She stood and walked out to the quiet sidewalk, stopping just outside the door and brushing off her filthy olive-drab uniform, attempting to shake away the thoughts that clung to her just like the dirt and mud. But it didn’t work.
Mary stomped her feet on the sidewalk, then returned to the lobby. The room was alive with conversation, yet she suddenly felt alone—so far from Paul, so far from her mom—the two people who cared the most.
If word ever got out, everyone would think I got where I am because of who I am, not because of what I’ve accomplished. Mary grabbed her duffel bag and trudged up the long stairway, remembering the first time she ever met her father, the first time she realized who she was.
Mary hurried to her room, pulled the key from her pocket, unlocked the door, and kicked it open. If he’s hard on me, makes me do better than the best, well, no one will be able to accuse him of favoritism. Plus, they’ll know this girl from the German quarter really worked hard for whatever she got.
She dropped her bag, spread her arms, and fell backward onto the unmade bed. So he wants to be impressed, does he? She stared at the photo pinned to her wallpaper—the image of Jack the Crew Chief, staring into the sky. And an idea hit her.
The only problem is, I’ll need Donald’s help to accomplish it.
Hendrick kneeled before the cradle, and anger stirred within his chest to hear Lydia’s humming from the other room. “Get out! Get out now!” he called to her.
“Hendrick, what’s wrong?”
He stood as she entered and grabbed her by the hair, forcing her head backward so he could study her face.
“What are you doing? Hendrick, you’re hurting me!”
It was almost as if they were Katrine’s words in his ear. Beautiful Katrine.
“Tell me the truth, is your blood Aryan? Are you pure, or is it simply a lie?”
“What do you mean? You know to work in the RuSHA office I’ve been thoroughly checked. No woman would dare to sleep with an SS officer without complete documentation.”
“Oh, yes, but what if she lies and says she’s a refugee—the last of her family? What if someone in the main office believes her, without realizing she has tainted blood?”
“You mean sleep with someone unclean? Like a Jew?”
He yanked her head back farther, forcing her to the floor. “Of course not a Jew! Officers of racial purity have standards. We can determine Jewish characteristics….” A cry burst from Hendrick’s lips, and he sank onto his knees. “I want you out by tomorrow.”
“But my things … I just moved in. It’s not like you need this space. You have your own house and your own apartment.”
“Your things. I said I want them out! You’re worthless anyway. Just like Onna. I’m wasting my seed on trash like you.”
Lydia’s hands instinctively covered her stomach. “Well, at least I’m alive. What do you think, you’re going to get another chance to have a child with your dead mistress? Do you think you’re going to bring your dead son back from the grave?”
As the newspaper headline flashed in her mind, Mary realized what she’d known deep inside for a very long time. She was going to make the front page, forcing her father to put her name on the New York Sentinel masthead whether he liked it or not. She’d nab a story that would catch the world’s attention. Because by catching the world’s attention, she would catch his … if even for the briefest moment.
Thankfully, she was able to get her mentor on the phone the following afternoon.
“Paul, I’m going to shrivel up and die if I spend one more day in this joint. I’ve got to do something meaningful. I want to go back to England. I’ve got Destiny’s Child’s crew chief trusting me; that means her air crew should trust me as well. I want to join the crew on a bombing raid over Germany.”
“You’re joking, right? Mary, you’re sure to be the death of me.”
“I know the risks, and I’m willing to take them. I wouldn’t be on this side of the pond if I weren’t. Do you think you can get me clearance with the base? Will Donald let you?”
“Well, I’ll ask, Mare, but it could be a few days….”
“Forget it. Let me talk to Donald myself.”
Mary’s heart slammed against her chest when, within a few minutes, her father’s voice came on the line.
“Hey, uh, Da—Donald. I know you’ve read every one of my stories, because—well, I know you.”
“What’s this about, Mary? I have a meeting in five minutes, and I’m sure this call is costing my paper a fortune.”
“I know my stories are good,” she said hurriedly. “You push me harder than anyone. I also know how you got where you are. You’ve taken chances and refused to be held back. And because you are where you are, I also know you have connections. If I was to ask you for an assignment, and you thought it was a good one, you’d find a way for me to have it the next day, right?” She took a deep breath, not waiting for an answer. “So I’m asking you. I want an exclusive. I want to be the first female war correspondent to fly in a B-17 bomber on a bombing raid … over Berlin.”
The line was silent. Then a chuckle. “You do, do you?”
Was he taking her seriously? “Yes, sir, I think so.”
“Good. It’s about time. I’ve been waiting for this.”
“What?”
“It scares me to death to give you this assignment, but I’ve been waiting for you to use my position to get what you want.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A lot of people don’t receive because they don’t ask. And what kind of father would I be if I turned my back on my kid when she needed something from me?”
“Then why didn’t you offer? Why didn’t you just make it happen?”
“I had to know you needed my help. Prepare yourself, sweetheart, and I’ll get back to you with all the details.”
Then the line went dead. Mary glanced at the receiver, unsure if Donald had hung up on her or if they’d lost their connection. It didn’t matter, though.
