He slid on reading glasses and picked up a paper for inspection. “He’s done well for himself. I’m proud of him.”

Roger’s mouth went dry. Veerman’s band sat at the top of his list, not too famous to be out of his league, and it fit his style—not too sweet, not too hot. He clasped his hands behind his back. “One of my favorite bands. The man can send it.”

“Send it?” The major peered over the top of his glasses. “You’re a musician?”

“A drummer, sir.” Behind his back, his thumbs tapped out a new rhythm on each other.

“Drummers.” Veerman groaned. “Hank can’t keep a drummer for two weeks straight.”

That was better news than the DFC. That meant openings. That meant God might have answered his prayers.

Veerman studied Roger. “Drummers are known for being . . . unreliable.”

His thumbs stilled. Sounded familiar.

The major flipped through the papers. “That explains your record. Late all the time, sloppy reports, pulling pranks on the other pilots. Parrish said you questioned a direct order. And you’ve lost two planes.” His expression dared Roger to defend himself.

He took the dare. “Sir, the first plane was destroyed in a ground collision. I’d parked her on the hardstand, shut her down, and left. Another plane lost its brakes, slammed into it.” Grant Klein, the idiot. And two good people had died—navigator Clint Peters and his girlfriend, flight nurse Rose Danilovich.

“And the second? Just a few days ago. You flew in the middle of a volcanic eruption?”

Roger cleared the huskiness from his throat. “Sir, I knew it wasn’t safe to fly. I was given a direct order, which I questioned. Then I got reprimanded for ques—”

“For questioning the order.” Veerman nodded. “Then you successfully ditched, saved a planeload of patients, and earned a nomination for the DFC.”

“Yes, sir.”

The major came out from behind his desk and eyed Roger up and down, his expression vacillating between admiration and disapproval. “You have a good head on your shoulders and a mind of your own. That I like. Now show me hard work and reliability.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, but he’d only disappoint the man. Might as well scratch Hank Veerman’s band right off that list.

3

Naples, Italy
March 28, 1944

Kay sashayed through the doors of the Orange Club with her friends, and a dozen heads turned. She never tired of the reaction she sparked when accompanied by blonde beauty Alice Olson and sultry brunette Vera Viviani.

Ever since they’d answered Pan American Airway’s call for registered nurses to serve as stewardesses, the three women had worked together, roomed together, and played together.

Alice had a boyfriend in the Army stateside, but she didn’t let that interfere with her nights out—her boyfriend certainly enjoyed his nights out. Vera had a man in her life but maintained mysterious silence. Probably an enlisted man. Georgie Taylor had dated an enlisted man earlier in the year, but she wasn’t as secretive as Vera.

Kay, on the other hand, had a mission. She strolled around the tables in the darkened room, in time to the band’s rendition of “Stardust,” through billows of cigarette smoke, making chitchat with Vera and Alice to keep the men at bay while she sized them up. Her breakup with Grant left an unacceptable hole in her lineup.

Lambert wanted too much. Give up her boys? Unite Vera
and Alice with Mellie, Georgie, and their new friend Louise Cox? Why not ask her to hike up Vesuvius and put a giant cork in it?

Might as well enjoy life while she still had her looks.

What then?

Kay gripped a chair back for support, laughed for her friends’ sake, and pretended to slip her black pump back onto her heel.

What then? She had to set things up now to settle things later. Without the Army Air Force chief nurse program, she’d have to serve in a hospital ward and work her way up to chief. Might take years. Might mean moving from city to city, searching for an opening. And it might never happen.

Then she wouldn’t have a home.

Pain squeezed her chest so tight she gasped.

Kay shook it off, swung back her hair, and scanned the tables. “What do you think, gals?”

“Plenty of partners tonight.” Alice wiggled her fingers at a man across the room.

Sure, plenty of partners, but such young pups. This got more difficult each year as the mature men married off.

The band eased into another soft number, almost lifeless.

“Come on!” a man called, hands cupped around his mouth. “Enough with the sweet stuff. We want to jive.”

The bandleader lowered his baton, glared at the heckler, and turned to the microphone. “As I mentioned at the start of the set, our drummer didn’t show. We have to make do.”

Vera rolled her eyes. “If this war’s taught us anything, it’s how to make do and do without.”

“Coop!” a flyboy yelled. “Hey, Coop! Get up there and help.”

Coop? Kay followed the man’s gaze. There at the front corner table sat a bunch of boys from the 64th Troop Carrier Group, including Roger Cooper.

He shook his head and waved off his pal.

Kay returned Vera’s eye roll. Roger Cooper, the fuddy-duddy? Whenever Kay said one word to him, he’d say something religious and scram.

As far as Kay could see, religious people came in three varieties. Some held a can of white paint and wanted to slather it all over her, people like Georgie Taylor, although Georgie had wisely lowered her paintbrush. Some, like Mellie Blake, offered the paint can but didn’t get huffy when Kay turned it down. And some, like Roger Cooper, acted as if she held a can of black paint and wanted to slather it all over him.

