In Perfect Time

by Sarah Sundin

  Dear Lord, I broke her heart.

  “What’d you do to her, Cooper?”

  “None of your business.” Roger headed back toward his table, where his friends stared at him.

  “Where do you think you’re going? I’m not through with you.” Klein spoke too loud, his voice slurred. Must have brought his own booze.

  All around, people hushed.

  Roger’s arms turned to iron, and his fists balled up. So Klein wanted a fight. Fine with him. “Let’s take it outside.”

  He strode out of the hall, Klein on his heels. The door banged shut behind him. In the rain, in the cold night air, Roger spun to face his foe. “What’s your prob—”

  Pain zinged through his jaw. He doubled over, clutching his chin. “What—”

  Klein stood with his fist still high, his body open and undefended.

  Roger ducked in, pummeled him in the gut with a series of rabbit punches.

  A fist slammed down on Roger’s back, ineffective, and Roger landed an uppercut square in that pretty-boy chin.

  Klein reeled back, crumpled to the ground, and curled up in a ball.

  What a coward. Roger stood over him, chest heaving, jaw throbbing. “You through with me now?”

  The pilot eased himself up on one elbow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She doesn’t want you, you know that? She spit you out, just like she did to me.”

  Roger’s chest contracted. She only spat him out because he’d crushed her, but why humiliate her in front of Klein? “Girl’s smart. What can I say?”

  He moaned and wrapped his arm around his belly. The man was going to retch.

  “Go sleep it off.” Roger lumbered away toward quarters. He moved his aching jaw side to side. Nothing broken, but he’d have a honey of a bruise in the morning.

  Served him right for hurting Kay.

  He stumbled on the dark path, but truth eased his pain. Better she have a moment of heartbreak now than a lifetime of heartache as his wife.

  29

  Istres/Le Tubé Airfield

  November 15, 1944

  One more day and she’d never have to see Roger Cooper again.

  One long day.

  Kay carried her barracks bag across the runway toward the C-47. Why did they assign her to his flight for the return to Rome? Why couldn’t they have put her on one of the other two planes?

  Roger stood by the nose of the C-47 with Mike Elroy, both frowning and pointing east.

  Her heart seized with a fresh burst of anger, grief, and humiliation. She positioned herself behind Louise and beside Georgie, so Roger couldn’t see her. Not that he’d look her direction anyway.

  A blast of chilly wind gave her an excuse to hunker down into her overcoat. Colder than the pilot’s heart.

  Sergeant Whitaker stood at the cargo door and took Kay’s barracks bag to be stashed in the back, and Kay sat along the right side of the fuselage with the six nurses of her flight. Squadron equipment was lashed in place in the rear of the cabin.

  “Are you okay, Mellie?” Sitting next to the bulkhead, Louise Cox leaned forward to talk around Kay.

  “I am.” Only a touch of melancholy dimmed her newlywed glow. “But I wish they’d transferred our squadron from the MTO to the ETO like they did the hospitals and Tom’s engineer battalion.”

  Georgie patted Mellie’s arm. “First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll ask Lambert for a transfer to one of the squadrons based in England.”

  Kay’s two closest friends would leave Italy too. All the more reason to beg for an appointment to the chief nurse school.

  Vera’s and Alice’s laughter floated down from the cargo door, and they took seats beside Georgie.

  Kay’s stomach turned at the sight of her former friend. Tomorrow she’d turn in Vera and Maxwell. This was more than a one-time indiscretion and couldn’t be overlooked.

  Lambert would have to credit her for doing the right and difficult thing. Kay would sacrifice a longtime friendship, all pretense of unity, and the hope that unity would earn her a recommendation. But perhaps the road to Kay’s goal ran through disunity.

  Masculine voices rose from the rear of the plane, and Kay’s stomach turned in the other direction. She gazed down at her seat belt and fastened it, unfastened, fastened, unfastened until heavy footsteps passed her into the cockpit.

  He didn’t even say hello.

  Her throat swelled shut. Would she ever get used to the loss of his friendship?

  A light touch to her arm. Mellie gave her a compassionate smile, echoed by Georgie.

