Arms of Deliverance

by Tricia N. Goyer

  “What’s that?”

  “You tell me your birthday.”

  “I just had it, last month. I’m twenty now. Why do you ask?”

  Hendrick shrugged, then offered his arm to her. “Oh, nothing. I have a gift I hope to give to someone, someday.” He patted her hand on his arm. “A gift for a special woman, appreciative and worthy.”

  The army jeep jerked to a stop, and Mary stared wide-eyed at the ornate, gray stone structure that rose before her. Nothing had prepared her for this; she’d expected to be housed in some army tent encampment.

  “The Savoy? I can’t believe it. Do you realize the Russian Prima Ballerina Anne Pavlova first danced in cabaret here? I’ve read about this place, but never imagined I’d see London—let alone stay at the Savoy.” She jumped down from the back of the jeep, since there was no rear passenger door, and looked up at the face of the world-renowned hotel, shielding her eyes from the noon sun.

  “Oh, yes, Pavlova. I saw her dance here in ’29.” Lee waited in the jeep until the army private jumped from the driver’s seat. With a very southern “There y’are, miss,” he extended his hand to help her out.

  Lee cast a sweet smile. “Yes, I think it was her last season before her death. I was too young to appreciate it really. I fell asleep halfway through the performance.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, Pavlova,” she muttered, then swung her musette bags over her shoulder and stalked toward the front door. Inside she was welcomed by a refuge of Victorian elegance. Plush burgundy carpet, polished wood furniture, and artwork worthy of a gallery. Only instead of tuxedoed men and elegantly dressed women, the Art Deco mirrors reflected the hurried movement of American military men and women.

  Somehow Lee’s trunk and two suitcases were unloaded and stacked in the hotel foyer in less then a minute. Surprised, Mary turned to see a group of young soldiers circled around the elegant reporter. With a small wave, Lee dismissed them, assuring them the porters would take her things the rest of the way to her room. Then she approached Mary, scanning the room with one upraised eyebrow.

  A distinguished-looking porter with Winston Churchill jowls approached, handing Lee and Mary slips of paper with the room assignments. “The lady reporters. Two beautiful starlets. Come, follow me.”

  Mary readjusted the bags hanging from her shoulders and followed the porter and Lee through the lobby and up the elegant staircase, anticipating Lee’s reaction when she discovered what Mary had already figured out.

  The porter opened one door and handed them each a key.

  Lee turned to Mary, her smile fading. “You too?”

  She nodded. “Me too.”

  Lee moaned, then handed the porter a tip, shooing him away. “I knew it—that they would see us as a package deal.” She kicked open the door with a force Mary wouldn’t have expected, and it banged against its stop, bouncing halfway back. “Can’t just send one naïve reporter over the big, bad seas, can we? Have to make sure there’s someone there to buddy up with.” Lee strode inside and set her handbag on the bed closer to the window.

  Mary took two steps in and did a small turn, taking in the rose-patterned walls, velvet drapes, and fluffy feather pillows. Then she hurried to the window. “Is that the Thames?”

  Lee barely glanced up as she tugged off her uniform cap. “Yeah, I suppose.” She undid her French twist and let her dark locks fall past her shoulders.

  “Do you, uh, mind if I have the bed by the window?” Mary quickly unhooked the latches and pried it open, eager to get a better look at the famous British river. “I would just love to write Mom that I was having English tea overlooking the Thames.”

  The chill from the window caressed Mary’s cheek as she gazed down at the river below, then beyond to the city. While evidence of bombings could be seen in every direction, the thought of exploring one of the places she’d visited in the pages of a novel caused her stomach to flip. Her mind raced as she considered where to visit on her first day off: Piccadilly Circus, Downing Street, Scotland Yard, Houses of Parliament.

  “Sure. Have the window.” Lee snatched up her handbag and strode across the room to the matching twin bed. “Knock your socks off. I don’t plan on sticking around this joint very long anyway.”

  “And just where do you plan on going?”

  “The front lines, of course.”

  “Of course.” Mary stood, prancing to the door. She flipped her shoulder-length blonde hair, mimicking Lee. “And I’m going someplace too. To dinner.”

