by Sarah Sundin
“She says I haven’t shown myself to be a leader. I’d like to unify our flight and prove her wrong.”
One side of Mellie’s mouth flicked up. “It’d be easier to break up with all your men.”
Kay groaned and sat back against the counter. “I know. I wanted to ask for your help.”
“Mine?” Mellie shook her head and pulled a brush from her purse. “I’m nice to Vera and Alice, but they don’t want anything to do with me. And Georgie isn’t good at getting over grudges. She isn’t used to being rejected like I am.”
Kay tapped her fingers on her purse. “I already talked to Vera and Alice. They think the problem’s with you and Georgie, that you look down on them.” Sometimes the truth needed to be stretched to be seen.
“Me? Look down on them? It’s always been the other way around.” Mellie looked at Kay with moist eyes. “I hope I’ve never given them that impression. Oh dear.”
“Sorry.” Kay patted her friend’s arm. “I’m trying to unify, not hurt your feelings.”
Mellie closed her eyes. “My feelings aren’t hurt. It’s just . . . oh dear. Vera will never trust me, not with what I know about . . .”
“What you know?”
If Mellie weren’t careful, she’d chew off all her lipstick. “I can’t say. I gave her my word and I’ll keep it.”
Kay puffed her cheeks full of air. Swell. A secret on top of everything else.
8
Dinjan, India
April 15, 1944
Roger tipped up his face. If only the warm rain could wash away his fatigue. Finally an afternoon off after flying two or three flights every day, with only one short break when they transferred to Dinjan Airfield in Upper Assam.
His squadron was in the process of transporting the 7th Indian Division from the Arakan in southern Burma up to reinforce Imphal in India, where the Japanese had besieged the vital British base.
Roger headed past Headquarters toward his basha, the thatch-roofed structure he shared with a dozen officers from his squadron.
“Lieutenant Cooper!” Veerman leaned out the door of the Headquarters building. “May I have a word with you?”
“Yes, sir.” He tensed, changed course, and slipped on his shirt. Why was it when people wanted a word, it was always negative? And why did they say “a word” when they meant many?
Veerman led him inside to his office. Rain slanted through the open window and left a dark wet triangle on the raw wooden floor.
Roger stood at attention in front of the desk. How many times had he gotten chewed out standing in front of desks? At least Veerman didn’t use a paddle like his grade school principal.
Veerman sat and spread out papers. “I’ve been going over last week’s paperwork. Yours is sorely lacking.”
“I know, sir. We only have fifteen minutes on the ground between flights to refuel and load.”
“The other pilots manage.”
Of course they did. The other pilots also wrote symphonies, climbed the Himalayas, and fed all the starving children in India in fifteen minutes. Roger barely managed to hit the latrines and do his basic load adjustment calculations. “I’ve got the essentials on the forms.”
“It’s all essential.” Veerman held up a Form F. “You need to copy the weight and moment figures from Form C and the load weights from Form 1.”
“I just keep C and 1 in front of me. Saves time.”
“But we need those figures for record keeping. You know that.”
Roger sighed. Back in Sicily, Bill Shelby used to fill out Roger’s forms. He liked that kind of stuff. But Roger hated to dump it on Elroy with the crazy hours they pulled.
Veerman cleared his throat. “I see your final center of gravity figures but no intermediate numbers.”
“I do it in my head.”
The squadron commander’s light eyes grew large. “You do it in your head?”
“I use the load calculator, of course. But everything else I do in my head. I like math.” As a child, before he wised up, he wanted to teach math.
The corners of Veerman’s mouth turned up a bit. “What’s the first rule you learn in math? Show your work.”
“I’m not fond of that rule.”
“I bet you aren’t. But this is the Army, and you have to do things the Army way. We need every form filled out completely—and neatly, by the way.”
Taking a swipe at his handwriting now, was he? Roger didn’t blame him.
“And I’ve had it up to here with this childish feud between you and Lieutenant Klein. The man comes in here every day complaining about something you did or said.”
