Mrs. Van Peldt gasped. “Winston, a thief? He can’t be! I … uh … we … well, I never! That’s what I get for lowering myself to traveling tourist class!” She thrust her chin in the air and stalked out of the room as the officer led Mr. Humbolt away.
Shaking, Ann sank against the wall. “How did he know I had the Bible?”
Peter shuddered as he let out his breath. “It’s worth a lot of money, and word gets around. I’m sure those men outside your grandfather’s shop weren’t working alone. Someone must have had access to the passenger lists.”
“The Bible! Peter, where is it?” Ann straightened quickly and stared at him in alarm.
“In a box with a note on it,” he said with a smug grin.
Ann frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Peter picked up her suitcases and headed to his cabin. “I put it in a box I got at the ship’s gift shop.” He opened the door and pointed to a box sitting on his suitcase. His coat was carelessly thrown on the pile. “I disguised it as a gift to someone special.”
He picked up the box and turned it so she could read the label: Kramer’s Nativity Scenes—authentic reproductions of original works; 15”x20” set includes ceramic figurines, manger, and stable. He placed the box in the knitting bag, then repacked the yarn around it. “I took out the heavy figurines and laid the Bible on the bottom, then put the stable walls on top and ended with straw and the small figures.” He chuckled. “It’s true; the box does contain nativity scenes!” He handed her the cloth bag, then led them back to the promenade, where they set their possessions on a bench.
Ann frowned. “But the box looked as if it had never been opened.”
“Ah, another of my hidden talents, my dear.” He winked and reached in the bag to retrieve a paper that lay on top of the box. “I said this was a gift for someone special. Read the note I left on it. It’s addressed to you.”
Ann took the paper. “To the one who makes my life complete. Will you enjoy this nativity scene with me every Christmas for the rest of our lives? I love you with all my heart. Peter.”
Ann couldn’t speak as she blinked back tears. Peter raised an eyebrow, and she nodded her answer.
He took her in his arms. “There are two treasures in my life that are of immeasurable worth—God’s Word and you. I don’t intend to live without either again.”
Ann nestled against his chest. “Peter, haven’t you guessed why I blush whenever I’m around you? I’ve loved for you for a long time, but I knew I was a plain Jane while you’re handsome, a writer, and a prof—”
“Hmm, keep talking!” He wagged his eyebrows at her. “Seriously, my love, you’re anything but plain. And your sweet blush is what attracted me in the first place. Never change it.”
She looked up at him and took a deep breath. “That note you left in the poetry book. Which poem made you think of me?”
His lips curved into a teasing grin. “Which do you want it to be?”
She felt her face grow warm as she answered softly, “I’d like to hear you count the ways you love me.”
He smiled into her eyes. “My dear, I promise to spend the rest of my life telling you all the ways I love you, but for now I’ll let Elizabeth Browning say it for me: ‘I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life! …’ ” He lifted her chin. “The only thing I can add is a kiss for punctuation!”
JOAN CROSTON
Joan and her husband, Lee, live on Route 66 in the beautiful Missouri Ozarks. They have two married daughters and six grandchildren whose ages range from 4 to 14 so life can become delightfully hectic at times. After spending over half her life on the West Coast, Joan loves being a Midwest transplant where she enjoys gardens and country living. Bible study and writing are at the top of her love-to-do list along with reading anything anytime anywhere but especially when curled up by a crackling fire on a snowy winter day. Her love of history has led her to compile her families’ histories, one of her lines going back to 1482 in Norway and her husband’s to an ancestor who was with George Washington’s troops at Valley Forge. She’s currently recording her own family’s story and loves seeing how God has been at work blessing their lives.
A Flower Amidst the Ashes
by DiAnn Mills
Dedication
To Margaret Harry, who served England as a member of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force during World War II. May God bless.
“He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might He increaseth strength.
Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall.
But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
ISAIAH 40: 29-31
Chapter 1
“I would say to the House, as I said to those who have joined this government: ‘I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.’ ”
WINSTON CHURCHILL
November 1940
In the twilight between sleep and consciousness, Corporal Margaret Walker of Britain’s Women’s Auxiliary Air Force suddenly woke to the familiar call of air-raid sirens alerting London to another round of German bombings.
“Oh, no.” She moaned and covered her head with the pillow. I’m not moving. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here in this bed. I spent the entire day transporting pilots back and forth from the barracks to the hangars, and I’m exhausted.
Margaret closed her eyes as her body relaxed, despite the death-screech echoing around her. The day had been too long … too exhausting … with too many Royal Air Force pilots not returning from their combat missions. She didn’t want to consider the ongoing nightmare since September seventh, when German bomber and fighter planes first razed London. In August the enemy hadn’t been successful in forcing the island to surrender when they bombed the navy and later the coastal factories involved in airplane assembly. Now, the Luftwaffe attempted to level the capital, hailing the city with bombs and leaving destruction in its wake. Although Britons young and old, men and women, had prepared for the ordeal, no one really anticipated the decimation of property and the loss of lives in their city. At least she hadn’t.
Someone shook her. “Margaret, are you awake? Come on, we have to hurry.”
She recognized the voice and lifted the pillow from her head. “I’m not going, Beryl. I’m tired and I want to sleep.”
Her friend continued to shake her. “If you don’t get up, I’m going after the lieutenant. She’ll get you moving.”
Margaret threw back the thin coverlet and scurried to her feet. “All right. I’m up and going. Be glad I hadn’t run the bath before the sirens.”
Beryl laughed. “You’d have worn your blanket, I’m afraid.”
