Whispers of a New Dawn

by Murray Pura

  Ruth was holding Becky in her arms. “I will be with you. Your brother and mother and father will be by your side.”

  “It’s my fault all this is happening to us.”

  Her father put a hand on her back. “No. It’s many things coming together all at once—Nate’s return, Moses’ death, Billy Skipp’s letter and Ram Peterson’s plea, Pastor King’s words, our violation of the Ordnung, the feelings that are running high among many of the people here, the anger of the other bishops. So now we’re going where we’re most needed. And we’re going as a family. Our season here is ended.”

  “But we loved this place.”

  “We shall find love somewhere else.” Her mother kissed Becky on the cheek. “All kinds of love. God is everywhere. His grace is without limits.”

  “Not love for a man.” Becky’s eyes were sharp. “No.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do know it. I will never love another man. Not on this earth.”

  TEN

  Raven!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get in here.”

  The young man entered the room and snapped a salute. “Colonel Skipp. Lieutenant Raven reporting as ordered.”

  Skipp tossed him a salute. “At ease.”

  The colonel was standing behind his desk in a leather flight jacket. Raven had just watched him land a new P-40 Warhawk he had been putting through its paces. There was a touch of gray to his red hair but not much. Raven knew he was in his early forties but thought he still looked like a young man in his late twenties. Thinking about this, he remained at attention. Skipp didn’t notice because he was looking down at a file folder that was open on his desk.

  “Okay. Christian Scott Raven. Born in Oklahoma. Flying proficiency is rated high. Eyes like a carbine sight. Shooting is flawless—of course shooting at targets on the ground or streamers being towed by another plane is nothing like going after an enemy fighter, Raven.”

  “No, sir.”

  Skipp looked up. “What kind of name is Raven?”

  “It’s Cherokee, Colonel.”

  Skipp glanced back down. “Never been in the brig. Doesn’t swear, doesn’t drink, doesn’t chew. Helps the padre with church parade.” Skipp’s eyes returned to Raven’s face. “Blond hair. Blue eyes.”

  “My father was white.”

  “Still alive?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Raven his family name?”

  “My mother’s. She’s full-blooded Cherokee.”

  “You took your mother’s family name?”

  “After my father’s death, yes, sir.”

  Skipp was back with the file folder, his left hand tapping out a rhythm, the gold band on his ring finger glinting from the sunlight that streamed through a window. “Rated high. Highest possible rating.” He flipped the folder shut and looked Raven in the eye. “So what’s the problem, Lieutenant?”

  “I wasn’t aware there was a problem, sir.”

  “No?” Skipp folded his arms over his chest. “You lack aggression. When it’s an attack sequence you fly fast but not fast enough. Your barrel rolls are fat and sloppy. Your dives are shallow. You can’t shake fighters off your tail quickly. Can’t zig and can’t zag well. What’s the deal?”

  “I—”

  “Level with me.”

  “I suppose I don’t see the point, sir.”

  “Don’t see the point?”

  “Of barrel rolls. And flitting all over the sky like a bat. And trying to shake pests off my tail. We’re not in the war, sir. I know people think we will be, but I kind of doubt it. The Japanese will rattle their sabers a while and go home. The Nazis will take Europe and Asia and eventually we’ll be doing trade with a German empire. Meanwhile Americans will just be flying around. And that suits me.”

  Skipp raised his dark red eyebrows and made a circle in the air with his finger. “Just flying around the good old USA.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that’s all you want out of your army career?”

  “Pretty much. I couldn’t afford a plane of my own. Uncle Sam had plenty. So I signed up and hitched a ride to the clouds.” He grinned. “Sir.”

  “Mm-hm.” Skipp glanced over at a calendar on the wall. “Another week and it’ll be Halloween.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Two months until Christmas Eve. Not that it ever feels much like Christmas Eve in Hawaii. Not my kind of Christmas Eve anyway.” He leaned over and began writing on a sheet of paper with a fountain pen. “But you can help me with that, Raven.”

  “How’s that, Colonel?”

  “By giving me a big fat Christmas present. By showing me you’ve got what it takes to become a real American fighter pilot. You’ve got two months before I kick you out of the air force and into infantry as a private first class.”

  “Sir—”

  “Don’t keep sirring me, Raven. Just do it. Or you can hang up your flight jacket for good.” Skipp continued to scribble on the paper. “You’ll recall I had something of a party at my house a week ago.”

  “I knew that, Colonel, but—”

  “Do you know what the party was about?”

  “Scuttlebutt had it that a friend you flew with in the war had arrived and was going to help you train pilots.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well. That he had a daughter.”

  Skipp laughed. “For sure he has, Lieutenant. A daughter who flew solo at fifteen years old. And would turn you inside out in the air, son. She knows barrel rolls and corkscrews and dives and death spins. Knows ’em so well I don’t believe a German Messerschmitt could stay on her tail no matter how much glue they used. And while they were trying she’d whip around onto their own backsides and shoot them off.”

  Raven rolled his eyes while Skipp signed his signature. “She sounds like a real treat, Colonel.”

