by Sarah Sundin
Directly behind him, Kay did not sing. He smiled at her. “Not singing?”
She laughed. “Of course not.”
He knew why, thanks to one of their late-night talks. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“That’s not the point. Pettas is off-key, and no one cares. I just don’t want to. Every time I try, too many memories come back. I’d rather focus on who I am now, on my heavenly Father rather than my earthly one.”
Nothing remained of the brassy glamour girl. Her nose was red, she wore no makeup, she’d lost too much weight, and a greasy strand of hair poked from under the kerchief and scarf and hood. She’d never looked more beautiful to him.
Roger returned his attention to the path so he wouldn’t trip and make a fool of himself.
In front of him, Enrico pointed. “There it is. I see Marco and Captain Anselmo.”
Excitement surged inside, and Roger charged forward, grasped Anselmo’s hand, and pumped it. “You made it. Are we really pulling this off?”
“Looks good so far. The partisans have secured the area, and lookouts are stationed around the perimeter. Now we wait. The plane’s supposed to arrive at 0805, right after sunrise.”
Roger could barely see his watch in the dim light—0748. No time to spare.
“How’s everyone?” Anselmo peered around to the group. “I heard one of the girls broke her arm.”
“Yeah. Alice did, and they think she’ll need surgery. It doesn’t look right. And Louise gets weaker every day. We need to get them out of here.”
Anselmo scratched his dark mustache. “Here’s the plan. The field lies east to west. We have colored panels laid out on the snow in a straight line to signal the plane. The pilot will approach from the east along the north side of the field. If all is clear when he comes in sight, I’ll lay out the final panels to complete the T pattern. When the pilot receives the signal, he’ll circle the field and land from the east. You’ll meet him at the southwest corner. Then he turns, takes off, and hightails it out of here.”
“We should get in position.”
“I agree. Speed is vital.”
The group headed to the rendezvous point in high spirits. Roger had to shush them when “Joy to the World” got too joyful, but he couldn’t stop grinning. He’d done it. He’d helped get them out of this mess.
The more he thought about it, the less he blamed himself for the crash landing. He would have flown that day, regardless. No one had ordered him. The other two pilots flew, and they’d arrived safely in Rome, according to Anselmo. Every decision he’d made had been the right decision based on the information he had. And he’d made a solid landing. Everyone survived.
Now he’d helped lead them out. He was sure to earn a recommendation for the Hank Veerman band.
They turned along the southern edge of the field, behind the trees. A glow rose from the east and spilled golden light on the snow. Anselmo motioned for them to stop, and the group clumped together, softly singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
Kay met his eyes and winked at him.
He winked back, but his heart seized. Soon he’d have to say good-bye to her forever. How could he do that? Over the past six weeks, Kay had become . . . well, almost as if she were the other side of his brain. They worked well together, perfect partners.
Like husband and wife.
Roger spun away and gripped a tree trunk for balance. He couldn’t allow himself to think that way. Marriage required more than love, more than partnership. Kay needed a home and stability, and he couldn’t give it to her. Besides, he’d promised Mike he’d back off and give him a chance with Kay. He’d keep his word.
“Listen,” Mike said.
The group hushed, and Roger strained his ears. Sure enough, engines throbbed to the northeast. But was it the rescue party, enemy aircraft, or something else?
He listened harder, and the rhythm spoke to him, a rhythm he knew well. “That’s a C-47.”
“Something else too.” Whitaker narrowed his eyes.
“They sent an escort,” Anselmo said.
An escort? Fighter planes? Roger thumped Anselmo on the back and laughed. “Best Christmas present ever. Thanks, Santa.”
The OSS man tipped half a smile. “It isn’t over yet.”
Roger wanted to grab the orange cloth under the man’s arm and spread it out himself.
Something rustled in the brush to the east. A partisan jogged toward them, gesturing wildly. He and Anselmo conferred in Italian, in strident tones.
“What’s going on?” Roger asked.
