“Gordon!”
“Where have you been?”
“We’ve been searching for you all morning.”
“Some snowstorm, eh?”
“Someone radio back to Morrissey and tell him to call in the others!”
Four of the COs, including the Apostle Tom, surrounded us, all talking at once and asking for explanations we could hardly give. Leland and Dorie didn’t set me down, knowing how much the jostling hurt me.
At this point, I’d take any pain. We’d made it back to safety and friends excited to see us alive and, hopefully, a meal more substantial than cottage cheese.
While the other COs swarmed Jimmy and Sarah Ruth, asking questions, Thomas strode over to us.
“Gordon,” he said, his deep voice emotionless.
“Thomas.”
I braced myself for something snide, like “All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.” Instead, he turned to Dorie. “I’ll take your place the rest of the way.”
Uncertainly, she turned to me, waiting for permission.
Sure, Dorie needed a break, but why Thomas? Was it his overdeveloped sense of duty? Maybe this was a ruse so he could “trip” and dump me to the ground the first chance he got. “Why would you do that?”
“Because,” he said, and for some reason he was looking at Dorie, not me, “loving your neighbor means more than just not killing him.”
With that, Thomas bent to take up the front of the pallet, like the battlefield stretcher-bearers he’d refused to join.
Maybe we’d all learned a thing or two this terrible winter.
That left Dorie to walk by my head, beside Leland, with some of the other COs helping Sarah Ruth pick our way back toward the camp. “I guess we’ve made it, then. They’ll take you to a hospital.”
“I sure hope so.” Since Leland was standing right there, quietly keeping pace beside us, I didn’t say it, but his reassurances that I wouldn’t lose a leg or get a fatal infection would have been a lot more convincing if they’d come with a stiff painkiller.
“Well, once you’re gone . . . if I don’t get the chance to say it again . . .” She huffed out a breath, still looking more at the snowy ground than me. “It takes real courage, putting on a uniform and fighting for your country. I still believe that.”
“I know.” She’d said the same thing three years ago, when the subject had come up at Thanksgiving, wearing that red scarf and arguing away with Jack and me into the late hours of the night. I’d known all along where she stood.
“But maybe it takes courage to stand up to people making fun of you for what you believe, or to jump out of planes, or to fight a trigger-happy kid to save a man you barely know.” To avoid looking at me, she pretended to kick away a rock from the trail.
“Dorie . . .”
“You were braver than I realized, that’s all.” She looked down at me then, and I saw the track of a lone tear down her face. “You and Jack both.”
Sure, there were still things unspoken between us, battles we’d fought and won and lost, questions that wanted answers.
But maybe this was enough. “Thanks. That means more than you know.”
She nodded briskly, brushing the skirt of her uniform as if she could get rid of the mud stains spattered on it. “Now, you’d better rest until we can get you to a doctor to heal up. You’ve still got a debt to your country to pay off, you know. The war’s not over yet.”
But it felt like one war, anyway, was as good as done. And I was thankful.
CHAPTER 42
Dorie Armitage
January 27, 1945
I learned, over a hearty stack of flapjacks in the near-empty cookhouse, that Mr. Morrissey hadn’t committed treason.
“I’m not sure what he was thinking when he planned that meeting with the mayor,” Leland said, “but all he said was that he wanted permission to give a safety demonstration to the town before spring. Major Hastings contacted the mayor to confirm the story. Apparently he mentioned wanting to warn people to report unidentified objects to the proper authorities, but that was all.”
I knew a loophole when I saw one, and my mind began spinning. “Doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea, if you ask me.”
Leland drizzled more syrup over his pancakes. “Once we explained things to him and promised we were training a specialized crew to handle incendiary bomb fires, he agreed to keep things quiet. Major Hastings is satisfied with that.”
“So, no treason trial?” He shook his head, and I was surprised by the relief I’d felt. I’d only known the Morrisseys for a little over a week, but their little gang was one worth knowing and protecting.