  By the time she returned from eating downstairs, the place looked as if Lee was planning an extensive sojourn. On the desk a stack of white paper, a cup with pens, and a blotter had been arranged. In the center of it all, a Hermes Baby typewriter.

  The nerve! Mary thought. She’s not the only writer in this room. A sarcastic complaint popped into her mind, but she stopped short when she glanced at Lee, who hadn’t turned when Mary entered. Her slumped shoulders suggested that maybe this wasn’t as easy for her as she let on.

  It was only their third bombing run—this one over Belgium—yet from the moment Destiny’s Child flew through the clouds during assembly, Eddie knew it would take a miracle to get them home.

  The mission began on the ground with intermittent haze. But as they rose, attempting to reach their desired altitude, the cloud cover was thick, making visibility difficult. No, make that nearly impossible.

  Eddie pressed his oxygen mask to his face, breathing deep slow breaths. Keep your eye on your wingman, he wanted to tell the pilot over the interphone. Don’t lose sight of your wingman.

  Midair collisions during assembly were a common fear due to the gray mountains of clouds that deterred visibility. It was painful enough to lose a crew due to enemy fire, but losing them because of weather was a double blow.

  The haze thinned slightly and the oxygen in Eddie’s mask began to flow easier—or at least it seemed that way as his beating heart calmed.

  Then, just as they were able to break through the clouds into the bright, clear sky above, a reverberating quake and a brief glow of light confirmed his worst fears. One plane had collided with another, evidenced by shredding plane parts spinning through the air. Cries of anger and disbelief, and a battery of expletives, traveled through their interphone.

  Eddie’s eyes scanned the skies, watching in horror as the fire and metal fell like solid rain. He desperately hoped for chutes to open, but saw none. He tried to remember which of his friends were flying in that formation. His mind stopped on one. Clifford.

  The redheaded airman had been the first to greet him at Bassingbourn. The memory of Clifford’s solemn smile filled Eddie’s mind, but he forced himself to shake it away, remembering the task at hand.

  By the time they crossed into Belgium hours later, flak was heavy in the sky. And they still had a long way to go to make it to the Evere Airdrome north of Brussels, in the heart of the Nazi-occupied lands.

  Eddie’s stomach tightened as Destiny’s Child was rocked by nearby explosions. It was the worst flak they’d encountered yet, and bursts of black, greasy smoke hindered visibility.

  Then something felt different. Their plane vibrated like a bucking bronco as the copilot’s voice filled Eddie’s ears: “Problem on two. Manifold pressure’s gone. Oil pressure’s dropping. Feather the number two engine. Feather the number two engine!”

  Eddie had first heard about feathering during training in Texas. When the engine was hit, it was necessary to change the pitch of the propeller blades as a means of stabilizing the plane. If it wasn’t done quickly enough, it would cause a terrible drag and a spin.

  As he jotted it down in his log, Eddie imagined the pilot’s and copilot’s hands moving fast, switching off the throttle, fuel, oil pump … and dozens of other toggles. The vibration lessened as the blades rotated with their edges facing into the wind.

  He let out a sigh of relief, remembering the horror stories of what could happen if the blades failed to feather. It would have caused an almos
t impossible drag on the plane, making Destiny’s Child unable to keep up with the formation and a prime target for the German fighters.

  Flak continued to burst around them, sounding like heavy rain hitting the aircraft, and he could feel the three remaining engines struggling to keep up. This was it. They weren’t going to make it the rest of the way. Eddie knew the other bombers would have to go on without them. Their only chance was to turn around and head back to the Channel.

  “Eddie, it’s up to you. I need the mag heading to take us home.” Marty’s voice echoed in his ears.

  The burden of responsibility pressed heavier than even the three layers of clothing and the flak jacket Eddie wore.

  More pounding of debris, more shouts from the other crew members warning of enemy fighter planes, sweeping down from out of nowhere.

  “Germans to the north. The south. They’re coming from every direction!” Wally cried through the interphone.

