by Sarah Sundin
“Marriage made you bold too.”
“Well, are you?”
Ray gazed at the dance floor, where dozens of couples swayed to “Stardust.”
“Does she know you love her?”
Ray stared at Walt. “I didn’t say—”
“Mind reader, remember?” He tapped his temple.
Ray smiled. “She doesn’t know.”
Walt leaned closer, his hazel eyes serious. “Learn from my mistakes. Tell her.”
The band changed key and played “Long Ago and Far Away,” as cruel a choice as “Stardust.” He raised half a smile. “Mind reading, boldness, and great wisdom—marriage has been good for you.”
“Sure has. Heed my wisdom, gained at great cost.”
“Why don’t we get some coffee?” Ray stood, shrugged off his service jacket, and draped it over his chair to reserve it.
He had no intention of following his baby brother’s advice. Helen had made progress as she chronicled Jim’s appalling abuse. In the unlikely case that she had romantic feelings for Ray, a confession of love would distract her from this progress. And if her interest was platonic, his confession would end the correspondence and undermine months of healing.
Ray weaved through the crowd toward the bar and smiled at the irony. He loved Helen too much to tell her he loved her.
Naval Magazine, Port Chicago
Wednesday, October 4, 1944
The Navy corpsman stared at Helen, but then how many female civilians entered the dispensary at Port Chicago?
Vic was busy with the trial, but why did he have to send Helen for a confrontation? Despite her flipping stomach, she smiled. “I’m here to see Dr. Thompson on official business for the Judge Advocate’s office.”
“Sure, ma’am. I’ll see if he’s in with a patient.”
“Thank you.” Four men in dungarees sat in the waiting room—two black, two white. To ease public outrage, the Navy had rotated in two white divisions to load ammunition.
A window framed in raw unpainted wood showed a view past buildings in various states of repair down to a newly built pier, where a freighter docked for loading.
Helen’s breath caught. What if the Navy’s promise to improve safety conditions was as hollow as the promise of a fair trial for the accused mutineers? Many of the written testimonies had been transcribed inaccurately, and Vic was disgusted by the prejudice and intimidation in the prosecution’s questioning. The NAACP was even sending their chief counsel, Thurgood Marshall, to watch the trial and report the racism.
The corpsman ushered Helen into an office, where Dr. Thompson stood beside a desk.
Helen extended her hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Helen Carlisle. It’s good to see you again under better circumstances.”
A smile creased his pudgy face, and he shook her hand. “Why, yes. You helped after the explosion. A doctor’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. My father’s in the Army Medical Corps.”
“Army? Not Navy? I may forgive you, my dear.” He showed her a chair across from a dented metal desk. “How may I help?”
She couldn’t avoid this, not with a man’s freedom at stake. “My boss, Lt. Victor Llewellyn, serves on the defense team for the mutiny trial. One of his defendants, Petty Officer George Washington Carver Jones, was treated for a broken arm after the explosion.”
His face hardened. “I sent my written testimony.”
A single clinical sentence describing the injury, but nothing about how he was unable to work. Helen drew a deep breath and studied the battleship-gray desk covered with stacks of papers, medical books, and prescription pads. “Sir, I know how busy you are, but the defense is on the stand. The prosecution stated that ‘there are plenty of things a one-armed man could do on the ammunition dock.’ A statement from you could protect an innocent man.”
“Innocent? They’re a bunch of shiftless, lazy . . .” He gave her a sheepish smile. “My apologies. I’ve been away from feminine company too long.”
Helen’s stomach turned. However, his condescension gave her an idea. “Isn’t it a shame the name of the Navy is being dragged through the mud because of this case? I—I’m a Navy widow myself.” She blinked. She quivered her lips.
“Oh, Mrs. Carlisle. I’m so sorry.”
A shameless act, but for a worthy cause. She raised her head and gave it a little shake. “For my husband’s sake, for the sake of our son, I hate to see the Navy defamed. If even one innocent man can be acquitted—and such a good man—perhaps . . . perhaps . . .” She opened her pocketbook and fished out a handkerchief.
