Defiant Heart

by Steere, Marty

  By this time, Jon had been promoted to corporal. It wan’t an exalted rank, but he put the dual chevrons on his sleeve with pride. When he got to Texas, there was a letter from Ben, written near the end of June. It had taken almost a month for it to catch up to him. Mary, Ben reported, was still in a coma. Ben had gotten several of the letters that Jon had written, and he was pleased to hear that Jon was being exposed to flying, though he expressed some concern about the nature of Jon’s training and what it portended. Jon wrote back telling Ben not to worry.

  Jon had been in radio school for a week when a letter arrived from his grandmother. Buried in the litany of news was something that made Jon’s heart leap. “I’ve heard that poor Mary Dahlgren has finally awoken from her coma. That’s wonderful news, don’t you think?” Two days later, a letter from Ben confirmed Mary’s miraculous recovery. Ben reported that Mary was still extremely weak and confined to her hospital bed, but that the prognosis for full recovery was good. Jon’s spirits were elevated exponentially.

  After completing the course in San Antonio, Jon was finally ordered to Salt Lake City, where, by now, he knew he would meet up with the men who would be his crewmates. When he arrived in Utah, however, he was surprised to learn that he would not be assigned to a regular crew. Instead, the army had decided, for reasons that Jon could not fully expain, to have Jon serve as a “rotating crewman.” In that capacity, Jon would fly with different crews as they went through their training exercises, sometimes assisting the crew’s regular radio operator and at other times simply serving as the radio operator.

  Jon missed out on the camraderie that was developing within the crews. However, his role did give him exposure to many of the men, and, as a result, he was well known. There also seemed to be a certain elevated status associated with the role. Jon was promoted to sergeant a week after his arrival in Salt Lake City and several weeks before others with the same time in service received similar promotions.

  From Salt Lake City, they moved on to a base in Sioux City, Iowa, from which they embarked on an extensive series of training flights taking them all around the country. It was an intense period of learning, particularly for the pilots, navigators and radio operators. Jon got to know the various navigators well, and he enjoyed working with them. In the process, he inevitably picked up on certain navigation skills himself.

  One day, after a long cross-country flight, the navigator on the crew with whom Jon had just flown put his arm over Jon’s shoulder as they were walking back to the crew assembly room. “You know,” he said, “if we’d switched positions, you’d have gotten us here quicker than I did. Of course, I would have fouled up all the radio transmissions, seeing as how I can’t tell the difference between Morse code and bongo drums.”

  While in Sioux City, Jon received a letter from Ben that troubled him. It had been written a couple of weeks earlier, and it reported that Mary was home from the hospital. That part was welcome news. However, Ben said nothing about any conversations he’d had with Mary, and, more importantly, there was no message from Mary.

  Jon rationalized that she must still be weak, and he convinced himself not to read anything negative into Ben’s message. Instead, he wrote back to Ben. With that letter, he enclosed a letter to Mary sealed in another envelope. He asked Ben to deliver the letter to Mary. Ben’s reply arrived two weeks later.

  “Dear Jon,” Ben had written, “part of me had hoped never to have to write this letter, but it was a silly hope. What I didn’t tell you in my last letter, but I now realize I should have said, is that, apparently, Mary has decided to move on with her life. I guess the ordeal at the Lodge was too much for her, and she doesn’t want to be reminded of it in any way. It’s terribly unfair, I know. I am so sorry to be bringing you this news. Please understand that, as painful as this must be, you will get through this. I know you, Jon. You’re very strong. Keep your chin up. You’ll meet someone else soon. I just know it.”

  Jon had thought that, after all he’d been through, nothing could hurt him. He had been wrong. The pain this news brought was excruciating.

  In mid-December, Jon received orders to report to a base in New Jersey, from which he’d be given further orders for transport to his permanent assignment somewhere in England. Jon wrote to Ben, letting him know he would soon ship out, though he didn’t yet know exactly where. Jon’s orders had included an APO address to which correspondence could be sent, and he gave that address to Ben. He did likewise with his grandmother.