Anselmo’s lips set in a hard line. “Two members of the Brigate Nere stopped one of the lookouts. They’re not buying the partisan’s story. They sent out a radio message. A German patrol’s coming.”
Roger’s breath rushed out. “We have to move fast.”
“No. We have to call it off.”
“What? But—”
“No.” Anselmo crossed his arms and fixed a firm gaze on Roger. “If you were flying a C-47, making a drop behind enemy lines, and you failed to get a signal, what would you do?”
“I wouldn’t make the drop.”
“Why not?”
He groaned and looked away to the fresh layer of snow that wouldn’t be marred by airplane tires, to the orange I that wouldn’t become a T. “Because if I did, I’d alert the Nazis to the partisans’ position. A lot of people could die.”
“People like Enrico.”
Roger’s eyelids flopped shut. He couldn’t let anything happen to that kid.
“It’s my decision anyway. I outrank you.” Anselmo clapped his hand on Roger’s shoulder, then addressed the rest of the group. “I’m sorry, but we have to call off the mission. The Brigate Nere called in a German patrol. We can’t endanger the partisans.”
Some of the ladies gasped. Pettas and Whitaker cussed.
Roger ached inside. If only he could do something, anything to restore the hope and joy they’d just lost.
The engine sounds grew louder, and the plane came in sight. The familiar lines of the C-47 screamed home and comfort and a good meal and a soft bed. He wanted to reach up and pluck the plane from the sky, force it to whisk these people to safety, all of them, the partisans too. He’d pile them all in.
“Look,” Mellie said in a low, sad voice. “They sent P-47 Thunderbolts.”
Georgie leaned her head on Mellie’s shoulder. “They really wanted to help us.”
And they couldn’t. Roger punched a tree, grimaced, and shook out the pain in his hand. How much longer until they could arrange another rescue attempt? They’d have to start from scratch. And now they’d have to go on the run again with the sick and injured and weak.
The group stood in silence and watched the planes fly by, east to west, toward the Mediterranean, toward Naples. Without them.
Tears glistened on the ladies’ cheeks. All but Kay. She put her arms around Alice and Vera and murmured soothing words.
Roger stepped forward. “I’m so sorry, ladies.”
Vera gave him a calm gaze. “Don’t be. These people have endangered themselves enough already.”
They’d be endangering themselves again. The Americans needed to find someplace to hide for the day.
Roger stared at the sunlight, bright on the snow. He’d been looking forward to becoming a daylight creature again. “Where can we go?”
“We have a spot about a mile to the west.” Anselmo motioned for Marco to run onto the field and gather the orange panels. “We need to move fast.”
After Enrico helped Louise back on the mule, everyone shouldered their bags. A few sniffles, a gulped sob, and they followed Anselmo two by two, shoulder to shoulder.
It was Christmas Day.
Roger gazed up to the bright sky. Almost two thousand years earlier, a weary twosome had bedded down in a filthy stable, no room in the inn. “Guess you know how we feel, Lord.”
37
December 31, 1944
In the corner of the dank cellar, Vera pul
led her blanket around her shoulders. “This is the worst New Year’s Eve ever.”
Kay leaned against the cold brick wall. The last rays of sunlight slanted through narrow windows close to the ceiling. Roger sat cross-legged on a stack of crates by the far window, keeping watch on the village street outside, his back to the ladies, drumming on his knees.
To think, a year ago she and Grant Klein danced the night away at the Orange Club in Naples. She’d worn her long grassy green gown, her hair curled and rolled and pinned just right, her face powdered and rouged, her lips painted red.
Now she sat in a damp cellar, where little rat feet scurried among the boxes and crates. She wore a stinking uniform with ragged trouser hems and holes in the knees. Her stomach cramped with hunger and dysentery. Yet she was happier than she’d been on the dance floor.
Forgiveness from God, friendship with these ladies and with Roger, and even the growing experience of the evasion—all gave her a sense of peace and rightness.
Still, the glum mood in the cellar needed to be vanquished. Low spirits made for slow feet, and they had twelve miles to cover tonight. Once again they moved every night, not only to throw off the enemy but to reduce the burden on the villages where they stayed.