“Well, of course, of course. Let me write out a statement.”
A few minutes later, Helen stepped out into the sunshine and showed the paper to Esther Jones. “The man’s a disgrace to his profession.”
Mrs. Jones raised eyes the color of coffee beans. “You did it.”
Helen groaned and headed for the train depot. “Only after I waved my handkerchief and invoked the memory of my dead husband.”
“Oh dear. I hope that wasn’t too painful for you.”
“He’s been dead almost two years, and I don’t miss him one bit.” Her honesty slapped her across the face and stopped her in her tracks.
Mrs. Jones’s eyebrows shot up, but then her mouth softened, and she settled a hand on Helen’s elbow. “For every bad man, God made plenty of good ones.”
The thought of a good man on a bomber base in England and another in the brig brought true tears to her eyes. “Men like Carver.”
“And Lieutenant Llewellyn.” Mrs. Jones guided Helen to the depot. “He’s very fond of you.”
Helen blinked her eyes clear. “Let’s get him this testimony.”
“I owe you.”
“No, I owe you for being part of a world that tolerates this nonsense. I didn’t see—I didn’t know how bad it was until I started this job. The horrible things people say, the way you’re treated. Oh, it makes my blood boil.”
“Maybe that’s the purpose. I knew the Lord would use Carver’s trials for good, and now I see how. This case is showing the ugly underbelly of this nation, and if enough people take notice, something can be done. May the Lord raise up his people against injustice.”
“Mrs. Jones, you’d make a fine preacher.”
She turned with a gaze warmer than coffee. “Call me Esther.”
Helen hoped her smile was just as warm. “Only if you call me Helen.”
Antioch
Tuesday, October 24, 1944
Connie Scala and Linda Jeffries sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, playing jacks, and Jay-Jay tugged Helen’s hand. “My watt.”
“Yes, you may watch, but only for a few minutes.” She was early for her meeting, and Ray’s letter called to her from her pocketbook. She scanned for her favorite part.
Last night at the party, my brothers and I discussed the ink spot you discovered on the piano and how it embodies our weaknesses—Walt’s for lying, Jack’s for manipulation, and mine for misguided peacemaking. Yes, Jesus calls us to be peacemakers, but he doesn’t want peace at the cost of truth. My primary goal shouldn’t be the absence of conflict but doing God’s will.
A pastor needs to stand up for truth in ways that may shatter the peace. I don’t know if I can do that. If I had known what Jim was doing to you, would I have had the guts to confront him?
Courage comes in many forms, but I don’t know if I have the right form.
Helen pressed her lips to the paper. “Oh, darling. I know you do.”
A little girl giggled, and Helen glanced down to Connie’s grinning face. Helen gave her short black braid a playful tug. “I’m sure you also talk to yourself at times. Come on, Jay-Jay. Mrs. Novak said she’d have cookies.”
“Cookie!” Jay-Jay scampered down Sixth Street and up the Novaks’ front walk.
Mrs. Novak greeted him with a hug and then ushered them into the parlor. “I’ll be right back with those cookies I promised. Look, I brought down my boys’ old tin soldie
rs.”
Jay-Jay flopped to his stomach on the hardwood floor. In his baby hands, two soldiers leaped to life and proceeded to kill each other.
Helen was drawn to the upright piano where she had spent romantic evenings with Ray, to the concealed ink spot, and to the portrait of Ray. She didn’t have a picture of him, so every time she came, she drank him in—the kind eyes under the service cap, the tilt of his smile, and the angle of his jaw. Her chest ached missing him. His tour would be up by the end of the year, and he’d be home, but not hers.
“I never thought I’d have all three boys in harm’s way. Not after Walt was discharged.” Mrs. Novak held a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. “At least I have a daughter in the house for the first time.”
“I’m so thankful you took me in.” Allie Novak walked in and set a tray on the coffee table. “Would you care for tea, Helen?”