  A sharp pain hit Eddie’s chest, and at first he thought he’d been hit. But when he looked down and spotted no blood, he realized the pain was caused by the extreme pounding of his heart. Fighting for control, he pushed the fear from his mind and told himself that if he messed things up this time, nine other men would die.

  Lord, help me.

  “Eddie, are you there?”

  “Yeah, Marty. Just doing my calculations.”

  Eddie reviewed the charted course with his Weems plotter and checked the wind drift on the back side of his E6-B computer to determine magnetic heading. Within a minute or so he blurted the mag heading through the interphone, and the pilot maneuvered the sputtering machine into submission.

  “We can make it home on three engines, but we’ve got to drop the bombs over the Channel.”

  Eddie glanced at the bombardier, who was close to him. The oxygen mask covered Vinny’s face, but he could make out the anxious eyes that peered out through the goggles.

  Then, as they turned for home, the German fighters seemed to disappear into thin air, making it seem as if they’d never been there at all. The minutes ticked past, and they waited and watched, hoping the remaining engines would hold. Hoping the German fighters were gone for good. And maintaining silence over the interphone aside from necessary communications.

  The closer they got to England, the more the heaviness eased from Eddie’s chest. He’d done his job and had gotten them home. He’d never seen a prettier sight than the airfields that resembled dozens of toy triangles tossed out upon a green-and-yellow carpet. In fact, in the thirty-mile radius around Bassingbourn there must have been twenty-five bases. Yet the pilot set his sights on theirs.

  When the bomber’s wheels finally hit the ground, Eddie sucked in a sigh of relief, yet he couldn’t stop his jaw from chattering. When the plane finally stopped and the engines cut, crew members climbed from the bomber and circled around to view the damaged engine.

  “Look here,” José called, peering into the smoking engine. “We’re in luck. The fuel lines are busted, but I think she’s fixable. Looks like Destiny’s Child will be up in the air again soon after all.”

  Air-raid sirens blared, and Hendrick’s gaze met Lydia’s worried expression from across the office. They moved to the door, and he grasped her elbow, leading her through the mass of people.

  “The RAF?” someone called, cursing.

  Hendrick straightened his shoulders, refusing to give in to the panic. His feet maintained an even gait.

  “No, Americans,” another answered. “I can tell by the sound of those engines.”

  Shoulders brushed against him. A sob escaped the lips of the woman to his right. To his left, Lydia kept pace, her face fixed ahead.

  Good girl.

  With swift strides they moved down the long hall, descended the stairs, and moved through the wide doors to the air-raid shelter below their offices.

  “Americans, all the worse,” Hendrick spat out as they entered the room packed with people and illuminated by two bare light bulbs. Though fifteen years had passed since Hendrick had studied at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute of Anthropology, Human Genetics, and Eugenics in Berlin, images of the various races of Americans flashed through his mind—Negros, yellow Japs, Jews … a “melting pot,” the Americans claimed. Genetic sludge, Hendrick countered.

  He turned to Lydia. “The stronghold of the devil himself, America is.” He pointed to a space on a far bench. “Their tainted blood will be their downfall, just you watch.”

  “Hendrick, do you think they’ll hit the city? Or maybe … well, my parents live near the airfield—a prime target.”

  His own thoughts were on Katrine and the safety of his child. She’s fine, he convinced himself. I’m sure she’s found refuge in the nearest shelter even now.

  The ground shook under their feet in short bursts. Dust filled the air, stirred by the movement of people packed around them and by the shaking of the building’s foundation.

  Hendrick coughed, swatting at the spinning particles with his hand. “They’re fine. Do not worry, pet.” He spoke into Lydia’s ear only loud enough for her to hear. “After all, the Americans are fools.”

  His voice grew louder. “They bomb during the day, making perfect targets for our big guns.” The ground under his feet shook again. “Feel that? It’s our 88s, knocking them from the sky.”

  Boom. The guns fired from somewhere near the perimeter of the city.

  “One aeroplane lost,” he said.

  Boom. The guns sounded again.

  He took Lydia’s hand in his own and squeezed. “Two aeroplanes lost …”

  Lydia attempted a smile, and Hendrick gently chucked her chin with his free hand.