Kay sat up straighter and draped her blanket over her knees. “All right, 1945 will be here in a few hours. Let’s fantasize. Where do you think you’ll be a year from now? The war will be over, I’m sure of it, at least in Europe. Who wants to go first?”
“I’ll play.” Georgie tucked a well-worn novel into her musette bag. “I’ll return to Virginia, where they’ll throw a parade in my honor in Charlottesville. And Hutch will commit some stupendous act of heroism and be promoted to a general, and we’ll get married. He’ll open a pharmacy in Charlottesville, and we’ll buy a house outside town with plenty of land for my horse Hammie, and we’ll adopt Hutch’s little friend Lucia from the orphanage in Naples.”
Kay grinned. “That’s quite a year.”
“Best ever. How about you, Mellie?”
She leaned her head back against the wall and gazed at the ceiling. “The Americans will liberate my papa from Santo Tomas, and he’ll come home. He’ll love Tom, I know it. Tom will get an engineering job and build bridges all over the world. He’ll have plenty of work in Europe with the war damage. And maybe . . . well, we’d like to start a family.”
Mellie’s embarrassed little smile made everyone laugh.
“Your turn, Louise.” Mellie nudged her friend.
Louise lay on the floor, covered with several blankets. “I just want to—I want to get better.”
“You will,” Georgie said. “And then?”
“Then I want to go home to Colorado, to the ranch. Maybe I can talk Rudy into giving up the big city for the country. I sure hope so. I miss him.”
“Well, I don’t miss Gordon.” Alice adjusted the gauze that bound the splint to her swollen, crooked arm. “I’m tired of how he plays around with anyone in a skirt. I’m breaking up with him first thing. Then I’m done with nursing. I’m going to study art. That’s what I love.”
Kay smiled. “Good for you.”
“How about you, Vera?” Georgie leaned forward. “Are you going to marry this mysterious nameless boyfriend of yours?”
“I plan on it.” Vera gave a smug smile.
Kay’s stomach turned, and she exchanged a glance with Mellie. So Vera still had designs on Captain Maxwell. If they ever got out of here, Kay still had to deal with that situation.
“Your turn, Kay.” Mellie looked too eager, probably to steer the conversation away from Vera’s adulterous plans.
“Me?” She’d shared bits of her dream with some of the ladies, but only Roger knew all of them. Well, almost all. Not the dreams that involved him.
“Yes, you.” Georgie laughed. “This was your idea after all.”
“All right.” Kay worked her fingers through holes in her blanket. “I hope Lieutenant Lambert will recommend me for the chief nurse program. After the war, I’d like a job in a hospital as a chief. If I can’t, I’ll work my way up.”
“I can see that.” Louise coughed. “You’d be a good chief.”
“Then you’ll buy a house,” Mellie said gently. “Tell us what it’s like.”
Kay’s eyes watered. “It’s just a little house, one bedroom, painted yellow like the sun. I’ll have my own kitchen, and a comfy wingback chair in the living room, and closets, and a front porch with a wicker chair and table.”
“By yourself?” Alice frowned. “You’ll live in a house alone?”
Kay’s throat clamped shut.
“Hush now, Alice,” Georgie said. “If the Lord wants her to get married, he’ll bring a man into her life.”
Silence fell among the ladies, a pitiful silence that made Kay’s eyes water more. Over by the window, Roger’s drumsticks lay still.
Had he heard her? Heard the longing in her words . . . in her silence?
She didn’t want a home alone. She wanted a home with him.
January 7, 1945
Roger helped Anselmo spread out the map on a dry spot on the floor, while Kay and Enrico looked on. Both daylight and rain streamed through holes in the roof of the stone shed, and the rest of the party huddled by the walls, trying to sleep.
Roger studied the map. “What’s the plan, Captain?”