  Two days shy of Christmas, Jon arrived at Fort Dix in south-central New Jersey. He spent a very lonely Christmas sleeping in a barracks room containing twenty beds, none of which, other than his own, was occupied.

  On New Year’s Eve, he finally received his orders. He was to be attached to the 598th Bombardment Squadron, which was part of the 96th Bomb Group, based at Stanbridge in Suffolk, England. He would get there by hopping a ride on a B-17 that was being flown over by her new crew and was leaving that morning. He’d not previously known any of them. They’d gone through their training in Idaho and Washington. Jon loaded his gear into the plane and settled into the radio compartment with the regular radio operator, a kid from the Bronx. The kid was a big Yankees fan, and they filled a large part of the long flight talking baseball.

  From Fort Dix, they flew to Goose Bay, Labrador, where they spent the night and rang in the New Year in a subdued way. From there, they flew to Reykjavik, Iceland, where they refueled and then continued on to a base in Prestwick, Scotland. They bunked down for a few hours in Prestwick before taking off early that morning and finally landing at Dunston Heath, where the 302nd Bomb Group was headquartered. From there, Jon caught the ride on the troop transport that had been returning to Stanbridge.

  Jon turned to face the headquarters building, bent and picked up his duffle bag. He took a deep breath, climbed the two steps and entered the headquarters of his new unit. Just inside the door, he found the orderly, to whom he gave his name. The corporal consulted a list, then announced, “Deuces Wild.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You’ve been assigned to the crew of the Deuces Wild, sergeant,” the man amended. “You’re in hut 51.” He pointed to the door Jon had just entered. “Around to the right. Go straight down the side of the building. Third hut on the left. They’re all numbered.”

  Jon said his thanks and turned to go.

  “Hold on a second, sarge,” the orderly said. He held out a piece of paper. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted to staff sergeant.”

  Jon located the hut with the number 51 stenciled above the door. Like all of the other huts, it was a prefabricated building, consisting of corrugated steel sheets fashioned around semi-circular wooden ribs. From a distance, it looked like an upside down water trough.

  He took a step up and into the hut. Midway down on the left, four men had set up a makeshift table, and they were sitting on a couple of the bunks playing cards. Jon set his duffle down and slid out of his jacket.

  One of the men called out, “Can I help you, sergeant?”

  Jon gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Meyer. Jon. I understand I’ve been assigned to the Deuces Wild.”

  “Well, you found the right place Meyer Jon,” the man said, setting down his cards and standing up. He was tall and thin, with a long neck and a large Adam’s apple. He took a step toward Jon, put out his hand and said, “Gooch.” Jon must have looked confused, because the man pointed to the strip of cloth above his left breast pocket. It read, “de Gouchand.” He smiled and said, “Don’t even start. The first name’s worse. I go by ‘Gooch,’ and I refuse to answer to anything else. I’m the right waist gunner.”

  “And a right waste of a gunner he is,” said another man who had also stood. He reached out a hand. “Tony Reyes. Flight engineer. I assume you’re our new radio operator.”

  Jon nodded.

  “Welcome aboard,” Reyes said. He stepped aside to make way for the man who’d been sitting next to him, a short, squat, muscul
ar fellow with a powerful grip.

  “Art Graham,” he said. “Ball turret.” He waved a hand around. “Any of these guys give you a hard time, you let me know.”

  “He’s our enforcer,” Gooch explained.

  The fourth man stepped up. Jon could see that his name tag read, “Szymczyk.” The most salient features on the man’s face were his eyes. They appeared to Jon to be bright and alert. There was something about him that Jon took an instant liking to.

  “Ivan Szymczyk,” he said. He pronounced it “shim-zik.” “Tail gunner. You can call me ‘Shim.’ Everybody does.”

  “No we don’t,” Gooch said. “We call him ‘Vowels,’ ‘cause he hasn’t got any.”

  Shim gave the man a sideways look. “Is that the same reason we call you ‘Balls’?”

  The other two men laughed, and Jon couldn’t help chuckling himself.

  “Very funny,” Gooch said.

