Arms of Deliverance

by Tricia N. Goyer

  His father glanced back at him, annoyed, and Eddie struggled to pick up his pace. That satisfied everyone for a few minutes—until he began asking why they had to walk so far. Couldn’t they have driven farther? Couldn’t they at least slow down a little?

  His father wheeled around, and Eddie felt the heat of his glare. “Head back to the truck, son. I can see it from here.” His father had pointed through the trees toward the blue pickup standing out against the snowy hillside. “There’s hot cocoa in the thermos. We’re going to scope out this next ridge; then we’ll meet you there.”

  They had walked for hours, or it seemed that way. How could the truck be so near? Obediently, Eddie began the short walk back to the truck—at a reasonable pace.

  What should have taken a half hour dragged on, and Eddie knew he was in trouble. Everything was white—the trees, the ground, the mountains rising in jagged peaks on the horizon—the only color was the big, blue Montana sky. And when the sun finally dropped below the mountains, he felt frozen to the bone.

  Unable to take another step, his jaw chattering and ice caked to his lashes, Eddie hunkered down by a tree and waited. Dad would come, he knew it.

  Stars began showing themselves in the darkening sky. If only he’d paid attention when his father had tried to tell him how to navigate by them.

  Eddie’s nose tingled, and he fought back tears—eight-year-old boys weren’t supposed to cry when things got bad. But they came against his best efforts.

  Suddenly, he saw bright pink through his eyelids, and he squeezed them tighter. “Ed … Eddie!”

  The voice didn’t belong to his father or brother. “Eddie, wake up … the whole barracks’ll hear you blubbering.”

  “Take that blasted light off my face, Vinny.” Eddie tried to knock it away, but his hand hit only air. “I was just dreaming.”

  “Dreamin’ with your blanket kicked off. You tryin’ to get the Golden Ticket home by catching pneumonia?” Vinny’s gruffness couldn’t hide the concern in his voice. “Yer shiverin’ like a stupid Chihuahua-dog.”

  “I was back in the Montana hills, getting myself lost again. I remember hunkering down, trying to stay warm, and watching the stars. They could’ve guided me back to Dad’s truck, if I’d known how to use ’em. I promised myself right then that I’d learn to find my way by looking at the stars, just like the old-time explorers.”

  “Yeah, that explains a lot.” Vinny playfully slugged Eddie’s shoulder. “Reveille’s in twenty minutes. I’m gonna grab a couple more winks.”

  Eddie thought about his life, and where that early training had gotten him. His knowledge of the sky had been one of the reasons he’d chosen to ride as a navigator. God had designed order to this world, and discovering that design would help him find the right path—whether by night or, as in the Army Air Corps bombers, by day.

  “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding,” Eddie whispered in the quiet night. “In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

  On days when weather had kept them from school—which was often in the winter months in northwest Montana—his mom had taught him, his sisters, and brother some book learning of her own design. She’d gathered them around the kitchen table and drilled Bible verses into their heads. He only hoped this favorite verse applied to B-17 bomber crews, and to their scared and lonely navigators.

  Lee wandered through the half-empty market, trying to find something to calm her growling stomach. There’s just got to be more to this country than the newsroom.

  “Tea,” she mumbled. “Aren’t they supposed to have tea around here?”

  They’d only been in England a few days, and she’d ventured out to catch the warm rays of spring, gas mask swinging next to the satchel on her arm—even if it did mean someone else would get assigned today’s top story. To get to the market she walked through a lot of bombed areas, some blocks completely flattened. Even Buckingham Palace, she’d heard, had an entire wing leveled. She couldn’t imagine such a thing ever happening to the White House. Yet instead of moaning about their fate, the English continued on with determined efficiency.

  She walked past a white cross someone had planted in front of a leveled apartment building. Jonathan, Evelyn, George had been painted in shaky script, and Lee wondered if perhaps a mother had written the names of her lost children. Yet even if she knew the story, it would simply be one of many. So much loss, heartbreak, and especially change. As she scanned the sea of people walking around the market, it seemed the entire island had been taken over by Yanks.

  Unlike home, where she couldn’t walk a block without turning at least one head, here Lee moved through the crowd of mostly soldiers and middle-aged women and received barely a passing glance. Officially part of the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps, she wore a khaki shirt and slacks, tie and cap, accented by a green armband with a single C for correspondent. There were a dozen different uniforms represented in the Piccadilly marketplace that morning, but somehow they made everyone look the same.

  Lee approached a vendor selling an array of baked goods and handed the woman a pound note for fresh bread. The smell reminded Lee of breakfast on Saturday mornings when her father returned from his morning walk with a treat from the corner bakery. Lee smiled, yet the woman didn’t even make eye contact as she handed over the small loaf and some change and moved on to the next customer.

  Lee’s grin faded. She carried the bread to an empty bench, folded back the paper bag, and tore off a chunk with her hands. She shoved it into her mouth and chewed slowly. Here’s to you, Mother, she thought, realizing how horrified her mother would be to see her eating in such a manner.

  Before she realized it, Lee had eaten all of the loaf as she watched the customers interacting with the vendors in a variety of accents—half of which barely resembled English, or at least an English she could understand. She watched young girls batting their eyelashes and flirting with the GIs.