Anselmo traced the curve of the bay between Genoa and La Spezia. “This is the only spot in the Mediterranean where the German Navy is still active. They’re weak but present. We have moonless nights between January 10 and January 18. However, we also need smooth seas. We’re sending our Navy boys in on an Italian fishing boat. This is the area we’re looking at. It’s fairly isolated.” He pointed to a spur of land about ten miles north of La Spezia.
“We’re not far.” Roger tapped a spot inland and to the north.
Enrico held his chin high. “Partisan territory.”
“For the most part.” Anselmo gazed from under heavy dark brows. “Tonight we’ll head to this cluster of villages, all within ten miles of the pickup. We’ll have you zigzag between the villages, with the exception of this one.”
“Are the Germans there?” Kay asked.
“No.” Anselmo pointed to a crossroads. “This is the best of all, only six miles away, and we’re saving it for last. When we receive word that the boat is coming the following night, you’ll move here. After dark, you’ll head to the coast and wait. Can the ladies do it? You’ll have steep hiking along the coast.”
“Yes.” Kay gazed around to her napping friends. “Our shoes are in bad shape, and everyone’s weak. But more than anything, they want to go home.”
Roger drank in the smooth curve of her neck, the strong set of her jaw, the compassion in her eyes.
“All right, Cooper.” Anselmo folded up the map and handed it to him. “Tonight Giovanni and I will go to the coast, set up the radio and beacons. When we get the signal, I’ll send a message with Giovanni. Enrico will stay with you. Both men know the terrain, the villages, the people. You just keep the party together and moving.”
“I’ll do that, sir.” Roger tucked the map inside his flight jacket.
“I know you will. Say, what are your plans after the war?”
“I want to be a drummer in a big band.”
Anselmo’s face puckered up as if he’d bitten into a rotten apple.
“I know.” Roger fingered the drumsticks inside his jacket. “No money, no stability.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just a waste of your talents.”
Roger squirmed. “Drumming is my talent.”
“Not the only one. Don’t you see how everyone in this group respects you? Because you respect them all, officer and enlisted, male and female. You treat them fairly and make sound decisions. You lead and they follow. Those are rare and fine qualities.”
Roger shrugged and got to his feet. He needed to hit the sack. “They’re my friends.”
Kay smiled up at him. “It’s
more than that.”
“I agree.” Anselmo stood and straightened his coat. “You could do great things in this world if you put your mind to it.”
“You could be a teacher.” Enrico scrambled to his feet and grinned. “You teach me algebra and English.”
Roger stared at the boy, at his latent dream spoken out loud yet again.
Anselmo pulled out his blanket and settled down in a corner of the shed. “I was thinking captain of industry, but if education is in your blood, aim for principal.”
Roger barked a laugh, then clamped his mouth shut for the sake of the sleepers. “The only experience I have with principals is being paddled—a lot.”
Anselmo tipped his service cap over his eyes. “Think about it.”
“I’ll forget about it. Best for everyone.” Roger stomped to another corner and squatted by the bag of blankets.
“What’s wrong?” Kay leaned against the wall beside him. “Why do you get touchy when anyone says you should teach?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He wrestled out a blanket, didn’t matter which one. They were all threadbare, dirty, and smelly. “Just tired of people nagging me.”
“Nagging you? Sounded like they were encouraging you.”
“Feels like nagging.”
“Why? Because you don’t want to teach? Or because you want to teach but don’t think you deserve it?”
Roger sucked in a breath and jerked his head toward Kay, so hard he almost toppled over. He braced himself against the wall.
A slight lift of the eyebrows, of the corners of her mouth. She nudged his foot with her own. “Remember that day by the lake at Istres when you gave me advice?”
“Yeah.” His voice rasped.
“A wise man told me God gives us good things not because we’re good, but because he’s good.”
“Not the same.”
Kay lifted one shoulder. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. That’s between you and the Lord.” She headed for the ladies’ side of the shed.
Roger yanked the blanket around him, got as comfortable as he could on the dirt floor, and closed his eyes. Between him and the Lord. It wasn’t anyone else’s business. What did Anselmo and Enrico know? They didn’t know what he was like.