The faint strains of a hummed “Oh My Darling Clementine” made me look over to see Edith bustling in from the kitchen, a platter extended toward us. “More bacon?” Since Gordon had been taken to a hospital and the local doctor had set Sarah Ruth’s fractured ankle and told her—three times—to stay still and get some rest, Edith was free to mother over two of her daughter’s rescuers. Five pancakes and about a month of butter rations in, I didn’t feel like objecting.
Leland smiled broadly. “The answer to that question is always yes, ma’am.”
Even I took another slice. To heck with a girlish figure and the army’s concern over fitness. I’d survived a harrowing experience, and that entitled me to all the bacon I could hold.
“You’re welcome,” she said, beaming at both of us. “After all you did for my Sarah Ruth, I’d give you a whole hog roast if meat wasn’t so scarce these days.”
“I’m afraid we won’t be staying long enough for that, ma’am.”
And that comment triggered another bout of looming dread, a familiar emotion for me these days. We’d solved the mystery. Now it was time to go back to Seattle. I tried to think of happy things, of Bea’s record collection and the upcoming Valentine’s Day talent show and writing letters for Howard at the base hospital. But it all seemed so far away now.
Once Edith had disappeared into the kitchen again, Leland turned serious. “In case you’re wondering, I’m not going to report you, PFC Armitage.”
I cut off a delicate piece of pancake and swirled it around in syrup. “Well, I should hope not. Because if you did, you’d rob me of the chance to report myself.”
His fork clattered to his plate, and I continued before he had a chance to say anything. “Don’t try to talk me out of it. I plan to give Captain Petmencky a full report the second I set foot back in Seattle.”
“But that’s . . .” He shook his head. “You didn’t tell Jimmy he needed to turn himself in.”
Leland and Gordon had decided together not to press charges against Jimmy. Their official story—strictly true—was that a fight had broken out, and a gun accidentally went off. The shocked look on Jimmy’s face when they’d told him that neither he nor his father would be going to jail had been something to witness.
I’d had a long mountain hike to think on it and decided this was different. “Jimmy is a teenager who acted on impulse to protect his father. I, on the other hand, swore the oath of a Women’s Army Corps soldier and still plotted an extended deception, using my uniform as a cover. It was . . . wrong.”
It turns out the second slice of humble pie only tastes like lemon juice and crushed gravel. Maybe, if I kept this up, I’d eventually be able to stomach it on a regular basis.
Leland stroked his moustache, his face grave. “You’ll be dishonorably discharged.”
“Most likely. But I think it’s worth it, for a clear conscience, don’t you?”
He stared at me, then burst into a laugh. “You might be just the right amount of crazy, PFC Armitage.”
I stood and bowed. “Why, thank you.” I stacked my syrup-covered dishes to bring them back to Edith. “And another thing. I’d like to speak to Major Hastings. I have an . . . idea to run past him.”
Leland tilted his head at me when I didn’t add anything more. “Should I be worried?”
I gave a dazzling smile.
“Always.”
He chewed thoughtfully on his last piece of bacon. “Well, we are going back to Seattle from here. Maybe you could come with us.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Nothing like a train ride to give you a captive audience.”
“Actually,” Leland said, and a sudden grin spread across his face, the widest I’d seen from him, “it won’t be a train.”
I held back a squeal of excitement, but only barely, as our plane tilted sharply to miss the trees . . . and then we were off the ground and into the wild blue yonder, to borrow a phrase from my air force compatriots.
Major Hastings gave me a jowly “For heaven’s sake, be dignified” sort of look from across the way, but Leland, next to me, only smiled. Like he’d felt the same way on his first airplane flight.
As we rose, I plastered my face to the small window, watching the trees and mountains get smaller, looking for one area in particular. There. It was easy to see from this height, broken trees and patches of charred black showing through the melting snow.
The bomb. The fire. Jack.