  “Feelin’ lonely so far from home, aren’t ya?” she heard one girl say. “I’m free tonight.”

  Lee knew what these girls were up to—a free dinner and maybe a movie show to boot. There was nothing fashionable about them. Faded dresses hung on thin frames, and their oxfords looked as if they’d been patched together one too many times. Yet the GIs didn’t seem to mind, and wandered off arms linked with the young women.

  Then Lee spotted something that caused her to sit up. Two young girls, barely teens, trotted through the market hand in hand. They were sisters, perhaps even twins. They laughed and carried on as if they had no idea a war was going on.

  Lee’s throat felt thick, and she folded her arms over her chest, looking away and thinking of Rondi. A smile curled her lips as she recalled their last days together and Rondi helping her pack. Lee had found a couple of designer scarves and small pieces of jewelry that her sister had tucked into her suitcase when she wasn’t looking. As if she’d ever have need of those items here.

  Lee let out a low sigh and crumbled her paper bag into a tight ball in her hands, refusing to look at the girls again. Instead, she focused her gaze on a woman sitting on a bench opposite her. Lee didn’t realize she’d been staring—so intent was she on crushing the bag tighter into her hands—until the woman approached. She was extremely thin and tall, with full gray hair that fell to the center of her back.

  “You are an American newswoman, yes?” The woman cocked her head to the side, but instead of meeting Lee’s gaze, she eyed the gold chain visible above Lee’s collar.

  Lee instinctively touched the chain and straightened, realizing she’d been noticed after all.

  “I have only seen men in such positions.” The woman spoke in perfect English, yet her accent was unmistakably French—so smooth and warm. So different from the choppy, nasal British voices around her.

  Lee wavered between answering the woman or bolting for a cab, thinking of the panhandlers in New York who often tried to seduce her. The Frenchwoman didn’t pro
vide the opportunity for either choice and settled onto the bench beside Lee. “Yes, I think this is a good thing, to have women in this position. They are natural observers, no? And a more tender heart to tell these stories.”

  “Yes. I—I’m with—”

  “ETO, I know.”

  A chill traveled up Lee’s spine. She stood.

  The woman rose beside her and reached out, taking Lee’s hand in her own. It was warm, soft, and nonthreatening. Still, Lee took a step back.

  “I am very sorry,” the woman stated. “I have scared you. One of my sisters, yes, she lives in the States. She sends me care packages when things get bad. This is how I know you. I’d recognize your face anywhere—from the editorial page. Let me just say I am a fan of the magazine.”

  Lee chuckled. “That’s quite a feat. Recognizing me, I mean. Especially in this getup.” She glanced down at her uniform; then her eyes met the woman’s blue-eyed gaze. “And are you here now, in England, because of the war?”

  “For a time. But I wish to go back to France. To help my family, you see.” She paused and looked away. “If it were possible I’d be there now.”

  The woman pulled gently on Lee’s hand, guiding her to the park beyond the market. “This is, indeed, a story I wish to share with you. Come. Let us go where there are not so many ears. And as a woman of words and an adventuresome spirit, you will no doubt find my story most fascinating.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The newsroom in London buzzed with men in motion. Like its counterpart in New York, it was no doubt a masculine domain. Yet amongst the sea of khaki green, one bright spot of color stood out. Lee stood across the room, staring at a large map spread onto the wall. Her army cap had been replaced by an orange and yellow chiffon scarf wound around her head.

  Mary approached, curious about what held her interest.

  “I just have to get some action,” she mumbled as Mary stopped beside her. “I swear if I have to write another article about these English politicians, I’ll die of boredom.” She ran a manicured finger along the wall, tracing an invisible line across the English Channel to the coast of France. “Seems like the only place to see action these days will be to get in on this invasion that everyone knows is coming.”

  Mary studied the pattern on Lee’s scarf, wondering if she’d ever have the nerve to wear something so bold. Nah.

  “Yeah, but too bad they won’t send any female correspondents.”

  “And why not?” Lee straightened her uniform jacket over her Saks Fifth Avenue slacks. “They worried we might show up some of those men?”

  “It’s not that, Lee. They won’t let us too close to the action. I already asked. To send a lady into a dangerous situation will go against their policy. After all, what would the publicity be like if one of us got hurt?”

  “Policy or no policy, I’ll just see about that.” Lee glanced back over her shoulder to the editor’s desk. “I believe my brother has done a favor or two for our editor friend. Let’s see if he’s willing to cash in.” She straightened the collar of her shirt and strode toward the desk. More than one head turned as she glided through the room.

  Surely, they wouldn’t give Lee a chance for the front lines just because she demanded it. Would they?

  Mary punched the map, right on the coast of France—madder at herself than at Lee. Mad that she didn’t have the guts to do the same.

  “Hey, Mary.” One of the other reporters approached. “Can you run back down to The Stars and Stripes? The guys sent the wrong pack of photos.”

  “Sure.” She cast what she hoped was a believable grin. “I aim to please.”