Roger gave him half a grin. “Aren’t you thankful I don’t come in here whining about everything he does and says?”
Was that a tic in Veerman’s eyelid? “This morning he said you sewed a big pink bow on his service cap.”
If Klein insisted on gossiping like a teenage girl, he might as well look like one. Roger kept a neutral face. “Where would I get a pink ribbon? I don’t have a girlfriend.” Good thing Shelby’s wife sent him embarrassingly romantic gifts.
“This isn’t high school. This is war.” His voice deepened to a rumble. “At least you’ve been on time lately. I appreciate that.”
“Thank you, sir.” All thanks to Kay’s alarm clock. His basha-mates hid the clock every night, so by the time Roger found the blaring thing, he was too awake and annoyed to go back to sleep.
“I need you to fill out your paperwork, knock off these pranks, and be more disciplined.” He gestured toward Roger’s shirt. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you walking around bare chested. I don’t care how hot it is. Uniforms aren’t optional.”
“Yes, sir.” He contained his sigh. As rigid as Dad was, at least he let Roger take off his shirt in the fields on hot days.
Veerman leaned his elbows on his desk. “I know you can do better, Cooper. You’re a bright young fellow. Don’t waste your talents.”
The man could join the long line of family and teachers who lamented his wasted talents. “I’ll try to do better, sir.”
“Thank you. Dismissed.”
Roger headed outside, over the damp airfield, and into his basha. He’d planned to hit the sack and take a nap, but now his hands yearned for his drumsticks. He pulled his tom-tom from his barracks bag and his drumsticks from the canvas aviator’s kit bag he’d carried on today’s flights.
He passed his snoring basha-mates, resisted the prime prank-pulling opportunity, and went out to the half-shelter he’d rigged under a palm tree for drumming.
Roger sat cross-legged with his tom-tom before him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds of the birds and insects, the breeze through the palms, the rhythm of the land. Then he joined in, softly at first, finding the tune in his head.
Frustration messed up the beat. How could he turn into a by-the-book pilot? Even now, right after promising Veerman he’d try harder, he was drumming instead of filling out today’s forms more completely.
Yeah, he’d never amount to anything. He’d never earn a recommendation to Hank Veerman’s band. He’d play with rinky-dink bands and wash out by the age of forty. Then he’d be back on the farm, begging for mercy, and he’d be sentenced to a lifetime of I-told-you-so.
He thumped the drum hard. Lord, how can I bear it?
“Hallo, Raji.”
Roger opened his eyes. Two boys stood before him, Asad and Kavi. They’d turned his name into a good Indian name, and that meant the world to him. “Hi, guys. Join me?”
“Yes, please, Raji.” Asad squatted beside him. The seven-year-old liked to watch Roger play. The boys spoke excellent English, thanks to the Brits, and seemed to be from a higher class in society.
“I am ready.” Kavi had brought his child-sized dhol, a two-headed Indian drum. The nine-year-old wore it slung over his shoulder on a strap and played it with two sticks, one for each end. He had to stand to play it, but the palm tree would keep him dry.
“All right, Kavi. Gi
ve me a beat.”
The boy grinned and pounded the bass end of the drum, nice and quick. Roger joined in, mixing it up, enjoying the interaction with the young drummer. The kid was good, had a natural sense of rhythm, and swayed to the beat.
Wouldn’t it be swell to work with children for a living?
His childhood fantasy popped back into his head—standing in front of a class, bringing math to life, students leaning forward with eyes as bright as Asad’s and Kavi’s.
A stupid fantasy. Teaching required more than a love of children, a love of math, and an ability to make dull things interesting and difficult things comprehensible. Teaching required following rules and routines, doing paperwork. Being reliable.
He wouldn’t even have become a pilot if it weren’t for Lou Davis. Lou’s ridiculously wealthy parents kept funneling money to their prodigal trombone-playing son. To keep busy when the band wasn’t practicing, Lou took classes at the University of Chicago, dragging Roger along for company, paying his way. Somehow Roger built up more than two years of classes, the minimum required by the Army Air Forces for pilot training.
