I clipped myself onto the static line that would inflate our parachutes and crouched by the door, ready to fall into nothingness. My eyes found the clearing we’d be aiming for.
Take a look at that postage stamp. It would get bigger the closer we got to it, I knew—as long as the wind currents Jack had tested with drift chutes held.
As long as my parachute opened.
As long as I didn’t get swept off course and into the trees.
As long as the hundreds of things that could go wrong didn’t.
Earl Morrissey’s words echoed in my head, delivered with the authority of a district forest ranger and his usual piercing look up and down the line. “As smokejumpers, you run toward the fire, even when every instinct screams at you to run away from it. That’s true courage, men.”
I’d signed up for that, applying to this program, and for two dry seasons, I’d plummeted through the air toward blaze after blaze.
But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
I flinched when a hand touched my shoulder, but it wasn’t the tap of our spotter, the signal to leave the plane behind. The hand rested there instead. I swiveled to see Jack, his dark eyes reassuring through the opening in the helmet.
“Hey,” he said. “We’re in this together, Gordon. It’ll be all right.”
I took in a deep breath. “Thanks.”
He clapped me on the back, then moved himself in line in front of me. That was Jack for you. Always willing to go first.
“Ten seconds till drop!” Nick boomed.
I crouched, every muscle tense, my mouth dry as underbrush in July, staring down through cold, thin air.
Just a two-person crew for a small lightning fire. So far, it hadn’t even crowned, the smoke rising from burning underbrush rather than the treetops themselves. After we jumped, Tate would have the pilot circle around and drop equipment, food, and sleeping bags, in case we needed to spend the night. An easy job.
I tried to tell that to my stomach, but it wasn’t listening.
Back when the Wright brothers first took off at Kitty Hawk—they were pacifists too—there were plenty of churchgoing Americans who declared that if God had wanted men to fly, he would have given them wings.
Mr. Tate’s hand came down on Jack’s shoulder. Tap. Jack disappeared out the mouth of the plane into the sky. I shifted forward to the door.
I’ve never been sure about that, but I am pretty certain that even if it was God’s idea for men to fly, it was the devil’s idea for them to fall.
Tap.
My body reacted on instinct, sprung like a wound tin toy, launching me out of the plane, feet first, arms crossed. For a few terrible seconds, I plummeted toward the earth.
It came a moment before I’d braced myself for it: the sharp jerk of the harness as the parachute bloomed above me like a silk mushroom. Breathe. Come on, Gordon. It opened. You’re all right.
As usual, the training they’d drilled into us at Missoula played in my head over and over, like the tunes at the cheap bar in town with only a few records to spin on the jukebox. How to maneuver the chute, where to keep my eyes, how to brace myself for an easy landing. Some of the men talked about the float to the ground like it was a pleasant, drifting dream. I always nodded along. It was easier to pretend I wasn’t terrified every time I saw the tips of pines and cedars pointing toward me like spears, the whirl of cold air against me almost as terrifying as the whiffs of uncontrolled smoke in the distance.
Those same feelings rushed over me as the ground came nearer, winter bald and dusted with snow. This time, though, I landed without incident, standing on shaky legs.
I waved the red signal streamer from the pocket on my lower left leg to let Mr. Tate and the pilot know I was all right, then rolled my silk chute with practiced hands. Unlike the military, who’d had to start using nylon after Japan cut off our supply of silk, the Forest Service took good care of their expensive materials. For a man who made $2.50 a month for CPS labor, the $125 silk chute was like giving an urchin a royal robe, and I meant to take good care of it.
“Come on, Gordon!” Jack called, a few yards away, already sniffing the air. No compass or map for him—he oriented himself by his nose, since we rarely landed close enough to a fire to see smoke from the ground. “Let’s get this taken care of and start an early dinner.”
I snorted. “Someone’s optimistic.” The position of the sun told me we still had a few hours till noon, but this wasn’t a city fire, with a shiny fire engine and hydrants to stop the blaze.