  Kay sniffed and pulled the collar of her overcoat higher. How dare Roger make her the object of pity?

  One engine sputtered and roared, and the plane vibrated.

  Kay hugged herself, glad the cold excused her behavior. What was wrong with her? She could still feel that man’s embrace. She was an expert at interpreting men’s messages, and Roger had sent them loud and clear. He’d held her so close, so intimately, his hand stroking her back. And he’d worn the look of a man enraptured. The heat of it! For one moment, she thought—hoped—he’d throw propriety aside and kiss her right there on the dance floor.

  Kay no longer doubted he found her attractive and desirable.

  Hot moisture trickled down her cheek, and she swatted it away before her friends could notice. Roger desired her, but he didn’t want her.

  The second engine added to the din, and Kay gripped the gray-green wool of her coat. Why on earth had she flirted with him? Why had she played with his hair? She’d titrated the dose too high, too fast.

  And now he thought she was still a floozy.

  Her face convulsed, and she mashed her lips together to stifle a sob. He’d told her, “I’m not the right man for you.”

  Deep inside, he didn’t believe she’d changed. And deep inside, Kay knew she’d never be good enough.

  Winds buffeted the plane, and the instruments hopped all over the place.

  Roger fought the control wheel. He never should have flown today.

  Army Air Force Weather Wing assured the three pilots they’d have smooth flying from Istres to Ciampino, but he should have listened to Mike and to his own instincts. For weeks, the French mistral wind had blown steadily from the north, but today’s weather didn’t feel right.

  Sure enough, they hadn’t even reached Toulon when they’d encountered a thunderstorm. They’d cut northeast to avoid it and followed the curve of the Riviera until fog obscured all landmarks.

  Roger missed his gum, but with the huge shiner on his jaw, chewing hurt too much. “Pettas, any closer to getting coordinates?”

  Cuss words greeted him. “How can I? No radio nav aids, can’t see the ground, and wind speed, airspeed, and direction keep changing. Can’t keep track.”

  A pocket of turbulence bumped the plane, and Roger struggled with the controls. The planes had climbed to nine thousand feet, as high as they could go without needing oxygen. C-47s only carried a handful of walk-around oxygen bottles for emergency use.

  Sandwiched between the murk below and the murk above, Roger searched for his companion planes. They’d put distance between them to avoid collision in the turbulence, but now they’d gotten separated. Since they were over enemy territory, he couldn’t use the radio to locate them.

  “What should we do, Coop?” A furrow creased Elroy’s forehead, making him look his age for once.

  “Head east as best we can, pray the weather’s better on the far side of the Apennines. If we can find Italy’s east coast, we can follow that down to friendly territory, find an RAF field to land on.”

  “Should we turn around?”

  “If I knew where we were, sure. But if I turned around now, we could end up in Berlin. Besides, we’re probably about halfway there.”

  Elroy sighed his understanding. “Least our fuel looks good.”

  For now. This northerly jaunt added at least two hundred miles to his route. Any engine trouble and he was sunk.

  Only two weeks
had passed since another plane from his squadron had crashed, killing all aboard. What had that pilot experienced before he crashed?

  Roger drew in a deep breath. He couldn’t afford to fail today, not with six nurses in the back of his plane, including the woman he loved.

  The woman who hated him with a passion.

  In his stomach, the turbulence duplicated the weather outside. No matter how many times he reminded himself he’d acted in her best interest, he couldn’t shake the guilt. He’d hurt her horribly. And he hurt just as bad.

  The plane jolted. Kay bumped Mellie’s shoulder and apologized again.

  Georgie and Alice looked pale, and Louise chewed on her lips, but Kay didn’t worry. Roger Cooper might be a jerk, but he was an excellent pilot.

  And she’d never have to fly with him again.

  Tomorrow morning she’d talk to Lambert, and if Lambert wouldn’t recommend her for the program, Kay would go straight to Major Guilford and beg him.

  The war was bogged down on all fronts in Europe for the winter, and it plodded along in the Pacific. Kay still had time to train as a chief. After the war, many nurses would marry and start families, so Kay would be in a good position to gain a chief nurse job in a hospital.

