Sentimental Journey

by Jill Barnett

  Now they had been walking for what felt like hours. She was soaked with sweat and limping. The sun was up and shining so intensely it felt to her as if it had grown ten times its size.

  Her skin stung. He told her she was red as a Maine lobster and tried to give her his undershirt, but she told him to use it himself and took off her slip instead, then tied it around her head and the left side of her face. She stuffed her stockings into her pocket. Her girdle was miles behind her.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet, Kincaid. Watch your step. There’s a rock at nine o’clock.”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “I thought I heard a loud clunk back there.”

  “Funny.”

  “Yeah. It was.”

  She slowed down and felt his hand on the small of her back as he guided her in a slightly different direction.

  “This way.” He took a few more steps, then grasped her arm. “Stop for a minute.”

  “Why?”

  “Here, take this.” He grabbed her hand. “It’s another salt pill. Here’s the canteen.”

  She swallowed the pill with only a small sip of water. “Are you taking these tablets, too?”

  “It wouldn’t do us much good if I pass out. Sit here for a second. There’s a large rock at six o’clock.”

  “You don’t have to keep stopping for me. I’m okay.”

  “You’re limping, and I need to look at the maps again.”

  She moved to the rock, which was hot, so she leaned against it and untied the slip, then rubbed her wet hair. “You’re staring at me.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. You’re being quiet again.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Throws me off when you’re not hammering me with questions.”

  “If you think that’s going to get a rise out of me, you’re wrong. I’m stronger than you think. I’m not going to wilt like some fragile flower.”

  He just laughed quietly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Never once have I thought of you as wilting, Kincaid.”

  “Thank you.” She didn’t say anything for a few minutes, before she admitted, “I was being quiet because I was thinking about college. I went to Stanford.”

  “Of course Arnan Kincaid’s daughter would go to Stanford.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. I could have gone to Harvard.”

  “So how about you? Tell me where you learned all those languages.”

  “English, no explanation there. Spanish from my grandmother, who was Castilian. French from my mother, whose parents were from the Loire Valley. Latin in high school. German in college.”

  “Which college?”

  “West Point.”

  “I should have guessed.”

  “So how does the steppe of Morocco remind you of Stanford University? Seems like night and day to me.”

  “It is. I was thinking about the night before my graduation. A group of us were in the dorm, drinking rum and Coca-Cola—which I’d kill for right now—and there was this huge globe in our room which, from my perspective, was pretty worthless, except as a clothes hanger. That night my roommate Susan taped a pencil to the wooden arm that held the globe in place and we took turns spinning it, the idea being wherever it stopped would be the place of our destiny.”

  “No melodrama there.”

  “We were young.”

  “You still are.”

  “Okay, younger. We felt the world was calling us, opening its arms and saying come here. I had such dreams. Paris and Rome, Egypt and Singapore.”

  “So where’d it land when it was your turn?”

  “Wait, you’re jumping ahead. Susan’s stopped on Copenhagen. Katie near Athens. Joyce in Tuscany and Nancy got Buenos Aires.”

  “And you?”

  “Pocatello, Idaho.”

  He laughed with her. “They could have been lying to you.”

  “They were laughing too hard to be lying. I had the biggest dreams. Besides, they would never take advantage of my blindness. It would have been the last thing they would have done to me as a joke. Susan was a lit major whose dream was to be the next Willa Cather. She said she wanted to visit me there because Pocatello isn’t all that far from Ketchum, where Hemingway has a place. She thought he was a brilliant writer. Anyway, as I was walking along, I was thinking this is certainly not Pocatello, Idaho.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “So.” She straightened. “Where are we going, again?”

  “There’s a Vichy military camp marked here on the map. We should be able to steal a truck and get the hell out of here.” He took her hand. “Eat some more of these dates.”

  She ate a few, then dropped the rest into her pocket and ran her hands down her cotton skirt. “How much farther is it?”

  “If my calculations are right, I’d say just over that ridge.”

  “That ridge?” She laughed, pointing off in one direction. “Or the other ridge?” She turned and pointed in the opposite direction.

  “I keep forgetting you can’t see.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “Good, then let’s go.” He took her arm and they walked straight into the sun.

  It was hours later when they stood side by side on what Cassidy told her was an escarpment above the Vichy camp.

  “Don’t go any farther forward, Kincaid. We’re close to the edge.”

  “Do you see anything?”

  “Not much. This Vichy camp is only one stone building and—” Cassidy paused. “About a hundred yards past it is something that looks like a cross between a lean-to and a barn.”

  “No cars or trucks? Nothing?”

  “There’s something. One of everything. A car, a couple of tanks, some planes.”

  “Great!”

  “The car is an ancient Fiat; it’s resting on its bare axle behind the stone building. There’s not a wheel or a tire in sight. The two tanks look like they’re nothing but shells, and the planes are the kind that failed during the Spanish Civil War. Two of them are missing propellers.”