Did he say sweetheart? She gazed at the receiver. He wants me to need him. He was just waiting for me to ask.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Adam’s groan made Eddie stir from his sleep. Then the noises of the air base coming to life warned him of what the day held and dragged him to full wakefulness. He turned his head to notice Adam pressing the flimsy army pillow over his head.
“Looks like we’re going up today.”
Adam pulled the pillow down harder. “Couldn’t they just give us a break and let us sleep in? After all we’ve done …”
“It’s not over till it’s over.” Eddie stretched, feeling the chill of the morning hit his arms, then curled to his side. “Tomorrow we can sleep in.”
Adam tossed the pillow to the floor and sat up. “Hey, I like the sound of that.”
Eddie reached over, lifted the blackout curtains, and peeked out, but only saw darkness and fog. This is it. Last mission. I can’t believe I’ve lived—we’ve lived—to see this day.
Somewhere outside their barracks, the airfield was alive with men, each with his own small part of the big job of getting the planes ready. Ground crews, he knew, were assembling at the hardstands. He could picture old Jack’s muscular arm yanking at the starter of one of the portable gasoline-powered generators. They were what provided the electric power to the airplanes and the muted lighting, which made the ground crews’ work possible.
There it was, the first engine puttering like a hard-starting tractor; and then others joined it, until they formed one continuous hum saturating the foggy air throughout the base.
“I hate that sound.” Marty leaned up on one elbow, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his boot, and smacked it against his hand until one slid out a half inch from the rest. He stuck it between his lips and drew the pack away, leaving one white stick hanging there.
He dug again into his boot and withdrew his Zippo lighter, clicked the lid open, and flicked the wheel against the flint. When it produced a
flame, he held it against the end of his cigarette and drew in deeply.
Marty gestured with his cigarette toward the barracks wall and beyond. “That sound means men are going to die today. Let’s hope not too many.”
“Amen to that,” Vinny said.
At 0330 came the call for breakfast. “DeBorgia’s crew. Grab your socks!”
Sleepy groans filled the room as the sergeant and his flashlight beam moved from bed to bed, rousing the officers.
Within thirty minutes they emerged from the barracks dressed and as ready as they could be under the circumstances. Outside, winds of the North Sea stung their clean-shaven cheeks. Eddie had only missed shaving once before a mission, and soon learned that eight hours with a rubber oxygen mask rubbing against stubble wasn’t a pleasant experience.
From the barracks beside them a window slid open, and a half-naked man leaned out. “Drag the dang Luftwaffe out of bed, and blow ’em a kiss for me!”
Eddie glanced around at the faces of those walking beside him. They gave the guy in the window a courtesy chuckle and a wave, yet lacked enthusiasm. No one had slept much.
Before leaving his room, Eddie had grabbed his pocket-sized New Testament with its gold-finished steel cover—a parting gift from his brother, Richard.
Just yesterday, Vinny had given Eddie his own method of dealing with the fear: “At first you try to forget it. If you can’t, deny it. And if you can’t do that, pretend.”
But Eddie found the words of the Bible worked better.
Large mugs of coffee, thick toast and jam, and eggs waited for them, prepared by the mess sergeant, Williamson, whom Chancey lovingly referred to as their ugly mother.
By 0430 the men separated—enlisted men being briefed first, followed by the officers.
After thirty minutes, the six enlisted men of Eddie’s crew filed out of the large Quonset hut, their faces grim. The pilots, navigators, and bombardiers anxiously scanned their faces for clues to the nature of the mission.
Adam paused in his tracks after he entered the room for the officers’ briefing, and Eddie bumped into him.
“Come on, what’s holding ya up?” Eddie glanced over his friend’s shoulder and spotted the distraction. A girl … in the briefing room. She sat erect in the chair, looking straight ahead. Blonde and petite, she looked no older than sixteen. Eddie glanced to the officer in the front of the room for an explanation.
“Come in, boys, she doesn’t bite.” The intelligence officer stood before the curtain-draped board at the head of the room. “Have a seat.”
Murmurs erupted, and Eddie noticed that every row of seats was filling except for the one where the girl sat. Her eyes were intent on the notebook in her lap, and she fiddled with the pencil in her hand.
Eddie moved toward her row and plopped down with a seat between them. Close enough to give her a little support, but not so close as to make her feel he had any wrong intentions.
He leaned over the empty seat. “They’re just a bunch of big oafs, the whole lot of ’em. Don’t take it personal, but you’re the first lady we’ve ever seen in a briefing room.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I have horns protruding out of my head or anything,” she whispered. She tucked the pencil behind her ear and turned, giving him a view of a second one tucked away in the same fashion—like two yellow antennae emerging from her golden curls.
Eddie erupted in laughter before he had time to hold it back.
The intelligence officer cleared his throat; his eyes met with Eddie’s and locked in a serious gaze. Eddie slid down in the seat and pressed his lips tight, focusing straight ahead.
“Tenn-hut!” one of the airmen called out as the commanding officer entered the room. Everyone in the room jumped to his feet.
The commanding officer reached the front. “Be seated, gentlemen.”
