The Wings of Morning (19 page)

It was a sad letter, his father obviously lonely and missing him and still wondering why Jude had just up and enlisted without talking things over. Bishop Zook’s was not as sad, but it ran along the same lines: Why had a Lapp Amish boy joined the military, why had he gone to war, did flying matter so much to him that he had to go against his church and his faith? What could he, as bishop, do to protect Jude from the
Meidung
once Jude was flying aeroplanes over the battlefields of France?

The letter from Deborah King was a request from a young woman at Bird-in-Hand for Jude to locate her brother Matt, who had left the Amish faith years before and was now a combat pilot with an American squadron. Could Jude write back and tell her if Matt was all right? He had been shunned for years so they could not receive correspondence from him, nor could the family send him mail.

Then Jude opened one of Emma’s letters. It was her envelopes and pages that were scented, not with perfume—not from a good Amish girl and the bishop’s daughter—but from the soaps she used on her skin and her hair. It immediately took him back home and filled his mind with her eyes and smile. The feeling was so strong that Jude had to shake his head to clear it. Her letters were funny and witty, and line after line she teased him about when he was coming back to court her by buggy and aeroplane. He lay back and closed his eyes after he had opened all three, listening to the English rain rattle on his windowpane.

In his right hand he held the envelope with Lyyndaya’s flowing script on it.

Why did I open Emma’s first? Why did I save Lyyndaya’s to open last?

There was a loud knock on his door. He sat up and Mitch poked his head in. “Hey, lover boy, the old man wants to see you
tout de suite
.”

“Major Jackson? What for?”

Mitch shrugged. “Beats me. I just deliver the news. And the mail.” He grinned his freckled grin again. “Maybe perfumed envelopes violate military protocol. Which puts you in hot water and absolutely no one else.”

Jude threw on a coat and walked from their barracks to the command hut, slogging through grass and pools of water. To his left, the biplanes sat stoically in the gray rain, looking undefeated and strong and as ready to take to the air as if it were a sunny day. He stepped into the hut, spoke to Jackson’s aide, and was ushered into his commanding officer’s room without any delay.

He saluted. “Sir.”

The salute was returned. “Stand easy, Lieutenant.”

Major Jackson was in a brown uniform shirt and pants like Jude. Tall and lean with a perpetual tan. His hair was silver and cut short for the warm Arizona days he had ranched in until America entered the war. The pilots said he was making a fortune with his beef contracts to the army and could have stayed in southern Arizona without any danger of being drafted. But Jackson had volunteered. Behind his back they called him “Ironwood” after the desert ironwood tree that grew in America’s Sonora Desert.

He stood up and went to the window that looked out on the aerodrome and the planes neatly lined up on the green grass.

“What do you think of the English climate, Whetstone?”

“I can live with it, sir. Our Pennsylvania springs are pretty wet too.”

“But warmer.”

“Yes sir, warmer.”

“I can’t stand the constant rain myself. I feel like I’m on Noah’s ark. The desert suits me better.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jackson put his hands in his pockets and turned to face Jude, his gray eyes sharp, but not unkind.

“I was reading up on your—church—and it made me wonder about a few things. For instance, if the Amish won’t bear arms, what are you doing here?”

Jude had not expected this. He cleared his throat and went back to attention. “Well, sir—”

“Stand easy, I said.”

Jude tried to relax. “It was something I had to do.”

“Why?”

“To save lives.”

“
Save
them? Most airmen talk about taking lives and becoming aces.”

“Well, sir, I suppose they and I come at this conflict from different perspectives.”

Jackson came slowly toward him, hands still in his pockets. “Your people are exempt from serving in the military. You could be at home chatting up a pretty girl with perfumed hair and plowing your land for spring planting.”

“Well, sir—” Jude wondered briefly if Jackson knew about Emma’s letters and then plunged ahead. “I mean no offense, but you could be on your ranch in Pima County riding at the head of your spring roundup.”

The major thought about this, smiled in a small way like a dry, curved stick, and jingled some change in his pocket. “You have horses, Whetstone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like ’em?”

“Yes, sir. I got my first pony when I was twelve. An Appaloosa.”

Jackson’s eyes widened and changed color to an almost bright blue. “Appaloosa! You like that breed?”

“Grit’s always been a great horse.”

“I had a bunch of Appies once that near drove me around the bend. Stubborn, knot-headed, you say left, they go right. As for me, I have a fondness for paints. All the horses on my ranch are paints.”

“Beautiful horse, sir.”

“Darn right. And they know how to take orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jackson walked back to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. “Your gunnery has improved. You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn last month and now you’re shooting ticks off a flea’s back. What happened?”

Jude lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Don’t know, sir. Got the hang of it, I guess.”