Bert Marino, one of the pilots, stood and tugged on Roger’s arm. “Yeah, Coop’s our man. Used to play for a band in Chicago.”

Kay nudged Vera. “His high school marching band maybe.”

However, the clamor built, and Roger stood, raised one hand to quiet the crowd, and made his way to the bandstand.

Oh dear. He might be a fuddy-duddy, but she had no desire to see him humiliated. He was a good pilot, and all the nurses liked flying with him. Georgie had survived the ditching because of him.

Roger conferred with the bandleader, then drew drumsticks from inside his olive drab service jacket and shrugged off the jacket.

Kay lifted an eyebrow. Someone once told her Coop was an Iowa farm boy, and he was built like one, with thick arms and a solid chest.

Too bad he was so boring.

“Excuse me, miss? Would you like to dance?” A skinny blond kid blocked her view, half a foot taller than Kay, but she probably outweighed the poor thing.

“I’d love to.” She smiled back and gave him her hand. “I’m Kay Jobson.”

“Enchanted.” He kissed her hand. “I’m Bob Sperling.”

She would have found him charming. When she was eighteen. “Come on, Bob. Let’s cut a rug.” She led him to the dance floor.

On the bandstand, Roger stared at the drums and cymbals like a kid at the fair. The trumpet section stood and pumped out the opening chords of “Sing, Sing, Sing.”

Bob broke into a jitterbug, but Kay winced for Roger’s sake. No mistaking why the bandleader chose Benny Goodman’s big hit. The complicated drumming had made Gene Krupa a star but would prove Roger Cooper an imposter. Then the band could return to their lazy love songs.

Kay ducked under Bob’s arm, her hips swinging, legs kicking. Bob whirled her so she faced the band again.

Roger tapped out a lively beat, his chin, his whole body bouncing. He actually sounded good.

Kay lost herself in the dance and gave Bob her full attention, knowing she’d attract other partners who could shave and vote.

The band shifted into the solo section. The dancers stopped to watch, and Kay caught her breath and smoothed her hair.

On his feet, the clarinetist dove into his solo, nowhere near as complex as Benny Goodman played, but engaging.

And the drums . . .

They rumbled and pounded and drove the clarinet on, complementing, never overpowering. Roger’s playing softened when the clarinet wailed and picked up when the clarinet quieted, a perfect seesaw. Someone in the audience whistled, then another.

Roger grinned, his sticks flashing in the air.

Kay stood, transfixed. She’d always thought him a good-looking man with his square face and auburn hair, but now he was flat-out handsome. The energy, the vigor, the power. His music pulsed inside her, quickening her heart and her senses.

When the song concluded, everyone cheered, and Kay joined them.

The bandleader held out his hand toward the drum set, and Roger bowed his head.

Kay switched partners, another youngster, but she already had a man in her sights.

Behind his fuddy-duddy exterior, Roger Cooper had hidden a fascinating man, a man she wanted to know. She’d never bothered pursuing him since he’d given her no encouragement, but that was going to change.

Sure, he talked about God too much, but so did Mellie and Georgie, and they’d turned out to be the best sort.

Besides, he was a fellow redhead. Imagining her father’s fury, Kay laughed.

Man alive, he hadn’t felt that great in years. His set over, Roger swept his handkerchief over his forehead, wiped the back of his neck, and slung his jacket over his shoulder.

He headed back to his table and took the chair in the corner of the room next to Bert Marino, his friend from training days, and Mike Elroy, his new copilot.

Bert slapped him on the back. “Haven’t heard you play since we were stateside. Sounded good.”

“Sounded rusty, but thanks.” Rusty or not, his instincts remained and his training and practice had imprinted in every move.

“That was really something, Lieutenant.” Mike pulled on the bill of his service cap to adjust it over his brown hair. The kid was so new, he still hadn’t removed the spring in the crown to convert it to a crush cap.

“I told you. Call me Coop or Roger. None of this lieutenant stuff.”

“May we join you, gentlemen?”

Kay Jobson, Vera Viviani, and Alice Olson stood in front of the table, wearing their gray-blue skirts and white blouses, their jackets folded over their arms.

Kay sent Roger a flirty look that had felled many foolhardy men. But not him.

Bert and Mike jumped to their feet and pulled out chairs. Roger stood too, as was polite, but he wanted to groan. Why did dames have to ruin a perfect evening?

Kay took the chair to Roger’s left, Bert hemmed him in on the right, and the walls formed a
V
behind him. When Bert twisted toward Alice, his back created another barrier.

Roger was trapped. He sipped his cold coffee to hide his grimace.

“Well, Roger Cooper. I didn’t know you had it in you.” Kay leaned her elbow on the table and turned the full force of her green eyes on him.