  Boom. Another tremor.

  “Three,” Lydia said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Bye- bye, GI.”

  The rest of the day, Eddie’s crew lounged around the barracks and played the waiting game. Waiting for word on how many planes and crews had been lost. Waiting for the others to hobble back. Hoping they all would.

  As the minutes ticked past, Eddie showered, changed into clean fatigues, and ate lunch. Then, one by one, the planes started arriving. Each one brought a sense of relief, but also strong foreboding for the others who hadn’t come back.

  By 1800 hours all the planes had returned, or had been counted as lost, except one. Tired of waiting and wondering, Eddie decided to check the mail room. Tugging his cap down over his close-cropped dark hair, he strode out the door of their hut, hoping to find a letter from home. It eased his tense stomach, somehow, to read letters that told about new calves birthed and progress of the crops. At least those green fields were untouched by the war.

  As he walked toward the mail room, he witnessed the crews as they straggled out from interrogation. After each mission, they had to be debriefed. Some dragged out of the room tired and listless, no doubt having to report their eyewitness accounts of planes shot down. Others were buoyant and loud, wanting to talk and recount the drama in the sky. Eddie’d experienced both before.

  “Hey, Ed,” Marty called as he jogged in from the airfield. “Good news. Lady Liberty is crippled but attempting to make it over the Channel. Should be here before long.”

  They caught a ride to the airstrip, where groups of men gathered a safe distance from the edge of the runway. Fire engines and medics were also lined up, waiting. Eddie couldn’t help but notice how everyone spoke in low tones and shifted their weight from foot to foot as they watched the sky.

  Then, in the distance, a gray metal speck drifted down through the clouds. Three red flares burst into the air. The message was clear: The radio’s not working, wounded are on board, have an ambulance ready.

  She circled close to the runway. Eddie knew the pilot wanted the emergency crew to view their damaged landing gear and prepare for a “gear-up” landing. Thankfully, the turret gunner had escaped from his Plexiglas bubble on the bottom of the aircraft. Eddie had heard horror stories of men trapped inside the bubble with the pilot having no choice but to do a b
elly landing in order to save the other men.

  The blades of one of Lady Liberty’s outboard and one inboard propeller were feathered.

  “Flying catawumpus,” the guy standing next to Eddie said.

  Eddie shielded his eyes. “Doesn’t look so hot, does she?”

  Lady Liberty completed her circle, aligning with the runway, floating toward them impossibly slow, head up and on the verge of stalling. She passed over the runway’s near end, her tail just feet above the pavement. Her horizontal tail stabilizers must have picked up some ground-effect lift, because her nose began coming down.

  Suddenly she could fly no farther, and flopped onto the pavement, trailing showers of sparks. A second later the sickening sound of metal scraping against pavement hit Eddie. With his mind riding along inside Lady Liberty, every muscle in his body tightened even more.

  The flying sparks and screeching metal seemed to continue forever as she slid by center field, but the damaged plane finally groaned to a stop.

  The ambulances and fire crew were at her side within seconds. Eddie and dozens of others ran toward the injured bird, as much to relieve their tension as anything. A few yards away they stopped to watch, hearts pounding, as medics first passed a man with a gashed thigh through the aft door. Next came a man trying to walk on his own, his left hand wrapped in bloody rags. The men inside passed another injured man out the door, his bleeding head lolling in unconsciousness. More men, pierced and broken, were pulled from the aircraft.

  And from the look of the bullet-riddled B-17, Eddie was amazed they’d made it back at all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nothing looked familiar to Eddie, not even the snow-covered ridge nearby. He could see his breath, now that daylight was fading. The clear sky meant a real cold night, but his father and brother would find him before then, wouldn’t they?

  His father had been unsure about taking Eddie along, but Eddie’d promised, and whined, enough to gain a small space in the pickup beside his brother. The morning had started out fun—bundling up like a real hunter, riding into the hills with the guys, walking along the trail behind his father, imitating his every move. But his eight-year-old legs could keep up for just so long. First, his bratty brother Richard teased him about falling behind. Then he complained that Eddie was holding them up.