No, the only way to stop a fire out here was to suffocate it. Find the Pulaskis and shovels the spotter had parachuted down, then use them to dig a trench wide and deep enough that, without grass or underbrush to catch, the fire wouldn’t have fuel to keep itself roaring. Sometimes we had to cut down trees, haul water in from a stream, or toss loose dirt over smoldering patches, but most of our time was spent digging the fire line.
Once we’d hiked to the fire’s perimeter, I slammed my Pulaski into the earth, driving a furrow like the hand of God divided the Israelites from the Egyptians, so the plagues and the Angel of Death couldn’t cross over. This far, and no farther.
The fire could rage all it wanted, but it wasn’t getting more of the forest today. Not if I could stop it.
I let slip a groan as I set down my pack to take a swig from my canteen, slowly rolling my shoulders in a stretch. As always, it felt like the fire had gone out of the underbrush and straight into my muscles.
Eight hours of backbreaking work had clocked us in well within the 10 AM next-day containment goal the Forest Service used as their baseline for a job well done. Jack and I had taken two short breaks for our K-ration meals, the same dried stuff the troops ate on their missions, but then it was back to the unending digging of the fire line.
Two-man fires felt different than the blazes that called out our full eighteen-man crew or the infernos that requested jumpers from base camp and several of the spike camps combined. No mules to haul supplies and water, no cook assigned to rustle up grub over a makeshift wood stove, not as much camaraderie to pass the time. Still, it was better to be stuck here with Jack than someone like Shorty Schumacher, who could talk a fellow to death.
“Come on, Gordon,” Jack called back, his flashlight bobbing in the murky twilight, ahead of me as usual. “Another half mile, that’s all, and we’ll be out of here.”
“Another half mile, and I’ll die of exhaustion,” I grumbled.
Jack laughed and forged ahead. “Don’t be stupid. The bears would get you first.”
Too much energy to be real, like one of the black-capped chickadees that flitted around us during morning exercises, taunting the smokejumpers who needed to work so hard to be able to fly. Even in college, Jack had been that way, the handsome athlete everyone was drawn to, with the same winning smile as his sister, though they didn’t share any other features.
Just a few steps behind him, I managed to push my aching body forward.
On most jumps, we stuck around overnight and in the morning walked the breadth of the burned area, checking for pockets of hot coals to smother. We kept an eye out for snags—trees still standing upright, but with their roots burned out from under them. “Silent killers,” Morrissey called them, and he’d seen his fair share in three decades of forestry work.
Tonight, though, the midwinter sun set early and temperatures dipped below freezing. Morrissey had ordered us to report when the blaze was extinguished, then hike the few miles to the road and let the lookout who had spotted the fire come back to check for damage. A small blessing, anyway.
Once we’d made it to the highway, we radioed in our location and huddled within sight of the road. It wasn’t long before we heard the rumble of an engine, and a dull-colored truck rounded the bend in the distance.
“Now, that’s service for you.” I elbowed Jack and pointed out the truck. “Roadside pickup.”
He grinned and pinched his nose. “Sure, just like garbage collectio
n back in Philadelphia.”
After a long day’s work, we sure didn’t smell like a Macy’s perfume counter. Not to mention Jack was just as broad-shouldered as me, so it would be a sardine-and-shoehorn fit inside the truck’s cab. But at least it’ll be warm. When had I last felt my toes, numb as chunks of ice even while wrapped in government-issue wool socks?
Inside, the ranger, who looked like he could have started in the forestry department under the first President Roosevelt in 1905, introduced himself as Arthur Calhoun and offered us slabs of jerky wrapped in wax paper. “Made ’em myself,” he bragged, lurching onto the road.
I gave it the old college try, biting off a chunk. Back home, I’d never been much for food you had to gnaw like a beaver. Then again, back home, I’d never seen a beaver outside of a zoo. Now, though, the salt and hickory of the meat tasted better than the sweat and smoke I’d tasted the rest of the day. “Thanks for the pickup, Mr. Calhoun,” I managed around the mouthful.