Roger hadn’t even chosen a major.
At least he could drum. Drummers didn’t have to be responsible.
Asad patted his head, and Roger rewarded him with a cymbal tap on the noggin.
How ironic that impressing Hank Veerman’s brother required responsibility.
9
Pomigliano Airfield
April 30, 1944
“He lied to me!”
Kay stared at the open Bible, at the final chapters of Job. Rage shook the words into a blur as gray as the dress Father made her wear at the tent meetings.
She stood, shoved the Bible inside her bedroll on her cot, and ran her hands into her hair.
Sunday morning and all her roommates had gone to church services, because they were good enough to show their faces before the Lord.
Not Kay.
She pressed her palms hard against her forehead.
Father and Mother and Jemima and Keren, all in white, all pure blond, up on the stage singing with angelic voices. Dirty Kezia in gray with her red hair tied in a stark braid, collecting the offering. Father always told the audience his middle daughter was resting her voice, recovering from laryngitis.
“Liar.” Why did it surprise her that he lied about God when he lied about everything else? He even lied when he said, “‘My lips shall not speak wickedness, nor my tongue utter deceit.’”
Kay turned in circles, everything swirling around her—deception, betrayal, self-pity, fury, humiliation, grief.
Who was this God? If he wasn’t who Father said he was, who was he?
She groaned and flung down her hands. Enough of this nonsense. She needed to take action.
A plan formed a solid rock in her chest. She wiggled out of her trousers and into her skirt. Since she couldn’t scream at her father, she’d scream at the chaplain in his place. Oh, she’d be discreet. She’d sit in the back corner at the service, wait for everyone to leave, then unleash the barking hound inside her.
She marched out into the clear cool air. Dizzy and disoriented, she paused. Where did the church meet anyway? The theater building, wasn’t it?
A good girl would know that. She headed down the road. If her father had told her the truth, she might have been good, might have been redeemed before it was too late.
A horn beeped behind her, and she jumped.
“Hiya, baby.” Hal Heathcock waved to her from the driver’s seat of a jeep. “I was looking for you.”
Kay breathed hard and smoothed her hair. Did she look as bad as she felt? “Hi, Hal.”
He tipped his cap. “How about a picnic on the beach?”
“I was . . .” She glanced toward the theater building. She was . . . what? Going to church to yell at the chaplain? They’d pack her off to the neuropsychiatric ward.
“Ah, what could be more important than a relaxing day at the beach?” He draped his arm over the dashboard and sent her his handsome smile.
What would be relaxing about fending him off all day? “I’d—”
“Please, baby?” He batted his blue eyes like an abandoned puppy. “Don’t make me be the third wheel.”
A couple sat in the jeep’s backseat, another American officer with a beautiful Italian woman.
Kay never drove alone with a date and always met her boyfriends in public places. If another couple was present, men generally behaved themselves.
But it was Sunday. She never dated on Sundays, an old fear that God might deem that the final fatal sin.
“Come on.” Hal patted the seat. “I know you’re a fun-loving gal.”
She had no use for silly superstitions. A defiant smile rose. “I am.”
What would the chaplain tell her anyway? He’d tell her more lies. He’d condemn her evil ways. And he certainly wouldn’t answer her questions.
What if someone did? What if Roger Cooper wrote her a letter that told her everything she wanted to know? Would she surrender control to this God?
Never.
Kay climbed into the jeep, sidled up to Hal, and kissed him on the cheek. “To the beach. I need some fun.”
“Now we’re talking, baby.” He turned the jeep and headed down the road toward Naples.
Kay unpinned her cap, tore off her necktie, and flirted recklessly with Hal.
Controlling men was her revenge against her father, breaking his control over her, infuriating him, embracing the badness inside her. What did it matter? Her father rejected her, the Lord rejected her, but men accepted her.
Kay took off Hal’s cap and played with his smooth blond hair. He talked about something or other, and she smiled and laughed and tossed her hair in the wind.