  She could buy a home.

  The plane dropped. The seat belt cut into Kay’s lap, and a couple of the girls gasped.

  Thank goodness none of them had tendencies toward airsickness.

  Kay closed her eyes to take her mind off the jostling plane and its pilot, and to focus on her only remaining dream.

  Her own house. She didn’t need much—a sweet one-bedroom bungalow with a kitchen and living room and indoor bathroom. After she’d come home from work, she’d cross a neat green lawn and climb three steps onto a porch, where she’d set up a wicker table and chair for summer evenings. She’d open her very own front door and walk across the wooden floor.

  Her heels would tap out a beat, ka-thump, ka-thump, “I’m home, I’m home.”

  But no one would hear. No one would receive the message.

  A sob filled her throat, and she scrunched her eyes shut.

  The lack of fog was a mixed blessing. Roger’s crew could see the ground, but the Germans on the ground could see the plane.

  Yellow tracer fire zipped up to his right, and he eased the plane to the left.

  A pocket of turbulence knocked him into Elroy’s shoulder. “Pettas, anything?”

  “What do you expect? Mountains everywhere. Never flown up here before. Can’t find any landmarks.”

  Roger grimaced. The Italian boot was about two hundred miles across, almost two hours at the slower speed he had to fly in turbulence. What if the Luftwaffe sent up fighters? What was his chance of downing a second enemy plane?

  Cracks rang out, and the right wing jerked up. Smoke peeled from the engine.

  “We’re hit!” Elroy cried.

  Orange flames licked out. “Have to put it out. Open cowl flaps.”

  Mike turned the dial to the right of his seat. “Cowl flaps open.”

  “Fuel and oil shut off.” Roger flipped off the right fuel selector valve and shoved the mixture control valve and the throttle.

  Elroy gazed out the window. Once the propeller stopped turning, he pushed a button on the overhead electrical panel. “Prop feathered.”

  “Ignition off.” Roger reached down to the floor and activated the engine fire extinguisher. Never had to use it before.

  A sick feeling filled his belly. He’d never have to use it again either. He’d never make it to Allied territory. He’d never fly again.

  While he trimmed the plane for single-engine flight, he weighed his options. The turbulence and the longer route had gobbled up fuel, and flying on only one engine would burn through what little remained. He had no idea where he was, but friendly territory lay at least 150 miles away.

  “Coop?” Elroy’s voice sounded small. “We have to land behind enemy lines, don’t we?”

  “Yeah.” The finality of that word socked him harder than Klein had. Putting down in the northern Apennines? He’d need a miracle to find a field long enough and flat enough.

  With a giant sigh, he pushed the control column forward to decrease altitude. “Look for a field. I’ll head east and pray we hit the Po Valley, but right now I’ll take anything.”

  “Coop?” Whitaker stood in the doorway to the cockpit, face drawn. “Did I hear right?”

  “Yeah.” His heart sank faster than the plane. “You’d better . . . prepare the ladies for an emergency landing.”

  “At least we know procedures.”

  “Yeah.” Another sock to the jaw. They knew procedures from experience. Pettas and Whitaker had been with him in March when he ditched in the Mediterranean. Georgie had been there too.

  Lt. Roger Cooper was about to lose his third plane. Number one when Grant Klein crashed into his parked plane and killed Clint Peters and Rose Danilovich. Number two when Vesuvius knocked out an engine. And now number three.

  How many would survive today? Would any of them? At best they’d be guests of the Germans for the duration of the war.

  Not only had he failed Kay and broken her heart, but now he might kill her. I’m so sorry, Kay.

  Pettas leaned in the door. “I sent a position report as best I could. Whit’s got the doors open, everything lashed down. Any papers you need destroyed?”

  “Yes.” Elroy passed back flight plans.

  Roger checked his instruments. Down to one thousand feet. Now to find a field.

  He scanned the landscape. What was that? He squinted at a pale green patch ahead and to the right. “Elroy? See that? Let’s check it out.”