“Just doing my job.” Our driver gunned the engine and rocketed down the road, making me jostle into Jack. “It’s four hours or so to Flintlock Mountain, so best get comfortable. Been years since I drove all night like this. Normally, I’d tell ’em to make you wait through the night in those sleeping bags they drop in, but it’s a chilly one, no mistake.” Mr. Calhoun grunted. “Can’t get a moment’s peace, even in winter, I guess.”
Next to me, Jack leaned forward. “About that. Isn’t it odd that we had a blaze so long after fire season?”
I kept myself from rolling my eyes, but only barely. Leave it to Jack to care about probability when all I wanted to do was sleep. He’d be finishing up his training to become a top-notch high school calculus teacher if it wasn’t for the draft.
“Don’t know that I’d call it odd,” Mr. Calhoun said thoughtfully. “Sure, we don’t get much lightning this season, and things are wet enough with snow that they don’t usually catch. But for every usual, there’s an unusual, y’know?”
But Jack wouldn’t let up. “Last year we had one winter fire in the whole state of Oregon. Morrissey told me this was the fourth fire report in the past six weeks.”
“Like I say, these things happen sometimes.” Mr. Calhoun took a turn I thought would send us into the snowy ditch, but righted us jerkily. “Now tell me, did you boys get a deferment for the smokejumping, or were you 4-F, some old injury or the like keeping you back in the States? If you don’t mind my asking.”
I glanced uneasily at Jack. Usually, forestry employees had heard about the conscientious objectors working fire duty, but every now and then, the farther away we got from the base camp in Missoula, we’d find someone who didn’t know.
Here we go again.
“Something like that,” Jack said, at the same time that I said, louder, “Neither, sir. We’re with the Civilian Public Service.”
“With the what, now?” Before we could explain, Mr. Calhoun twisted to look at us, swerving wildly across the blessedly empty road. “Hold on, you’re not some of those conchies, are you?”
“Yes. We are.”
Mr. Calhoun swore, swinging his eyes back to the road. “I don’t believe it. Conchies. In my truck. That’s some nerve you’ve got, dodging the draft.”
I clenched my teeth. I’d heard it all before. Shirkers, cowards, bums. As if we weren’t making any sacrifices. The truck’s cab seemed to shrink, like there wasn’t quite enough air for all three of us.
“It’s not draft dodging,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and rational. “We’ve chosen to serve our country in a non-combat role because we don’t believe anyone has a right to take another man’s life.”
“Huh. Tell that to Hitler.”
I bit back a smart reply and waited for Jack to help me out. Two against one, we could make a strong enough case that Mr. Calhoun would leave us alone.
But Jack only shrugged, suddenly withdrawn. “It’s between us and God. Just a matter of conscience.”
Mr. Calhoun snorted. “Like blooming heck it is. If everyone was like you, why, we’d all be wearing swastikas and humming Germany’s national anthem right now. Or Japan’s, for that matter.”
I had a standard comeback for that, and it came out quick and sharp. “If everyone was like us, there wouldn’t be any wars.”
For a moment, I thought Mr. Calhoun was going to dump us on the side of the road to walk the hundred-odd miles back to the Flintlock Mountain District. But he kept the battered vehicle on course, even speeding up, like he couldn’t wait to be rid of us.
“Puh,” he huffed. “That’s an excuse if I ever heard it.”
I felt a sharp pain and realized I’d formed my hand into a fist, fingernails cutting into my palm. Calm down. Breathe in deeply. Let the anger go.
I wouldn’t be like my father. I wouldn’t.
Slowly, I let my fingers relax, one by one. “I know it seems strange, Mr. Calhoun, but we’ve done a lot of thinking.” I shifted to face Jack, prompting him out of his unusual quiet. “Right, Jack?”
But instead of answering, Jack faced the truck’s window, as if he could see anything between the frost-laced glass and the darkness.
He’s tired, that’s all. Both of us were. This wasn’t the time or the place for a debate.
“Just doesn’t seem right,” Mr. Calhoun muttered. Despite the large bundle on the dash, he didn’t offer us any more jerky.