  “Why would they only have tank shells?”

  “As decoys. This place is no longer an active army camp. The equipment isn’t Vichy or German, but Italian.”

  Kitty touched his shoulder. “Do you hear that?”

  “An engine just started.”

  “It sounds like a truck.”

  He turned away from her. “Yeah . . . there it is, coming out of the barn, a two-and-a-half-ton truck, and it’s heading for the other building.”

  She listened to it rumble along, and moments later she heard the brakes squeal to a stop. A horn honked and there was a pause; then she heard men’s voices and the sounds of them climbing inside the truck. The door slammed shut. The driver ground into gear and drove away. “Where are they heading?”

  “Off toward the mountains in a cloud of dust.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “They’re not here, so I suppose that’s good. But I won’t know till I get down there and look around. If there’s only a guard or two, then lady luck’s with us. But if that truck was the only vehicle down there that runs—and that’s how it looks right now—we’re in trouble.” He touched her forearm.

  She noticed he did that more and more frequently, gave her a sign that he was there. Funny, how you could know some people for years and they’d never think to show you that one, small consideration.

  “I need you to wait here while I go down and see what’s there. I won’t be long.”

  “Okay.” She hesitated, then said, “Cassidy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What if you get caught?”

  “I won’t.”

  “But suppose you do.” She waited for his answer, but got none.

  He’d already left.

  She stood there for a few minutes, then sat down on the ground and stretched her
legs out in front of her. Cassidy was interesting. He certainly didn’t have a problem with confidence. Her impressions of him were mixed at first. Stubborn, aggressive, egocentric, all negatives in her mind at first, but were they negatives? Egocentric? Or courageous? Stubborn? Or determined? Aggressive? Or heroic?

  He was a stranger who put his life on the line to get her safely home. He’d said he was just doing his job. His job was war. The business of war was not for the weak.

  She felt weak, and it annoyed her to no end. To her, weak meant needy. She disliked needy people. She hated to admit that she couldn’t do things. She’d learned to love her independence, to wear it like a wall surrounding her loss of sight.

  But the truth was that she couldn’t see her way out of a minefield.

  She couldn’t find a path out of the wilderness of the pre-Sahara.

  She couldn’t find food or build a fire, so if something happened to Cassidy, she didn’t know what she would do.

  Maybe twenty minutes passed before he came walking back over the ridge, whistling—of all things—”The Lullaby of Broadway.”

  “I take it from that happy little tune coming out of your mouth that you found something to get us out of here.”

  “Sure did.” He took her arm. “Come on, Kitty. Let’s make like a cat and scat.”

  She groaned, but let him tug her along. “There aren’t any guards?”

  “Just one. But he’s all tied up right now.”

  “You know that puns are the lowest form of humor.”

  “Yeah, but they’re damn funny. Come on.” He steered her down to flatter terrain. He moved fast. To stay up with him she had to half run. The ground was hard as cement, but not rocky like most of the land they’d passed. He was running now, pulling her with him. “We’re almost there.”

  The cool relief of a shadow crossed her face as they went inside a building that smelled of oil and gasoline and mechanics.

  “Here it is. Our ticket home.”

  “What is it?”

  “A Spanish-built biplane with a Fiat V-12 that purrs around six hundred horse power. It’s the same thing as a CR-32.”

  “My eyes are glazing over.”

  He laughed. “You don’t know much about planes.”

  “All I know is that everyone seems to refer to them by letters and numbers I can’t make much sense out of.”

  “It’s called a Chirper, an HA-132-L Chirri. They were used in the Spanish Civil War. Stay here.” He put her hands on what felt like a wing, then jumped up on it. “I’ll have to help you up and into the seat. Give me your hand.” He pulled her up and slipped his arm around her waist. “The upper wing is longer than the lower, so watch yourself. It’s been converted into a two-seater. Lucky for you, bad for me.”

  “Why?”

  “You won’t have to sit on my lap.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  “Yeah, and after I tried to find a working engine in every single-seater out in that field.”

  “Cassidy . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Don’t start.”

  “The question is, will this engine start? Move back two feet and grab the wing support.” He placed her hand on a metal rod. “Steady?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He let go of her, then climbed up onto the fuselage. “Give me your hands and I’ll pull you up and into the seat.” He grabbed her wrists in a tight grip and dropped her into a small cockpit with a low seat.

  “Shift your right hip. You’re sitting on the belt.”

  She pushed his hands away. “I can get it.” She buckled in.

  “Pull your underwear off your head. I have a leather helmet you need to put on.”

  “It’s my slip, not my underwear.” She wadded the slip up and tucked it into her belt.

  He slapped the helmet on her head.

  She batted his hands away. “I can get it.”

  He tapped the right side of her helmet while she buckled the straps. “This ear cup is part of a Gosport tube, for communication between cockpits. If I need to talk to you, I’ll shout through my mouthpiece and you’ll hear it from this earpiece.”