  Reyes pointed to the bunk at the end of the row. “I guess that’s yours.”

  Jon looked at the empty cot. “That belonged to the previous guy?”

  Reyes nodded.

  “Can I ask what happened to him?”

  Reyes looked uncomfortable. After a moment, he said, “He bought it on the last mission. Very sad.”

  They were all silent for a moment. Then Gooch said, “Oh, let’s not get carried away. The man was a first-class jerk.”

  “Still,” Reyes said, “he didn’t deserve what he got.”

  “What did he get?” Jon asked.

  Reyes shrugged. “A cannon round from a Focke Wulf caught him in the gut. We dosed him up with morphine, but it didn’t seem to help. He was screaming the whole way back. He didn’t die until we touched down.”

  They were all quiet again, the four of them obviously remembering. Finally, Jon said, “Was he really a jerk?”

  “Yeah,” Gooch said, quietly. The others nodded.

  Shim put a hand on Jon’s shoulder and gave him a wry look. “Welcome to the war.”

  #

  At the main entrance to the Lodge, Vernon left the truck with the parking attendant, and he and Jeff ascended the steps to the front porch. It was a Saturday night, the day after New Year. They were attending a party being thrown in honor of the boys who had played on the back-to-back district championship teams at Jackson High the past two years. District champion, Vernon reflected, sounded so much better than loser in the regionals.

  The party had been timed to take advantage of the holidays and give the boys who were away at college a chance to attend, the most significant, Vernon knew, being him. They couldn’t possibly celebrate those two teams without including its brightest star.

  The party was in the Conservatory. As he entered the room, the first people Vernon saw were Caleb Pratt and Cyrus Clayton. The boys went through a boisterous round of hand shaking and back slapping.

  Finally, Vernon said, “Where’s Billy? This party can’t be official until all five of us are together.”

  Clayton shrugged. “I know he’s here. I saw him a few minutes ago.”

  Vernon felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and was surprised to see Tom Anderson. “Oh, hi, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Hello, Vernon,” Mr. Anderson said in his deep baritone. “Can I borrow you and Jeff for a moment? Some of the boosters have a special presentation they’d like to make.”

  “Sure,” Vernon said, as always, pleased with the attention. He turned to the others. He held his right hand up close to his mouth, pretended to blow on the tips of his fingers, and then rubbed his fingers on his chest. He gave them a big grin. “See you in a bit, boys.”

  He and Jeff followed Mr. Anderson out of the room. Anderson took a few steps down the hall and opened a door on the opposite side. A brass plaque next to the door read “Founder’s Room.”

  “In here,” he said, and he stepped back to let the boys pass.

  With a broad smile, Vernon stepped across the threshold. He’d never been in this room, though he’d heard about it. It was richly paneled and ornately furnished. In the center of the room was a small table, around which sat a series of high-backed leather chairs. The two chairs facing him were occupied at the moment by men wearing dark suits. One of them Vernon had never seen before. The other, however, looked familiar, though it took Vernon a moment to realize that the last time he’d seen him, the man had been wearing a sweater, and he’d been asking questions about what had happened to Mary.

  Then Vernon realized that, in the far corner of the room, sitting side by side on a small settee, were Billy Hamilton and Gwenda Barnes. They both wore ashen looks.

  The door closed behind him.

  No one said anything for a moment. Vernon’s mind was churning. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when there was a movement in front of him. Someone who had been sitting in the nearest chair with its back to the door stood and turned to face him. It was Mary Dahlgren.

  Her eyes blazed. She raised her right arm and pointed a finger directly at Vernon. In a low, even voice, she said, “You tried to rape me.”

  Then she moved her hand and pointed it at Jeff. “And you helped him.”

  Jeff said immediately, “I didn’t do it.” He took a step away from Vernon. “He did it. It was all his idea. He’s the one who hit her. He threw her on the bed.”

  “Are you that stupid?” Vernon snarled. “You think that’s going to help you?”

  The door opened behind him. Vernon turned and flexed, thinking that he might make a run for it. A uniformed sheriff’s deputy stood in the doorway. Vernon could see another standing behind him.