I stared at it, the dark ruins rising out of the ashes. Good-bye, brother.
It would be a meadow someday. Gordon and Sarah Ruth had promised.
In a moment, it was gone, and I could only see clouds all around me, wispy and pure white. The view looked like one of the illustrations of heaven in the children’s Bible picture cards I’d been given for coming to church on Easter.
I miss you.
Beneath me, the floor of the plane tilted, jolting me against the canvas strap holding me in, and I gasped out loud.
Leland cleared his throat, and I straightened. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He grinned, his voice pitched above the engine’s roar. No posh commercial liner for us—we were being toted back to Seattle in one of the smokejumpers’ smaller planes, where you could feel every turn and jostle. “There’s nothing like it, is there?”
“There sure isn’t.” I’d always thought the idea of soaring through the air sounded like a grand adventure, but I hadn’t been prepared for something that managed to be both effortlessly weightless and noisily, jarringly physical. Swing dancing and engine repair had nothing on this.
Knowing the plane itself wouldn’t be ideal for conversation, I’d spent the time while we waited by the landing strip to give Major Hastings my initial pitch.
My plan was simple: If the army was afraid of running stories about balloon bombs in the national press, why not distribute safety flyers to local communities in city halls and schools? That way, citizens would be able to identify and report any bombs they found, but the scale would be small enough that Japanese interceptors wouldn’t know about them.
Hastings’s aide put forth a dozen objections, but Hastings himself seemed interested, and I intended to persist on that interest no matter what it took. He was about to learn how relentless a WAC could truly be.
Leland’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Can you imagine jumping out of this tin can?”
I tried to picture it, to feel what it would be like, teetering on the edge of that door, ready to topple into nothingness with only a scrap of silk keeping you from near-certain death.
This time, when I looked out the window, I felt what Gordon and Jack must have felt on their first jump, a sickening lurch and desire to run away—the same way I felt when thinking about the conversation I’d need to have with Captain Petmencky where I explained everything I’d done.
But I’d do it. Yes. There was no going back now. It was the only right thing to do.
Maybe, after all this, I was a little braver too.
Epilogue
FROM GORDON TO HIS MOTHER
May 11, 1945
Dear Mother,
I’ve had a lot of time to think this spring, but I haven’t told you much about it, sticking to safer things like Mrs. Edith’s gingerbread or the latest flowers to bloom. But it’s time.
Thank you for sending Clara’s journal entry in January. Reading her words might have been exactly what I needed. They also made me realize I never really forgave you for letting Father die. For killing him.
Maybe I understand more, reading what Clara wrote. It was wrong, but you know that—you’ve told me that yourself a hundred times. I’ve learned something this year about grace too. And if you’ve asked God for forgiveness, who am I to withhold it?
Because of my injury, I’ll probably never go back to strenuous physical labor like construction or smokejumping. There’s an open position here at the national forest for the summer: clerk/secretary. The young woman who previously held it decided to take shifts as a lookout instead, since they’re worried about increased fire activity right now.
Mr. Morrissey’s given the job to me as a temporary role with CPS. If the war ends soon, like most are saying it will now that Germany’s fallen, I’m thinking of taking it permanently. But before I start, I have one last special assignment as a smokejumper for a week. A training mission, so don’t worry, I’ll be able to stay off my leg.
I hate to admit it since it was the War Department who forced me here, but I’ve come to love Oregon. Among the mountains and trees is a raw beauty, a stillness I couldn’t even find in Quaker meetings, and underneath it all, a sense of purpose. I came looking for peace—and I found it. I don’t think I could go back to New York again after this.
Maybe, once you’ve served your sentence, you’ll want to come visit. You’re welcome to, you know. Sarah Ruth once told me, “The West has always been for people looking to start over. The sun comes up over those mountains fresh and new every day,” and I think she’s right. (There’s another reason for you to visit—so you can meet her.)