  “I saw that, Raven.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Pity you can’t do it in the air.” He smiled a big smile and handed the letter to Raven folded up and tucked in an envelope. “But perhaps she can change all that. It’s worth a try.”

  “What?”

  “Take this to Ram Peterson at Peterson Air Services. It’s a request that Rebecca Whetstone take you on as a client with the express purpose of teaching you combat maneuvers.”

  “Sir—”

  “Dogfighting, Lieutenant. I need to see those skills developed in you before Santa slides down the chimney or you start 1942 in a helmet and chin strap with a bayonet on your rifle. I’m not kidding, Raven.” Raven took the envelope reluctantly. “Go and see Peterson immediately. Ever play Monopoly? Do not pass ‘Go’? Do not collect two hundred dollars? That’s you. Go directly to Peterson Air Services. Get Skinny to drive you over there in my personal jeep. Get it dealt with today. Heck, go up this afternoon if she’s free. You have eight weeks.”

  “Sir, honestly, I don’t need a girl to teach me how to—”

  Skipp’s smile became even bigger. “You’re gonna love her.”

  Skinny, Skipp’s personal adjutant, had been listening at the door and was ready with the jeep. “It’s not that far from here, sir. I’ll get you there in five minutes.”

  “I’m not in any great hurry to arrive, Skinny.”

  “Dismissed, Lieutenant Raven,” Skipp said, and then turned to his file cabinet.

  “Yes, sir,” Raven replied and let out a breath as he turned to Skinny and said, “Let’s get this over with then.”

  Minutes later the two men sped across the airfield as Skinny tried to reassure Raven. “Shooter and Lockjaw both went to her to sharpen up their flying skills because they heard she was a whiz kid—and easy on the eyes too. Of course Lockjaw put the moves on her.”

  “That’s Lockjaw. What happened?”

  Skinny snorted. “She slugged him.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, sir. Five minutes with her was like gargling barbed wire, Lockjaw said. The word is she lost some
one in a plane crash stateside and isn’t over it yet. Cut her hair off with a knife. It barely covers her ears now. Shooter figures she hates guys and did it to drive them away. Juggler thinks she was a nun in another life.”

  “A nun? Do you believe in reincarnation, Skinny?”

  “Not really, sir. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what the young lady is. Here we are. Good luck.”

  Raven climbed out of the jeep and walked up to a building that said Peterson Air Services. For a moment he watched bright yellow Piper J-3s with dark stripes on their fuselage take off and land. PASI with a ring around it was painted on each cowling. Peterson appeared to have about a dozen of them, though Raven couldn’t be sure how many might be in the air. As he looked over the runway and hangars he spotted a young woman in flying gear squatting and checking the struts of one of the Pipers. Her head was uncovered and the short blond hair, bright as sunlight, was obvious. She stood up and glanced around. Noticing him, she held his gaze a moment and then turned away quickly. A shock went through Raven that reminded him of lightning strikes in Oklahoma during tornado season, when the charge in the air would make his skin tingle and his hair rise. He took off his cap and ran a hand over his hair to make sure it was lying flat.

  What was that?

  “Can I help you, Lieutenant?”

  A tall man with an easy grin and a thatch of sandy brown hair had come out of the office. He wore an old worn flight jacket with the name Flapjack embroidered on the chest. Raven handed him the letter.

  “What’s this?” asked the man, opening it.

  “From Colonel Skipp, sir.”

  “Just Flapjack. My army days are done.” Flapjack read the letter and his smile broadened. “Well, well. And here I was sitting at my desk worrying about how idle our little princess is. She’s scared so many off.” He looked up from the letter. “Will she scare you off, Lieutenant Raven?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let’s find out. Come on.” They began to walk across the runway together. “She did a lot of barnstorming with her parents long before she flew on her own. Even walked on biplane wings. She was a missionary pilot in Africa when she was fifteen. Just came up from doing the same kind of thing in the Caribbean. And she’s not even twenty yet. Impressed?”

  “She sounds unique. That’s all. The circus is full of unique people.”

  “Oh, she’s unique all right. Now listen. I don’t know how you are among the ladies. But don’t make any passes at her. She’ll kill you. I’m not kidding. After the last guy, she started carrying a Colt 1911. So keep this professional. Got it?”

  “Believe me, sir, I’d rather not be here. The last thing I’d want is any sort of relationship that extended beyond these flying lessons Colonel Skipp insists I take. From what I’ve heard she eats rocks for breakfast and broken glass for lunch.”

  “And men for supper. Well, good. I’m glad you have your priorities straight. You’re here just for the flying so the old man doesn’t ship you off to the infantry.”

  “That’s right.”

  Flapjack glanced at him. “And you’re not going to run?”

  Raven narrowed his eyes. “No way.”

  “Or fall for her?”

  “For her? Not a chance.”

  Flapjack’s eyes sparkled. “Not a chance? There’s a reason every guy has put the moves on her, Raven. And it isn’t her personality.”

  “She could look like the sun, moon, and stars and I wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Good. I like men who know their priorities. Your priority, son, is staying out of the infantry.”

  Raven knew she was aware of their approach but she was deliberately keeping her back to them as long as she possibly could, kicking the Piper’s tires, examining the canopy, running a hand over the wings and ailerons. Finally she had no choice. Flapjack called her name.