In the cold silence that now reigned in the cab, I felt my smoke-reddened eyes droop shut.
New Year’s Eve. Almost 1945. Three years since Pearl Harbor.
We were doing the right thing. Of course we were. And if that meant building fences, digging trenches around dozens of fires, and arguing with old rangers until this crazy war was finally over, so be it.
I just hope the end comes soon.
CHAPTER 2
Dorie Armitage
January 5, 1945
The buttery tones of Frank Sinatra’s big-band brass poured into the chilly Seattle night as my friends and I strolled toward the gymnasium that hosted the USO New Year’s dance.
Hearing it made my foot start to twitch. It had been too long—ages, really—since I’d been to a proper dance, not just an impromptu spin to Bea’s jazz record collection with others in the Women’s Army Corps.
“Come on, girls,” I said, motioning them forward. Violet was gawking at the line of uniformed men, and Bea patted her hair nervously. “We’re already late.”
As we got closer, I saw something that gave my stomach a quick-and-dirty gut punch. Well, if that’s not trouble, I don’t know what is.
Flanking the door like a tank gunner was an older woman whose face, beaming as she greeted the military men filing inside, froze when she saw us.
“Dorie . . .” Violet whispered uncertainly from behind me, apparently spotting the same obstacle.
I kept my posture straight and proper anyway, reaching into my uniform pocket to produce the tickets I’d gotten at the PX. “Three for the dance,” I said, smiling and leveraging my famous Armitage charm.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t come inside,” the woman said firmly. Mrs. Coleridge, the name badge pinned to a dark formal dress declared.
Behind me, Bea coughed uncomfortably, and Violet shrank back like she was trying to disappear.
I sighed. Apparently, this was going to be up to me.
“I understand we’re a little late,” I said, hoping I sounded caramel-smooth and confident. “It took longer than we expected to get ready for the party.”
Mrs. Coleridge’s eyes flitted to my khaki WAC uniform.
Well, of course we didn’t have a choice of clothing to slow us down, once we heard that only military personnel in uniform would be admitted to the dance. But because it was a dress-up occasion, I’d put on red lipstick, secured my wild hair into Victory rolls with an artillery belt’s worth of hairpins, and polished my shoes with saddle soap.
And here we were, after all our pains, still not quite good enough.
“Yo
ur lack of punctuality is not the issue,” Mrs. Coleridge explained as if we were bobby-socked thirteen-year-olds. “You see, the only women permitted to attend the dance are our civilian hostesses.”
“Oh,” Violet said, her voice rising an octave. “We didn’t know. That is, no one told us.”
Mrs. Coleridge nodded in a motherly way to acknowledge her simpering. “I do apologize for the inconvenience.”
I slid back the tickets and studied them, as if looking for fine print. “Gee, and here I thought the USO was open to members of the armed services. Which we are.”
“Let’s go, Dorie,” Bea whispered with a tug at my sleeve. Her upper-crust upbringing strictly prohibited making, as she called it, “a scene.”
But I say every good story has a few scenes.
Mrs. Coleridge was just like all the other people who disapproved of my choice to join the Women’s Army Corps—my neighbors, my family’s minister, my parents. Jack, who only knew because Mother had blabbed. Gordon Hooper, if he knew or cared, which he wouldn’t, because I’d unceremoniously dumped him after a five-letter courtship.
None of them had been able to stop me, and a middle-aged woman wrapped in black crepe and rosewater sure wasn’t going to now.
I craned my neck to look past her into the gymnasium, transformed with festive draperies and paper lanterns and filled to bursting with servicemen and demure young ladies in dresses of every color but khaki. Max and some of his buddies from the Transportation Corps were probably already inside.
“You have five times the number of men here as women,” I observed. “We’ll be helping even out your numbers.”
Mrs. Coleridge didn’t flinch, and I noticed that she had a layer of face powder crusted in the wrinkle grooves around her eyes and mouth. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but rules are rules, Miss . . .”
The Lines Between Us Page 2