Your son,
Gordon
TO DORIE FROM LIEUTENANT VINCENT LELAND
May 18, 1945
Dear Dorie,
Your story about applying as a USO junior hostess made me laugh out loud. I bet those ladies’ eyes just about bulged out of their heads when you gave an army officer as your reference. Guess they saw soon enough that you’re qualified. I hope you spend the rest of the war swing dancing till your feet are sore. And now that Germany’s out of the fight, it won’t be long, thank God.
Today I learned how to safely collect and dismantle a bomb. Not a bad day’s work, eh? The War Department’s got some detailed pictures from recovered ones they reverse engineered. Let me tell you, it’s a wicked mechanism: an aluminum wheel hung with sandbags and several dangling incendiary bombs that look like small stovepipes, plugged with demolition charges.
They’re keeping a crew of us with know-how ready to be sent up in a plane headed to any fire. Most of them will be regular summer blazes, but if we need the bomb squad, the Triple Nickles will be there.
Maybe I shouldn’t write to you about things like that, seeing as one of them killed your brother. But I want you to know that we’re not gonna let it happen again. Not one more civilian death.
They brought in the crew from Flintlock Mountain to start training yesterday for Operation Firefly, as they’re calling it. Classified, and all that, but since you already know what we’re doing out here, I guess it doesn’t spoil much.
That James Morrissey fellow might be hotheaded, but the boy’s a mountain man, sure enough. He took us on a hike through the hills, and while we were all panting and out of breath, he jumped from rock to rock like a cat. Charlie’s been giving us tree-climbing lessons for any time we get tangled up on a jump. And Gordon, he’s got an eye for details, teaching map reading and showing us which spring mushrooms are edible and which could kill you.
They’ll be gone by the end of the week, leaving us with just the Pendleton folks. The reception’s a tad chilly here toward us fellows, but we’ve found one place at least that’ll serve us, and they make an all right burger, so that’s something.
I’ve stuck in the latest war bond poster—would you look at that? I don’t know if you’ve heard of the Tuskegee Airmen, but you can bet all of us Triple Nickles
have. The first (and only) black pilots the air force’s got. They’re putting the poster up in all the colored parts of town to drum up support . . . except in the corner drugstore in my neighborhood in Detroit, because my mother got so excited to see it that she tore it down and sent it to me. I told her that defeats the purpose, but she wanted to know when I’m gonna get on a poster.
Probably not anytime soon. Firefighting isn’t as dramatic as flying escort for bombers over Italy. The rest of the Triple Nickles are disappointed we won’t be going into combat, but I keep telling them this is combat of a different kind.
I’m passing the Tuskegee Airman poster along to you to remind you: If you want something bad enough, you can go get it. Sure, you’ll have to wait till the war’s over, but if you’re not first in line for flying lessons after Japan surrenders, I’ll eat my hat. (And right now my hat’s a helmet with a metal face guard, so don’t you make me do that.)
Hope all’s well in Pennsylvania. You take care of your family, and don’t go making too much of a menace of yourself as a civilian.
Lieutenant Vincent Leland
FROM GORDON TO DORIE
May 25, 1945
Dear Dorie,
I hope you don’t mind me writing you now, because I have good news to pass along. I’ll get to that later.
Since the Triple Nickles are taking over smokejumping for the summer season, they’re sending some of the men away to other camps. About six of us are staying, including me—even if we’re not responding to fire calls, someone’s got to repair fences, maintain the trails for tourist season, and, of course, man the fire lookouts.
Speaking of which, they’re talking about some sort of memorial to Jack at the site of the fire: The only civilian killed by enemy action on US soil. I don’t know if Jack would’ve wanted all the attention, but I like the idea. We won’t ever forget him.
But that’s not all. Before I tell you the rest, I should remind you that I’m an artist, not a storyteller, but some of the other men are, as you likely gathered from your interviews with them.
The Lines Between Us Page 31