  “We found the bike,” the first deputy said. “It was about fifty yards downstream. It’s too dark to get it now. We’ll have to come back for it in the morning. But it fits the description.”

  “Thank you,” said the man who had been wearing the sweater. He had stood and now indicated Vernon and Jeff. “Please cuff these two.” The two deputies stepped into the room, removing handcuffs from their belts.

  As they were snapping them on, the man who’d worn the sweater said, “Vernon King, I’m placing you under arrest for the assault and attempted rape of Mary Dahlgren. Jeff Fletcher, I’m placing you under arrest for accessory to assault and attempted rape, both before and after the fact.”

  He tilted his head toward the other man who was still seated. “This gentleman is Murray McAllister. He’s the Winamac County prosecuting attorney. I feel confident he will prosecute these crimes with the vigor they deserve.”

  McAllister nodded. “You can count on that.”

  One of the deputies put a hand under Vernon’s upper arm and turned him forcefully. “This way,” he said, and he half led, half pushed Vernon to the door. When they stepped out, Vernon could see that many of the party goers had come out of the Conservatory and were now standing in the hall, watching.

  The deputy marched Vernon toward the front door. As they reached the foyer, Vernon saw Ed Spitzman. It looked like he had just arrived.

  “Spitz,” Vernon called out, “can you help me?”

  Spitzman stared back at him, a look of incomprehension on his face.

  “Spitz,” Vernon called again, but the deputy was now pushing him through the door.

  A pair of black and white sheriff’s cars sat in the circular driveway. The deputy led Vernon to the one in front. The deputy opened the back door, put a hand on top of Vernon’s head, and pushed him firmly into the back seat. The deputy closed the door, came around the vehicle and slid behind the wheel.

  As the car began to move, Vernon turned and looked out the window. Spitzman was standing just outside the front door to the Lodge, shaking his head.

  #

  After Vernon and Jeff were led out of the room, Mary expelled the breath she’d been holding. Her knees felt suddenly weak; she began to shake. Mr. Anderson came around the chair, put his hands gently on her shoulders and turned her. “Mary, why don’t you sit down.”

  She did as he suggested and sat. She took a couple of de
ep breaths.

  She’d been anticipating this moment for almost three weeks. After regaining her memory and driving to Ben’s place, she and Ben had sat down and discussed, among other things, how to deal with the two boys who had attacked her. It was Ben who suggested they consult with Tom Anderson.

  They drove to Mr. Anderson’s office later that afternoon. The lawyer came up with the idea of luring Vernon and Jeff together into a confrontation, in the hope that they would be caught off guard and would incriminate each other. Jeff, it turned out, had done a nice job of accommodating them.

  In the meantime, Mary pretended not to have remembered. She explained away the scene in the parking lot as a panic attack. Sam accepted it, though she insisted on doing the driving to and from school for a few days.

  It was an emotional three weeks for Mary. One of the hardest things for her was dealing with her father and Gwenda, both of whom, she now knew, had done dastardly things. These were people she cared for, she loved. And they had taken advantage of her. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

  She avoided both of them by feigning fatigue. It wasn’t particularly difficult with her father, who was depressed over the loss of the hardware store and avoiding everyone else anyway. Gwenda accepted the explanation, and she’d arrived this evening with Billy, completely unaware of what was in the offing.

  Mr. Anderson brought in Billy and Gwenda first. The moment Mary revealed the return of her memory, Gwenda broke down and confessed to lying about the phony party. She tearfully explained that she had been trying to protect Billy when she’d denied it. Billy likewise came clean. He explained the visit he’d received from Vernon the morning after the attack and his honest belief that Vernon would wrongly implicate him as a willing accomplice.

  Mr. Anderson now cleared his throat. “I think,” he said, quietly, “we need to come to some decisions about Billy and Gwenda.”

  Mary looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  He, in turn, looked at Mr. McAllister. The prosecuting attorney nodded. “I don’t know whether they’re telling the truth about not knowing the plan. I’d like to believe they are.”