Only to look up at the wooden frame that formed the top bunk . . . where nearly two dozen newspaper articles faced me, some faded to a mild yellow, each secured in the corner with silver tacks, matching the box I’d found in Jack’s trunk.
Well done, Jack. It was a good hiding place . . . except that it meant Jack was forced to stare up at the depressing headlines every night and see them first thing when he woke in the mornings.
Based on the progression of dates and coloration, the newest was at the end closest to the foot. I carefully removed the tacks and took it down. The headline was even grimmer than usual: Thousands Liberated from “Murder Factory.”
I scanned the newsprint underneath. The Russian Army had broken through to some kind of Nazi prison camp in Poland, where the Germans brought trainloads of dissidents to work. By the time the Red Army came, there were only starving, emaciated men, women, and children left. 150,000 estimated killed.
It was a short article, just a few lines and with no pictures, but it chilled me in a way that some of the others Jack had let me see, about various battles or maneuvers, had not.
Children?
Something caught my eye, a smudged line in pencil underneath the article, crammed into the margin. This is what happens when a good man does nothing.
I searched the other articles. No pencil messages scrawled there. Whoever had sent this was increasing the pressure. But why? What possible motive did he have?
I tried to imagine I were Jack, a leader with a strong sense of responsibility, already feeling uncertain about his choices, without any support from his family or church. How would he feel, reading this article and all the rest?
No. He would understand he’s acting out of conviction, not fear.
That was how the Jack right after Pearl Harbor would respond, or the Jack who first told me about the CPS smokejumper program.
But the Jack of three years into the war, during a long winter of inactivity, after reading about women and children murdered by the Axis powers?
“He’d be feeling low.”
I’d said it out loud, quietly, and putting it to words made it feel more real.
A second thought came, as logical as one of Jack’s algorithms.
What if the reason he rushed into the fire alone, despite all safety training warning against it, was because he didn’t care if he made it out or not?
“You all right, Gordon?” It was Shorty’s voice, uncharacteristically hesitant, coming from the doorway, but I didn’t turn around, tucking the newspaper article into my pocket much like Jack always had.
“I was just . . . thinking.” I couldn’t lie, even if I didn’t want to tell him the full reason. “It doesn’t make sense, what happened to Jack. It was so . . . sudden.”
“Fire often comes down from heaven with no warning.”
I groaned at the deep, authoritative voice. If I’d have known he’d come in with Shorty, I’d have kept my mouth shut. But there he was, the Apostle Tom himself, leaning in the bunkhouse doorway and looking somberly at me as I rolled off the bunk and turned to face them.
Shorty’s laugh had a nervous tinge to it. “Come on, this isn’t the Old Testament.”
But I wasn’t ready to pass it off as a joke, not when Thomas’s deep-set eyes were so serious. “What are you saying, Thomas?”
And then he began to sing in a mellow bass the words to Sunday’s hymn as he walked toward me. “‘He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword.’”
Lightning. He couldn’t mean . . .
“What are you saying?” I repeated, this time through gritted teeth.
Thomas was unruffled, looking directly at me with cool blue eyes. “You’re a man of faith too, Gordon. You have to admit it’s possible.”
I realized he was going to force me to say it, that he wasn’t brave enough to make the accusation outright. “You think . . . God set that fire?”
“‘The Lord knoweth how to deliver the godly out of temptations, and to reserve the unjust unto the day of judgment—’” he paused and looked significantly at me—“‘to be punished.’”
I couldn’t explain it or justify it, but something in me snapped. Or maybe that was just the sound my fist made when it cracked Thomas right in the jaw.
He curled his arms protectively around himself but didn’t resist when I shoved him, knocking him to the floor.
I felt Shorty’s arms around me, pulling me back.
“How dare you!” I shouted, lunging for Thomas again, twisting out of Shorty’s grasp. “You’ve got no right.”