The airmen nervously took their seats, and the G2 intelligence officer scanned their faces, as if trying to remember each one, and then pulled the cloth from the map.
Eddie felt a tightening ripple through his stomach. Their mission was Berlin. Their obstacle, the 750 flak guns that surrounded it, not to mention the Luftwaffe.
The elongated flight paths showed them traveling from England over the Channel, through France, and into the heart of Germany. The return trip was nearly the same path but farther north, heading over Belgium instead of France.
Berlin meant a thousand miles round-trip under attack by enemy fighter planes and antiaircraft guns on the ground. They’d flown practically the same circuit before, with disastrous results.
“You will leave the coast of England at this point.” The officer spoke in a cold, emotionless tone as he moved his pointer along the red-ribboned route. The concentrations of enemy flak were marked by cellophane overlay. “One group of P-51s will join you at the IP and take you past the target.”
Eddie scribbled a quick note and showed it to the girl. IP = Initial Point.
She nodded. “Thanks,” she mouthed.
“You will have escort all the way to the target area and all the way back to the coast of Belgium,” the speaker continued.
As the navigation officer briefed them in detail on their course, airspeed, altitude, and alternation, Eddie jotted down the information on a piece of paper that he would tape to his upper pant leg when he was seated at his flight station.
“You’re going to hit a flak gun factory just at shift change, which will give us the maximum number of workers on site. This target is of vital importance. Which means, boys—I want you to give Jerry a headache.”
Next he pointed out the main areas of concern for antiaircraft fire. Then the lead bombardier approached the front of the room, showing them pictures of the IP, of the bomb run and the targets. His pictures showed rivers and railroad tracks in relation to the IP and target to help the crew identify them.
“Gentleman, look to your right,” the intelligence officer said. “That man might not be coming back.”
Eddie shuddered because to his right … sat a girl.
Mary took notes, not of the bombing run, but of the men. The eyebrows of the airman closest to her almost touched in the middle as he focused on every word. He scribbled down notes too, glanced up to confirm what he’d written, then added more.
When the aircrew had entered the room just moments before, scents of shaving lotion, hair oil, and sweat entered with them. Even though they’d obviously just showered, Mary knew sweat still clung to the jackets they’d worn into battle time and time again.
When the briefing officer concluded, another officer stepped forward.
“Men, I know you’ve heard this a dozen times at least, but today it’s especially important we go over escape and evasion procedures.” He glanced at Mary, then back to the notes in his hand. A new map was pinned up as he discussed escape routes in Holland, Belgium, and occupied northern France.
“You can find locations of rescue ships in the North Sea, here, here, and here.”
Mary shuddered, remembering the statistics she’d read concerning the number of crews that bailed into the Channel and were never found. She squirmed in her seat.
“Wear your dog tags and carry your black leather shoes with you. Nothing else. And if you’re captured, give only name, rank, and serial number.”
When he finished, the meteorologist took center stage and gave the weather reports for the trip there and back. Visibility and ceiling were currently poor, but he had hopes they’d clear by the time they reached the target. And when he was through, more men came forward—the radio officer providing procedures and the group navigator explaining the order of takeoff, assembly, and the position of each plane and squadron in the group’s formation. Hearing them gave Mary a new appreciation of the formations she’d seen flying east on numerous occasions.
Finally, the last order of business was something the lead navigator called “time hack.” Each man grasped the tiny dials on his watch. The navigator cleared his throat. “Seven, six, five, four, thr
ee, two, one, hack.” The men clicked the dials so they were all in unison, then rose stiffly from their chairs.
And Mary—preparing herself for what she had to do—took a deep breath and stood with them.
Ten minutes later, Mary slipped off her combat boots, bouncing from foot to foot on the bitter-cold concrete floor of the small, unheated storage shed.
“These guys couldn’t give me a warmer spot?” she muttered as she stripped down to her long johns. “Are they hoping I’ll get frostbite and not be able to join them? They’re out there laughing. I know it.”
But despite the cold—and her racing heart—she was glad to be here. This was it. Her big chance.
Donald had called her back a mere one hour after their phone conversation, telling her arrangements had been made for her to return to England. For a week she’d practiced how she would operate inside the big B-17. The flight had its own equipment, its own rules, even its own morals—but she’d learned fast. She was ready. With Patrick’s help, she also learned how to use a professional camera to capture shots of the mission.
Since she insisted on being treated no differently from any other crew member, she stayed the night at the base and was awakened at 3:30 a.m.—or 0330. Under complete blackout, she dressed—but too slowly to make it to breakfast, so she’d met up with the others in the briefing room.
As she dressed, she replayed in her mind the briefing and what happened afterward. As they filed out to leave, many of the men formed into a line. There, a Catholic chaplain stood, praying over any crewman who wanted a blessing before the mission. That line of men—tall, handsome, capable—kneeling before the priest had shaken her up even more than the CO’s anticipation of heavy opposition or the estimates of crew losses.
These men apparently knew what they were going to face. And they knew whom to turn to for help.
Hendrick didn’t need to sleep for the nightmare to flash before his eyes. Even in the waking hours, the image of Katrine’s limp body on the birthing table refused to leave him.
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