  “How do I talk back to you?”

  “You don’t. It’s only one-way communication.”

  “Ah . . . a male invention.”

  “You got it. Pretty ingenious. I talk. You listen. Worst comes to worst, lean forward and beat on the rim of the cockpit or kick the floor panels to get my attention.” He reached inside and put something on the floor, then straightened. “I couldn’t find any chutes, so you might want to say a quick prayer when we take off.”

  “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  The plane rocked as he climbed into the front seat. He turned around. “The engine looks good on this little baby. As far as I can tell, it’s not missing a single thing.”

  “As far as you can tell? Oh, God . . . ”

  “What’s wrong?” He was facing her. “You afraid to fly?”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Sure.” He turned back around. “I’m going to fly us out of here.”

  “I meant how much do you know about planes? How many flying hours do you have? Would you know if anything were missing?”

  Her questions were immediately lost in the sound of him trying to start the engine, which made a sick, whining sound that got louder and louder, then coughed into consumptive silence. A few minutes and several tries later, the engine was running, and stayed running.

  Through the earpiece came the hollow sound of his voice. “Get ready, sweetheart. We’re going to make like a bird and fly.”

  Perhaps praying was a good idea.

  The plane rolled out into the daylight, which was no longer bright. The air was sticky. She could taste rain coming. The wind felt like it was coming out of the northwest. He turned the plane until the wind was at their back. The engine noise was such she barely heard his warning, “Here we go!”

  They bounced and bobbed over the ground, the plane shimmying enough that she wondered if it were made of toothpicks. The engine was so loud she kept her head down and gripped the rim for all she was worth. On and on they went rolling toward a takeoff, faster and faster, until it felt like flying was the last thing this plane could do. She didn’t know if that made her worried or relieved.

  Then the plane lifted, taking her stomach up with it for a few feet, then bounced down hard on the ground, skipped back up in the air, and down again. The next time it lifted, she braced herself for the drop again, but they were in the air and climbing. Before long he banked the plane, then leveled out.

  “We’re heading northeast. I want to make certain we clear the mountains; then we’ll circle back and fly this baby south along the coastline.”

  She couldn’t say anything, because he couldn’t hear her. She just held on and prayed God was on her side. The wind blew hard against her face and the air was cooling off quickly. The plane skidded along the air currents, until it got bumpy.

  “I’m going to take her up.”

  They were climbing again, and the air temperature was really dropping fast.

  “There are clouds coming over those mountains. Looks like a storm. I’m going to take her up higher. But don’t worry, Kincaid, we’ll fly around this weather. Next stop, Gibraltar, and before you know it, you’ll be home sweet home.”

  A moment later raindrops splattered onto her face.

  “THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE AIR”

  For over an hour, J.R. tried to fly around the storm, heading southeast at an altitude high enough to clear the mountains. But the storm was a doozy, and it overtook them with breakneck speed.

  Next, he tried to go over it, but climbing in altitude meant being batted around. Something like a flea in a hurricane. Upstairs, the turbulence was hell.

  He had no idea where they were. They were completely socked in by dark, roiling clouds, lashing
rain, and wind that bounced them all over the place and made the plane skip like a dull needle on a scratched record.

  “If you’re okay back there, Kincaid, stomp on the floor panels!”

  There was a loud thump, thump, thump!

  “Good.” They’d been communicating like this for a few hours. The engine noise was constant, loud, and exhaust came back at them whenever the wind changed. The plane bounced over the rough air, sometimes dropping a few hundred feet. He was doing his damned best to keep it together.

  The plane dropped like a rock. He fought with the controls, pulling back on the stick, his feet on the rudders. “Hang on! Nothing to worry about!”

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Hell, she didn’t buy it. She was too smart for his good.

  They’d been in the air for a long time, lurching along and buffeted by wind and rain. He had no land or sun to get his bearings. Just dark clouds and a sky full of weather. Rain pelted his face and his eyes. He had to keep wiping them to see. His chest was aching from inhaling the exhaust. His head began to pound. The rain got worse, soaking him, lashing down. It was cold and wet and rough flying.

  He liked his thrills, but this was more than he bargained for. He looked down. He saw nothing. His arms and hands were getting numb. The thigh muscle in his right leg had been cramping for a while. To top it off, it was getting darker.

  The fuel gauge had read three-quarters full when he’d found the plane. He’d checked the tank before he’d gotten Kitty, and it had looked right to him. But he knew plane hadn’t been maintained and the oil was old. He wasn’t sure the gauges worked.

  He could barely see the gauges in the rain. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and looked again. “Jesus,” he said aloud. “What the hell is wrong with these needles?”

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Crap . . . she’d heard him. He ignored her and watched the gauges.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  He still ignored her.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  He pretended everything was fine by lightly whistling.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!