He didn’t fight back. Maybe it was self-righteousness, or maybe he was afraid of being struck with another judgment from God, but the fact was that Thomas Martin turned the other cheek and let me hit him again, which I did.
And regretted it, as always, just a few seconds too late.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, the words feeling thick and insincere on my tongue. “I . . . I didn’t . . .”
Shorty was staring at me like you would at a rabid animal a distance away, and Thomas lay on the floor of the bunkhouse, breathing heavily.
Now they’d all know the real reason I’d become a Quaker, why I held so tightly to nonviolence. I’d always hoped if I really believed it sincerely enough, maybe it would change me for good. Maybe I wouldn’t end up like my father and his father, with their half-drunk tirades and shouts of rage.
And yet, here I was.
With effort, Thomas hauled himself up, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve. Then he looked right at me. “‘For it had been better for them not to have known the way of righteousness, than, after they have known it, to turn from the holy commandment delivered unto them.’”
My hand fell to my side, knuckles throbbing from where they’d connected with cartilage and bone. Whatever wrong ideas he had about Jack, he was right about me.
I might be angry at God and everyone else for what happened to Jack, but God was angry with me too. And he had a right to be.
I let the door slam as I ran, Shorty calling after me. Not into the woods, just out to the worn track around the landing strip. A dozen laps wouldn’t clear my mind, but maybe they would help somehow.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. The Scripture came back to taunt me now, yanking my guilty conscience down even farther with shame.
I’d really done it now. There went the only blessing I had left.
I was a child of my father, all right. But this time, it was only my earthly one, whom Mother and I had tried so hard to bury.
Once I’d finished running, sweaty and spent, there was only one option. Turn myself in to Morrissey.
Please don’t let her be here, I prayed as I pushed open the heavy door. Sometimes, during work hours, she was at the cookhouse, or checking inventory, or loading in a delivery.
But no. Sarah Ruth Morrissey was stationed at the secretarial desk in the ranger station’s entryway underneath a large trail map and illustrated posters of the flora and fauna of Oregon. She looked up when I entered and studied me, breathing hard from the run, my coat stripped off in my arms. “You don’t look so great, Gordon.”
Thanks a lot. “I need to speak to your father,” I mumbled, looking at the scarred wood floor, the cheerful fireplace, the taxidermy birds nailed back on the wall—anywhere but her searching face.
“Sorry,” she said, nodding toward the carved wooden bench beside the door, “you’ll have to wait. He’s . . . busy.”
In the quiet that followed, I could hear muted voices, and while I couldn’t understand all the words, I had a good idea of who was saying them.
Thomas had made it here before me.
And Sarah Ruth’s desk was right beside the office door.
Combine that with the sympathetic look she’d aimed my way, and it didn’t take Raymond Steele, private eye, to figure out that she knew more than she was letting on.
I sat, the tight muscles in my legs easing, and thought about reac
hing for the battered guide to North American trees, anything to put a barrier between the two of us in the awkward silence.
“You know,” Sarah Ruth said, pushing her chair away from the desk to prop her boots up alongside the half-finished letter that poked out of her typewriter, “I’ve known some fellows who have a moral code, and some whose moral code has them . . . throttled around the throat. There’s a difference.”
I struggled to find a response and came up empty. “That’s certainly . . . vivid.”
She opened her mouth to say more, but the office door creaked open, and Thomas stepped out—not smug, just sober, though the effect was lessened by the handkerchief dangling from his swollen nostril.
When his eyes met mine, it felt like staring into the face of an Old Testament prophet. Daniel, maybe, coming unscathed out of the lion’s den, only to watch the pagan king throw his enemies into it in his place.
There was nothing I could say in my defense. His very presence, the shadow of a coming bruise darkening on his cheekbone, condemned me, the violent pacifist.
“Hooper,” he said, nodding at me as he strode toward the door.
“Have a nice day,” Sarah Ruth called pleasantly after him, which almost made me smile. I’d noticed that Sarah Ruth never used that sticky-sweet voice unless she really disliked someone.