Hal thought he was in charge, but he wasn’t. His interest grew, glinted in his eyes, and careened over the ledge into infatuation. Now she had complete and utter control. He’d do whatever she wanted, and he’d behave, trying to earn what she’d never give him.
“Here we are.” The officer in the backseat leaned forward and patted Hal’s shoulder. “Stop at the corner. Thanks for the lift.”
“Any time, buddy.” Hal stopped the jeep.
Kay spun around. Her hands lifted and opened, and everything she held slipped away. They were leaving? They were leaving her alone with Hal?
“Where are you . . . ?” The words creaked in her throat. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
The officer—what was his name?—gave her half a grin and helped his girlfriend out of the jeep. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Hal laughed and jerked the gearshift into first. “That wouldn’t be fun for either of us. Bob’s got a private hideaway in town.”
The couple strolled up a cross street, glued to each other’s sides. Bob looked over his shoulder. “See you at six.”
“Six.” Hal waved and drove down the street.
Kay struggled to gather her breath, her bearings. Where were they? Some village, creamy-plastered houses crowded together around a narrow road, like every other village she’d seen. How long had they been on the road? Half an hour? An hour? “Where are we?”
“Almost there, baby. You’ll love it.” One broad hand guided the steering wheel, and the other snaked around her shoulder.
The beach. She blew off her anxiety. What was she worried about? A nice big beach teeming with people. Romantic enough for Hal and public enough for Kay.
Not far past the village, Hal turned onto a road paralleling the rocky coast. He slowed down, scanning the roadside. “Yeah, here we are.” He pulled over and parked.
A gray, slimy feeling oozed around Kay’s stomach. She gazed over the jumble of rocks down to the sea. “I don’t see a beach.”
“You have to climb down the rocks to get there.” Hal got out of the jeep and grabbed blankets and a basket from the backseat. “Should have warned you to wear better shoes.”
The perfect excuse. “I can’t get down there in these high heels.”
“Take them off.”
“I’ll rip my stockings.”
“Take them off.” He set down the basket, covered his eyes, and turned around. “I promise I won’t watch.”
Hmm. A sign of chivalry. “Break that promise and you’re taking me home.”
“Absolutely.”
With her eyes trained on the back of his head, Kay reached under her skirt and unsnapped her stockings from her garter belt.
“Mm.” Hal’s head sagged back. “Sweetest sound in the world.”
“If you turn around, it’ll be the last sound you ever hear.” Kay rolled a stocking down her leg.
“I like girls with spirit.”
And Kay liked fellows who knew better than to mess with girls with spirit. After she stuffed her stockings in her shoes and set them on the seat of the jeep, she stepped out onto the prickly, chilly asphalt. “Lead on.”
He inched forward, hand still pressed over his eyes. “Sorry. You’ll have to lead.”
She laughed. “You can look now.”
“May I? Thank you.” He eyed her from head to bare toes. A smile crept up, and he shook his head. “Mm. Beautiful.”
She waved him forward and grabbed the picnic basket. Hal headed down the rocks, assisting Kay in spots. Her gaze never strayed from the path. The last thing she needed was to fall and end up in the hospital for a few weeks.
Hal held out his hand and helped her leap down to the sand.
Kay drew a deep salty breath and gazed around. Her breath corroded her throat. They were alone in a grotto about a hundred feet square, hemmed in by rocky cliffs on three sides and the sea on the fourth.
“Isn’t this swell?” Hal spread out the blankets on the sand close to the rocks. “Not a soul in sight. I like to come at high tide. At low tide it opens up, loses its appeal. Nice place to swim when it’s warm.”
The inside of her mouth felt sticky and grainy. Nonsense. Hal might have wandering hands but he wasn’t dangerous. She could fend him off.
“Well?” He gave her a puzzled smile. “Bring the basket. I’m hungry.”
A wave of relief relaxed her, and she joined him. She could stretch out the picnic for an hour or so, then coax him into a scenic walk down the coast road—in full sight of everyone.