  “Becky. I have a customer for you.”

  She turned around and squinted at Raven in the sunlight. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t think of a thing. Her lips were full and perfect, teeth milk-white, emerald eyes glittered like a cat’s, blond hair was a fine silk that the offshore breeze moved back and forth over her cheeks. Her figure was slender and flawless even in a flight jacket several sizes too large for her and baggy brown pants that were tucked sloppily into her boots. Raven could feel Flapjack smirking at him but still had nothing to say, so he just thrust out his hand. She ignored it and had no smile for him.

  “After the last fiasco, I no longer train men, Mr. Peterson,” she said. “Find someone else.”

  Flapjack shook his head. “No, this one’s yours. Colonel Skipp at Wheeler Army Airfield wants you to make a stunt flier out of him.”

  Becky’s eyes spat green fire. “Why me?”

  Flapjack handed her the letter. “No one else is good enough.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t do it. End of sentence.”

  Flapjack shrugged. “Then you’re fired. Pack up.”

  ELEVEN

  Becky seemed to grow six inches. “You can’t fire me.”

  “No?”

  She glared at Raven’s sky-blue eyes, strong cheekbones, and boyish good looks. “I don’t want anything to do with him. My father can handle it.”

  Flapjack put his hands on his hips. “Actually he can’t. He has a full slate of civilian and military trainees.”

  “My mother—”

  “Right from the start we agreed your mother would only work with female students. We never made such an arrangement with you.”

  “Let’s make the arrangement.”

  “No can do. We need this to happen.”

  “Nate then.”

  Flapjack shook his head. “You’re grasping at straws. Nate’s nowhere near ready to fly again. Maybe in the spring. Not today.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “You’re out. Your flight status is revoked and you can get off my airfield now. I hear your Aunt Ruth is making a quilt—you can help her with that.”

  “My father—”

  “Jude and I talked this over a few days ago. He told me that if you won’t take orders or do the job to give you a swift kick out the door.”

  Becky flared. “He did not.”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  Becky turned on Raven. “What’s your name?”

  “Christian Scott Raven. Sir.”

  “What’s your call sign?”

  “Thunderbird.”

  “Raven. Thunderbird. What’s with all the Indian names?”

  Raven’s eyes went to blue ice. “I’m part Cherokee.”

  Becky bit her lip but decided to charge ahead. “Your father’s name?”

  “My mother’s.”

  “You took your mother’s Cherokee name?”

  “I never cared for my father.”

  “How old is the name Raven?”

  Raven’s face darkened. “Why all the questions? The Cherokee never had last names. Your people made them start that.”

  “My people? My people never lifted a finger to any Indian tribe. We kept our promises.”

  “Sure. You promised to take our land and you took it.”

  Becky looked at Flapjack, shaking her head. “No way, Mr. Peterson. I can’t work with a guy like this.”

  Flapjack lifted his eyebrows. “Really? I think this is the best start with any of the army pilots you’ve had.”

  “You call this the best start?”

  “Sure. All the others flirted with you until you blew up. This guy’s not interested in you at all. And he can trade you insult for insult.”

  “I don’t like anything about him and I don’t want a pretty boy in my plane. Just give me female trainees and I’ll be ecstatic and insult-free.”

  Flapjack started to walk away. “Take him up. Now.”

  “I’m not going to do that.”

  “I’ll send Peachtree out with the jeep. He’ll get you back to your parents’ place. I hear the quilt has a kind of star pattern. Enjoy.” Flapj
ack gestured with his hand as he headed toward the office. “Let’s go, Thunderbird. I’ll hook you up with someone else.”

  Raven took a step and Becky barred his path with her arm. “Stay here.” Her eyes were flames. “I swear I’ll shoot you if you lay a hand on me. Is that clear?”

  Raven stared at her, his eyes hardening into a colder blue. “I haven’t the slightest interest in you as a woman. I don’t even find you attractive. So if all you want to do is teach me how to barnstorm that’s fine. Because that’s all I want. Besides, you’re just a kid. And ugly and scrawny to boot.”

  Becky felt the heat rush into her face along with the blood. “Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You coming?” Flapjack called to Raven.

  “No, he’s not!” shouted Becky. “We’re going up!”

  “Thanks for letting him know.” Raven took his cap from his head and crammed it into a pocket in his pants. “We Indians have a hard time speaking to white men on our own.”

  “I don’t have anything against Indians. Neither do my people.”

  “And who are your people?”

  “The Amish.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pretty much like Quakers. With a German accent.”

  Raven grunted. “You don’t have a German accent.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I’ve been to Germany.”

  Becky tilted her head to one side and her tongue was in her cheek. “Oh, really. How did you manage that with a war on?”

  “I was with the American team at the Olympics in ’36. They were held in Berlin.”

  “I was in Africa at the time and fourteen years old. All I remember about the Olympics was a runner named Jesse Owens.”

  “I knew Jesse. Sometimes we trained together over there.”

  “Was he faster than you?”

  “A lot faster. But then I ran distance races, not sprints. You do know the difference?”