“Yes, please.” Helen sat in a wing chair and forced a smile at her sister’s best friend. One of several. Betty always did like quiet little things who wouldn’t outshine her.
“Thank you for coming, Helen.” Mrs. Novak handed Jay-Jay a cookie and set a half-filled glass of milk on a coaster on the piano bench. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Helen opened the top notebook on her lap. “Oh yes. October’s almost over, and we need to plan the Christmas party for the servicemen’s children.”
Mrs. Novak sat on the couch and took the teacup Allie offered. “I had something else in mind.” She traced her finger around the china rim of the cup.
“The scrap metal drive? The blood drive?” Helen flipped through her notebooks.
“In a way, all of it.” She pursed her lips. “I’m concerned about you.”
“About me?”
“You seem tired lately, and I wondered if we could help. Allie has decided not to take a job with the baby coming, and she could lighten your load.”
“It’s not a load. I love this work. I do.”
“Please let me help.” Allie’s large eyes stretched wide. “For the past two years, I’ve had a purpose, first with the Red Cross in Riverside, then at Boeing. Walt wanted me here so I could be with family, but I feel useless. If I could help in any way . . .”
Helen stroked her notebook. How could she give up her heart’s work?
Jay-Jay lined up soldiers for an assault on the coffee table, and Helen’s heart crumpled. He needed more of her. The job with Vic took so much, and that wouldn’t change until she could move out. But how could she please the Lord without service?
She groaned softly. Just that morning she’d read Galatians 3:2–3: “Received ye the Spirit by the works of the law, or by the hearing of faith? Are ye so foolish? having begun in the Spirit, are ye now made perfect by the flesh?”
Like the Galatians, was she trying to earn God’s love, earn grace, earn forgiveness for killing her husband?
“Helen? You don’t have to decide today.”
“Yes, I do.” Her voice came out ragged. “You’re right.”
The phone rang, and Mrs. Novak gave her an apologetic look. “Excuse me. I’m expecting a call.”
Allie lifted a shy smile. “I don’t have your talent for leadership, but I’d love to help.”
Helen transferred to the sofa and smiled, although she doubted how much a society girl could help. “Let’s see what you can do.”
“I can run errands, make phone calls, type, anything you need.”
Giving up any task would be like chopping off a finger, but Helen nodded and opened a notebook, her throat tight. If she was mistakenly relying on work to earn God’s favor, perhaps it would be best to chop off some fingers.
“Helen?” Mrs. Novak leaned into the parlor. “The call is for you. It’s Victor Llewellyn.”
“Victor?”
“Mrs. Carlisle told him you were here.”
Helen went to the hallway and picked up the shiny black receiver. “Vic?”
“I thought you’d want to know,” he said in a heavy voice. “The verdict came in.”
“Already? But you said they’d start deliberations today.”
“They did. They finished eighty minutes later.”
“Eighty? But—”
“Less than two minutes per defendant. But why deliberate if you’ve already made up your mind?”
Helen’s mind thickened like syrup. “You don’t mean—”
“Guilty. The court found all fifty of them guilty of mutiny. Fifteen years each. It’s a travesty. They don’t meet the legal definition of mutiny. No conspiracy. No attempt to overthrow officers. The Navy just wants to make an example of them so no one else considers insubordination. The trial was a farce, and they dragged us in and made fools of us.”
She leaned against the wall and untangled her finger from the phone cord. “All fifty? Not—”
“Even Carver.”
Helen pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Oh no. Poor Carver. Poor Esther.”
24
Bury St. Edmunds Airfield
Friday, November 10, 1944
Rubber squeaked on the tarmac, and Ray savored the sound after the intense flak they’d encountered over the Luftwaffe airfield at Wiesbaden.
His brand-new Pathfinder plane, an H2X radar-equipped B-17G, whizzed down the runway. Ray had named her Ascalon after the lance Saint George used to slay the dragon. With foot firm on the brakes, he flipped the levers on the center console to turn off the superchargers, while Goldman raised the wing flaps.
When the speed dropped to thirty miles per hour, Ray said, “Unlock tail wheel.”