The door shut. “What did he say, anyway?” Sarah Ruth asked as I stood. I must have let my surprise show, because she rolled her eyes. “Come on, Gordon. I know you wouldn’t go around throwing punches for no reason.”
That comment, even delivered with her usual gruff air, gave me confidence enough to tell the truth. “He told me that maybe . . . maybe what happened to Jack was God’s judgment.”
“Well, if that’s not a bunch of tin-can Spam,” she said, scowling. “I would have punched him too.”
The image of tiny Sarah Ruth swaggering up to Thomas and clocking him a good one was almost amusing . . . except looking at her, narrow eyed and tense, I could believe she’d do it.
“There’s a lot of judgment in the Bible.”
“And a lot of grace.” Then she looked away, taking a wavering breath before looking up again, trying to smile. “When I learn how to find the balance, I’ll let you know.”
In characteristic Sarah Ruth style, she didn’t finish the conversation but knocked on her father’s office door. After poking her head in and presumably tapping out some sort of silent Morrissey code to ask if he was free, she gestured me forward.
I came, trying not to feel like a blindfolded man led in front of a firing squad.
She must have noticed, because when I passed close enough, she put a hand on my arm—not a delicate pat, but a bracing grip, like she was hauling me up out of a deep, dark pit.
“Thanks,” I managed.
All she did was nod, her wide hazel eyes serious without a sign of a forced smile in sight, before letting go.
She’d heard what I’d done. But she also knew what it was like to have regrets. Whether they were old and scarred or fresh and lingering, she knew. And that helped.
Inside the office, Morrissey rubbed his temples with work-calloused hands, a study in disapproval against a background of filing cabinets and bookshelves. “Hooper,” he grunted, indicating the cracked green leather chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”
There was none of his daughter’s sympathy in his tone. Then again, I didn’t really deserve it. “I came to tell you—”
“Save your breath. I already know.” I wondered exactly what version Thomas had given him, but I didn’t try to protest. He sighed, long and loud. “Between this and the army inspection, it’s been a long day.”
Curiosity cut through my guilt. “An inspection, sir?”
His hand waved vaguely at a stack of paperwork. “I got the telegram yesterday. Something about the Red Cross and the YMCA and some negative press reports about Civilian Public Service camps. How they chose this spike camp to send someone out to, I’ll never know.”
That kicked awake a sleeping corner of suspicion. “Does it have anything to do with Jack’s injury?”
“Doubt it,” Morrissey grumbled. “For one thing, the army doesn’t make decisions fast enough.” He squinted at me. “But don’t change the subject, Hooper. Martin told me about the incident.”
I looked down at my hands, so different from the tight fists they’d been less than an hour before. “Yes, sir.”
He sighed heavily. “When we agreed to work with the army to let you fellows help out the forestry department, one of my rangers joked, ‘At least we won’t have fights breaking out like in the Civilian Conservation Corps days.’” Morrissey ran his hands through his hair, like I was personally responsible for some of the new gray growth. “Well, here we are.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” What else was there to say? “It was wrong of me.”
“You better be careful, son. That temper of yours is going to get you in real trouble someday.”
As if it hadn’t already.
“I know.” But knowing didn’t seem to help. Every time I thought I’d beaten my anger down, it found a way to pop back up again for another round, looking, sounding, feeling just like my father. I hated that, just the way I’d hated him.
After some hemming and hawing, Morrissey decided to take me off KP duty for the day and sentence me to fix the latrine roof. By the time the supper bell rang and I came down, that latrine had old slate shingles yanked off and new asphalt ones slapped on. I’d spent so long smelling the contents of the latrine that I couldn’t tell if I smelled any better myself. My fingers felt cold enough to fall off, and besides that, I’d skipped lunch, too embarrassed to face the other fellows.