  Her smile faded as she turned back to the map. What’s wrong with me? Have I turned yellow since crossing that sea? She hit the map again with her fist, then yelped as pain shot up her knuckles.

  “Ouch,” she whispered under her breath, turning away and ignoring the curious stares.

  Later that night, after the lights had been turned low in their room, Mary plopped on her unmade bed, pulling a rumpled uniform shirt from under her rear. Lee sat on the floor painting her toenails.

  “So, what did Sergeant Perkins say? You never told me.”

  “I’m supposed to head to the airfield and hitch a ride as soon as they get news of an attack. I need to be packed and ready at a moment’s notice. That’s what I was doing tonight.” Lee patted the army duffle bag sitting next to her. “They said I could only bring this. Can you believe it?”

  “No, I can’t. You’re really going?”

  “Anyway.” Lee glanced up at Mary from beneath her long lashes. “Lyle agreed—”

  “Lyle? You mean Sergeant Milner?”

  Lee stopped painting and gave Mary a long stare. “Lyle understands that I’m the logical choice to go since I’ve hobnobbed with those army commanders on social occasions. So, you see, they’ve already built a level of trust with me.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Mary sat up straight. “I’ve asked for much more minor assignments only to be turned down.” Her voice rose with each word. “I … I … I seriously wish I had something to throw at you right now!”

  “Really? How very grown up of you.” Lee’s voice remained even. “Well, at least it’s better to be disliked than perceived an unequal.”

  Mary took a deep breath, realizing how foolish she sounded. “You don’t understand.” She leaned against the black-draped glass window, pulling her knees to her chest. “I’ve worked hard for years just to see my name in print.”

  Lee didn’t respond, but Mary knew she was listening.

  “You knew you were somebody the moment you were born. I had to make myself somebody.”

  “Are you saying that I’m getting these assignments because of my family?”

  “Those weren’t my exact words, but yes, that was my point.”

  “And you think your father has nothing to do with you being here?”

  Mary bit her lip, wondering how Lee knew. Then again, Lee seemed to know everything and everyone. Mary’s voice caught in her throat. “He … had nothing to do with it.”

  Lee screwed the cap onto the nail polish, lifting her toes and nodding at them with satisfaction. “Then, sweetheart, you have missed a great opportunity.” She rose and pattered into the bathroom, lifting her toes as she walked, protecting the polish. “Don’t blame me if you aren’t living up to the truth. Have you ever thought maybe you wouldn’t have to make yourself somebody if you realized you already are?”

  Mary waited just where her mother said. The top of his head was the first thing she noted. Golden brown hair, slightly darker then hers. Her father was sliding one arm into a suit coat, then a second. He straightened his shoulders as he neared the top of the landing, then lifted his head and spotted her.

  The man—Donald Miller was his name—paused on the step and cocked his head slightly. Then he continued upward and smiled. At the third step from the landing he stopped and looked at Mary face-to-face.

  “I, uh, hear you’re enjoying watching the reporters?” His voice was gruff but not angry.

  She nodded.

  “Do you like to read? To write?”

  Mary glanced back for her mother, but saw only the empty hall. She turned back to face her father, and from somewhere she found her voice. “I like profiles mostly. People round town that no one notices but are almost like angels in disguise.” She crossed her arms over her chest to stop their shaking. “Like that guy last week, the hotdog vendor, who saved the kid from stepping in front of the bus. That was a good story.” She stopped short, afraid she was talking too much.

  Donald jutted his chin, motioning down the hall. “Have you seen the photo lab?”

  Mary shook her head.

  He glanced at his watch. “I have a few minutes, if you want to take a peek.”

  He headed down the hall, and she quickened her pace to catch up, then widened her own steps to match his stride. A couple of reporters walked toward them, but Donald didn’t offer them a passing glance and
neither did she. She just kept her eyes on his back, noticing the way his hair brushed against the back of his starched white collar and the gentle swaying of his arms as he walked.

  Later that night, Mary tried to recall something about the darkroom he’d shown her. It had a weird, red glow and it smelled something like vinegar, but for the life of her she couldn’t recollect how it was laid out or anything about the images hanging on the thin wire across the room.

  She lay in bed next to her mother, trying to keep from disturbing her by taking shallow breaths so not even her blankets would rise and fall. Tears came, and she squeezed her eyes shut, afraid of dampening her pillow.

  Her mother stirred, tugging on the blankets as she always did, tucking them around her thin body to keep off the chill. Mary knew she was awake.

  She ached for her mother to say something. To help Mary understand.

  Did he ask to see me? Have you shown him my school pictures? How did he know that was me at the top of the stairs?

  Maybe he’d wanted to see her all along, but her mother refused. Maybe he had a framed photograph of her on his desk. Maybe he even stood on the street corner and watched her walk to school every day, making sure she made it there safely.

  He’d wanted to know her. She was sure of it now. And he’d be eager to make up for lost time. Maybe tomorrow he’d take her to see the printing presses, then after that they’d venture outside and share a hot dog. Pretty soon she might even join him on his daily walks around the block.

  Mary was sure she’d be able to keep up. She’d take long strides. And then everyone would see them—father and daughter together. And they’d say, “Look at that. She has her father’s eyes.”