Goldman leaned down to the floor and swung the bar over. “Tail wheel unlocked.”
Ray turned onto the perimeter track that circled the runways, and he joined the rumbling procession of silver B-17s, each tail fin bearing the 94th Bomb Group’s A on a black square. They’d taken damage, and four of the group’s thirty-eight bombers had slipped out of formation. At least France and Belgium were liberated, so a damaged plane had more places to put down.
When Ray reached the spoon-shaped hardstand for Ascalon, the ground crew motioned him in and showed him where to stop.
Ray and Goldman ran through the process of stopping the engines—idling them until cylinder temperature dropped and running at high rpm for thirty seconds before moving each mixture control lever to “engine off.”
The engines’ thunder died away for the first time in six hours. Ray tugged off his leather flight helmet. “Say, boys, do you know what’s playing at the base theater tonight?”
“Cover Girl with Rita Hayworth.” Goldman closed his eyes. “Mm, mm, mm. What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on that redhead.”
“Not if I saw her first.” Hewett wrestled the machine gun out of the top turret with the help of the armorer. “I sing better than Gene Kelly.” He broke into “Long Ago and Far Away.”
Maybe Ray wasn’t in the mood for a movie after all. He didn’t need a reminder of his failed date with Helen. Their romance was long ago, and she was far away.
While his crew escalated their argument over who could win the Hollywood bombshell, Ray turned off a legion of switches on the control panel.
Sometimes hope flickered that he stood a chance with Helen, like after her last letter. She believed in him. She believed he possessed courage for anything he faced, and her belief strengthened him. If only he could keep her by his side to squash his self-doubts.
And to squash hers as well. Her letters showed such growth. She had shoved off the self-blame Jim taught her, and righteous anger had taken its place. Someday Ray hoped to guide her to forgiveness and peace, but first she had to work through the anger and betrayal.
Ray swung his legs to the side, stepped over the passageway that led down to the nose compartment, and stood behind his seat. He raised fists to ear level and pressed his elbows back, as good a stretch as he could get in the cockpit, but boy, it felt good.
After he picked up the flak vest and steel flak helmet he’
d tossed aside when they were over the Channel, he followed Goldman and Hewett through the bomb bay and the radio room.
In the waist compartment, one man remained behind—Lt. Sig Werner, the H2X radar operator. He caught Ray’s eye and waited for Goldman and Hewett to leave. “Say, Pops, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sure, Sig, what’s up?”
Werner rubbed his close-cropped sandy hair. With his wide-set blue eyes and square jaw, he could blend in if they were shot down over Germany—if he could get the right uniform. “Thanks for talking to me last week. Sure, I was mad at you, but I needed to hear it.”
Ray smiled and unclamped his parachute harness. On the October 7 mission to an oil refinery at Bohlen, the 94th lost eight bombers, one of which held Werner’s former crew. He hit the bottle hard every night after that, which affected his work. “You’re doing well this week.”
“I haven’t had a drop since. I thought the pain would kill me if I didn’t drown it, but you made me see a man could also die by drowning.”
“I see a lot of that around here.” He also saw men try to slough off their sorrows in the arms of London prostitutes. Those men kept the base dispensary busy treating venereal disease.
Werner massaged the back of his neck, and his cheeks reddened. “I said some awful things to you.”
Yep. Things like “self-righteous, know-it-all Puritan.” Ray shrugged off his parachute harness. “No harm done.”
Werner fixed his light blue eyes on Ray. “You’re the only man around here with the guts to take me on. I owe you.”
Ray clapped him on the back. “How about a cup of coffee in the Officers’ Club?”
Werner strolled to the door, jumped out, and grinned at Ray. “After the movie. I’ll give up booze, but I won’t give up Rita.”
Ray laughed and hopped out. The tarmac jarred his feet, and a thought jarred his soul. Helen was right. He’d stirred up conflict with Werner to bring peace in the long run.
He ambled down the length of his plane and ran his hand down Saint George’s lance painted on the nose. Another dragon slain.