My stomach growled and so did the rest of me, especially when I saw Thomas leaning against the bell tower between the ranger station and the cookhouse.
I kept my steps even and my eyes just slightly down. Don’t look at him. Don’t think about what he said.
Eventually, I’d find the courage to apologize. When I could say I was sorry and mean it, when it wouldn’t feel like a betrayal to Jack. But not today.
Then I frowned, noticing that, instead of the usual line outside the cookhouse before Mrs. Edith let us all in, there was a crowd around the ranger station, rangers and smokejumpers talking among themselves.
“What’s going on, fellows?” I asked, joining them. They parted to let me in, and I realized that it was a miracle, something newsworthy happening just now. Maybe everyone would forget about my punching Thomas.
“The army sent a WAC,” Jimmy said, his voice near awed, “and a pretty one, too.”
I frowned. “A WAC?” Was that some kind of weapon?
“You know, a woman soldier. Except I don’t think they do any fighting,” Shorty added hurriedly, probably noticing my frown. “Mostly support.”
I was halfway through wondering what kind of woman would don a man’s uniform to go to war when the station door opened.
Now I was staring too . . . but not for the same reason as the other men. Because when I finally met the gaze of the uniformed army agent sent to report back on our spike camp, I saw the same bright eyes and enthusiastic smile that had fascinated me three years earlier.
It was Dorie Armitage.
CHAPTER 11
Dorie Armitage
January 19, 1945
There’s nothing like seeing the man who broke your heart and broke up your family shocked speechless.
I’d wondered if Gordon had requested the same CPS camp as Jack. And there he was, looking like a trout on a bank, flopping with his mouth gaping open.
Good to see you too, Gordon.
I smiled just the slightest bit, and he slammed his mouth shut, face pale. He was still handsome in a boy-next-door sort of way, but not at his best today, wearing grimy clothes, his blond hair matted to his head with sweat.
Morrissey cleared his throat behind me, and I stepped aside to make room for him. In his hands, he clutched the letter of recommendation—forge
d by Bea’s secretarial skills—from Captain Petmencky and Major Hastings, explaining my purpose here, and he stood straight as the evergreens that fringed the clearing. “Men, this is Private First Class Nora Hightower. She’s been sent by the army to evaluate our camp. She’ll be here for—”
Here he turned to me, clearly realizing I hadn’t yet supplied that detail. I smiled brightly. “Until I have enough information to satisfy the War Department.” Though if I didn’t return to Fort Lawton by January thirtieth, when my furlough was up, I’d have to come up with an explanation that didn’t involve desertion.
“She will be scheduling times to interview you about your experience here,” Morrissey continued. “I would ask you to cooperate fully with her, since, as you know, this camp is funded by the army.”
Some of the younger men, the ones not wearing Forest Service uniforms, flinched at that. My, the COs didn’t care to be under War Department control, did they?
“But, sir, that’s . . . she’s—” It was Gordon, who clamped his mouth shut almost as soon as the words left his mouth, the half-stricken look still plain as day on his face.
“Do you have something to say, Hooper?” Morrissey asked. Whatever he saw in Gordon’s absurdly transparent expression prompted his next question: “Is PFC Hightower a friend of yours?”
My breath hitched.
Don’t. You. Dare.
Instead of shaking his head, Gordon paused, and every nerve in my body tensed, because I knew.
He was going to announce I was Jack’s sister, right there and then, in front of everyone.
It came back in a flash, a memory from three years ago. Gordon, sitting across the hearth from me, orange-gold in the light, telling a story about how he’d once been tricked into buying rocks from an eight-year-old swindler. I could barely breathe, I was laughing so hard. “Gordon Hooper, you’re telling me a fib,” I’d managed, gathering in a deep breath.
It was like someone had doused him with a bucket of water, the way all the laughter went out of his eyes. “I don’t lie, Dorie,” he’d said, adorably earnest. “I’ve known a liar, and I will not be like him. Not ever.”
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