  “Looks promising.”

  The plane wanted to turn right, so Roger let it. The closer he got, the better it looked. He could only afford to circle the field once. On the ground, the Germans would take them prisoner, but in the air, they were a big fat target.

  He pulled alongside the field. Though open and smooth and long, it lay on a slope. He’d have to land heading uphill. “Oh boy.”

  “Don’t think we can find better than this.”

  “I agree. Gear down.”

  Elroy turned the lever, and Roger set the latch. While flying the landing pattern, they increased rpm, made a power reduction, and lowered the flaps.

  “Airspeed one hundred. It looks good, Coop. I think it’ll work.”

  “It’d better.” Ten lives depended on it. Roger turned into the approach, eyeing the field.

  Sweat trickled down his temples. Lord, help me. Don’t let me kill these people.

  The field rushed up to him, trees along either side and at the far end. “Get ready to cut the engine. And . . . now!” Roger pulled the control column toward his chest to get the nose up.

  Elroy flipped levers and switches at lightning speed.

  The wheels settled down. Roger pressed the brakes with his toes, maneuvered the rudder with his heels, jammed the column all the way to his chest.

  The plane bumped and rolled and banged Roger around.

  Elroy cried out and slumped to the right.

  Roger’s head cracked on the side panel, and pain shot through his skull.

  How many people had survived?

  30

  Kay hunched over, her hands grasped under her thighs. Her chin banged her knees, she bounced between Mellie and Louise, and the floor of the plane blurred. When would it stop?

  Vera screamed, then Alice.

  Stop, stop, stop. Make it stop.

  A final shiver, then stillness.

  She was alive! Kay straightened up and pushed back her hair. “Everyone okay?”

  “Yes,” said Mellie, echoed by Georgie.

  “Vera’s hurt,” Alice cried. “A crate got loose, slashed her leg.”

  “Help her out. Everyone out.” Kay fumbled with her seat belt.

  Footsteps thumped from the cockpit. Roger burst through the door and stopped, gripping the doorjamb. His gaze swept the nurses, then l
anded on Kay. A sigh collapsed his chest, as if he were actually glad to see her. “Thank God.”

  For one moment, Kay’s heart cried out that he cared, that he loved her. But reason silenced that voice.

  A trickle of blood ran down his temple, and a giant yellowish-green bruise covered one side of his jaw. How had he developed a bruise so quickly? And why was he still looking at her, mouth slack, forehead creased?

  Vera screamed but clamped off her cry.

  Roger blinked and snapped his gaze to Vera. “You hurt? We gotta get off now. We put out the engine fire, but I still don’t trust it.”

  “Vera’s hurt.” Kay glanced to her right.

  Louise slouched against the bulkhead, light brown hair sheeted over her face. The blanket she’d placed between her head and the wall had slipped down.

  “Louise!” Kay shook her friend, pressed two fingers to the carotid.

  Roger stepped closer. “Is she . . . ?”

  “She’s alive. Unconscious. Must have hit her head.”

  “Thank goodness. Everyone off the plane. We’ll be POWs, so take your coat, hat, gloves, anything warm you can carry.”

  Prisoners of war. A cold shiver ran through her. She’d trained for this but never seriously considered it. Kay stood on wobbly legs. She looped her musette bag over her head, added Louise’s bag, and unhooked Louise’s seat belt. “I’ll take her feet. You get her shoulders.”

  “No. I’ve got her. Get off the plane.” Roger slung Louise over his shoulder and headed down the aisle.

  Sergeant Whitaker beckoned at the cargo door. “Everyone out.”

  Alice helped Vera down the aisle, and Mellie and Georgie followed. What about Sergeant Pettas? Mike Elroy? Where were they?

  Kay dashed into the radio room. Pettas sat at his desk, burning papers with a lighter. In the cockpit, Mike sat slumped against the window, eyes wide, one hand pressed to his chest.

  “Mike! You all right?”

  “Got the . . . wind knocked . . . out.”

  Kay grabbed his hands and raised them over his head as high as the ceiling allowed. “Take slow deep breaths. Be calm.”