Jackson stared at him. “I think you always had the hang of it. I think you were holding back on us. Not sure why.” He sat on the edge of his desk, still holding the piece of paper. “Eyes like a carbine sight. Reflexes sharp as a razor blade. Mind as cool as a blue norther. I believe you always could shoot like Wyatt Earp. What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

“Not sure, sir.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure you know.” Jackson looked back at the paper and ran a hand through his close-cropped silver hair. “You’ve requested reconnaissance duty. The observer has the guns on reconnaissance. Not the pilot. Is that what you were thinking?”

Jude stumbled. “I’m not…I suppose I was hoping—”

Jackson put the paper down and folded his arms over his chest. “Have you given much thought to what it’s like in the air during a war?”

“Of course—”

“Well, whatever you think, change your mind. It’s
worse
. Even up in the air and away from the trenches, it’s worse.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not about flying, Whetstone. It’s not pretty like that. Not a hop over the Grand Canyon. Or a cruise over Lancaster County. It’s about killing men. It’s about sending planes down in flames. We want twisted wreckage on the ground, Lieutenant.
Their
wreckage, German and Austrian wreckage. Their pilots getting the glorious military funerals.”

Jude felt a coldness working its way through his body from his head to his stomach and legs. “Yes, sir.”

Now Jackson’s gaze on him was like rock. Or, Jude thought, a rattler.

“Can you do that? Can an Amish boy shoot men? Not just Fokkers and Albatros fighters?”

Jude didn’t respond. Jackson sat gazing at him, arms still over his chest.

“I have a faith too, Whetstone. Born and raised Baptist. Got dunked at fourteen and I darn well meant it too. Still mean it.” He tapped a black leather book on his desktop. “Keep my Bible with me at all times. Read it morning and night and a lot of times in between.
Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight: My goodness, and my fortress; my high tower, and my deliverer; my shield, and he in whom I trust; who subdueth my people under me
. A psalm of David, number one hundred forty-four, verses one and two.”

“Yes, sir.”

“
The Lord is a man of war: the Lord is his name
. Exodus chapter fifteen and verse three.”

Jude nodded. “I know, sir.”

“Then
live
it. Live your faith in God and honor his Word.” Jackson stood up. “Your request to fly reconnaissance is denied. You are much too good of an aviator. We need you at the front bringing the enemy’s planes down. In the name of God.”

Jude looked straight ahead.

“You are on your way to France in the morning. We’ve kept you here far too long as it is. There’s no need to put you in our advanced schools at Issoudun or Clermont-Ferrand. You were already ace material when you arrived. But we needed your help teaching the prairie boys and the mountain men and the city slickers. You did a good job. Got them to love flying as much as you love it, as much as I love it. However, now that your shooting eye is what it needs to be—well, we’ve taken casualties, Whetstone. We’ve lost a lot of good boys. And we want to prove to our allies that an American flier can be just as tough and resourceful as a French or British one. America wants her best pilots at the front. It’ll mean a lot to our doughboys down below in the muck and poison gas. And it’ll mean a lot to the American public back home.”

Jude came to attention. “Of course, sir.”

“The transport will pick you up at 0300 hours. Take everything you need. You won’t be coming back.”

Jackson drew himself up as rigid as a flagpole. He saluted. “I hope to join you in due course, Lieutenant. Good luck. And God bless you.”

Jude returned the salute. “Thank you, sir.”

That night, Jude did not sleep well. When the motor vehicle arrived with a British driver he threw his duffle bag in the back and climbed in. Neither of them had anything to say. A fine mist was drifting over everything.

Later, on board the ship that took him across the Channel, he leaned against the rail and finally opened Lyyndaya’s letter Mitch had given him the day before. Tiny droplets of water formed a film over the paper and made some of the ink run, but Jude kept reading as the sun whitened the sky.

Jude smiled, the Channel spray and slowly lifting fog making his face shine with water droplets. Emma would say,
Oh, I’m sure it’s love, I’m certain I’m in love with you
, over and over again in her letters. Lyyndaya would express her doubts, her hesitations, her uncertainties, knowing she took the risk of losing out to her rival when she did so. There really was no one like her. Though he wished she would dab her envelopes with the soap she used on her hair and hands—yet he knew she was not the kind of woman who would ever do that.

A French driver was looking for him at the dock and they began the long morning’s drive to Paris.

“Is that where I’ll be stationed?” asked Jude.

The driver had been chosen for his facility with the English language. He smiled at Jude’s naivete. “Wouldn’t that be nice,
monsieur
? All the charms of Paris and the war far away.”

Jude felt his face flush with embarrassment. He surprised himself by saying, “I don’t wish the war to be far away,
monsieur
, and I do not wish to remain and partake of the city’s charms if it is. It’s just that I have no idea where the front is.”