Margaret smiled in spite of her interrupted sleep. How long had it been since she enjoyed a long, leisurely bath instead of the brisk showers housed beyond their quarters? She adjusted her trousers and quickly buttoned the shirt of her blue-gray work uniform. Her desire to sleep quickly fled in light of the servitude she owed her beloved England. To ignore the warning sirens would be folly, and meant she’d do her country no good dead. Without another word, they raced with the other WAAFs from their barracks to their designated shelter.
Pulling back the tarp to the entrance, Margaret ushered the way for Beryl. Downward they trod to the damp, dimly lit underground shelter protecting them from bombs. They found an empty spot near the back on one of the long benches and waited.
“I thought you had night duty,” Beryl said. “I was surprised to see you on your cot.”
“No, that’s tomorrow night,” Margaret said, closing her eyes for a minute’s respite. “Perhaps the Germans will cease their bombing, and all will be quiet. The last time I drove an ambulance during an air raid, the cries of the injured kept me awake for nights.”
“When will it end?” Beryl whispered. “My Patrick risked his life every time he flew
against the Germans until the day they shot him down.” She took a deep breath. “My heart longs for him and my dear boy, Christopher.”
Margaret knew how Beryl grieved her husband’s death and how she missed her young son tucked away safely in an Irish country home. “God will protect Christopher and save England from invasion. We must have faith and trust that not one Nazi will set foot on British soil.”
“Faith is all I have left.” Beryl released a faint sob. “One day I’m going to ask for a long pass, and then I’ll go see my precious son. Holding him will help ease the pain. Oh, he looks like his father, you know.”
Margaret smiled in the darkness and gently took Beryl’s hand. Her friend held a secret, one of bittersweet memories. New life nestled within Beryl’s womb, but Margaret had promised not to disclose the information until Beryl could talk to their lieutenant. “We knew this war would be difficult, and we’d have to make sacrifices, but it’s so hard to keep our minds centered on our duties when we hurt.”
“I need your strength.” Beryl patted the hand over hers. “I thought others would be killed, nameless faces who might never touch my life. I never thought the war would affect me or take my beloved Patrick, just like you never thought your brother would be shot down.”
Margaret swallowed her own pain. She welcomed the darkness to hide the tears coursing down her cheeks. Sometimes she believed her heart held visible scars of the war’s carnage. How did one live without the reassurance of God’s provision?
The low timbre of men’s voices captured Margaret’s attention. Why did men sit among them in a women’s shelter? Straining her ears to listen and not concentrate on the roaring challenger above them, she heard a distinctly male laugh.
“Ladies, there’s only two of us and even though none of you are our mums or sisters, have mercy on these two poor pilots,” a man said, his voice laden with merriment.
She heard the women giggle, and for a moment she welcomed the man’s humor in the dismal place, but the question still plagued her as to why they were there at all.
Irritated, Margaret shook her head. The men had obviously strayed beyond their own barracks and were caught by the sirens. She glanced about in the darkness and didn’t see the profile of her lieutenant. In fact, she could barely make out Beryl beside her.
“What rank are you men?” Margaret said.
“I’m Lieutenant Stuart, and my companion is Corporal Harris of the Royal Air Force,” came a different, quieter voice. “We’re in the area on business.”
I dare say you had RAF business among the women’s barracks. “I see,” Margaret said. Gentlemen officers among the women’s quarters infuriated her.
“And your rank?” the lieutenant said.
“Corporal Margaret Walker.”
“Kindly forgive us, Corporal, for invading this shelter. We had no choice.”
At least the lieutenant possessed the courtesy to address her properly.
She said nothing in response. Tomorrow she’d investigate the matter, but right now she wanted the all-clear signal before sleep overcame her.
For the next thirty minutes, Margaret leaned her head back against the cold, moist wall and dozed until the familiar wail broke the air.
“Moaning Minnie is telling us it’s over for the moment,” Beryl said. “I wonder how bad the damage.”
Margaret shrugged. A lot of wounded meant she’d be robbed of sleep to drive an ambulance. She’d been caught out in the open in enough air raids during work hours to appreciate the shelter’s safety. In those times when she had to remain aboveground, her work went on: dodging bombs and tending to the needs of the injured. Immediately she regretted her selfish thoughts. The wounded always took precedence, as it should.
Margaret longed for sleep and a reprieve from her responsibilities. Rarely did she feel melancholy, but rather she took it upon herself to boost the morale of the other women. Light-heartedness gained her respect among the WAAFs along with a keen sense of love and commitment to the women in her barracks. Her current mood must be caused by exhaustion and by thinking about poor Beryl’s sad circumstances.
At least I have no one to worry about. How distressing to be among the parents who had to send their children away from the cities.
Numbly, Margaret stood in line to leave the shelter. Tomorrow she’d feel better. Tomorrow she’d find her wit and humor.
“Excuse me, Corporal,” a male voice said once they stepped aboveground. She recognized the voice of the reserved Lieutenant Stuart.
Margaret stiffened and turned in the darkness to face the officer. “Yes sir.” His face was silhouetted in front of her, but she could make out nothing more.
“In defense of Corporal Harris and myself, we were here in search of a couple of our pilots who may have been wandering among the women’s barracks.”
“I appreciate your clarification,” she saidd. “In all due respect, sir, I hope you understand how suspicious your presence sounded.”
“Yes, I do, but it’s the truth.”
She knew he didn’t have to clarify his motives since he held the higher rank, and the fact he offered an explanation impressed her. “Thank you, sir. If I observe anything out of protocol, I’ll notify you.”
“Thank you for your cooperation and dedication to those in your charge. Have a good night, Corporal.”
Margaret saluted and stepped beyond the shelter without taking a look back. She trudged back to the barracks with Beryl, too tired to speak. The acid smell of destruction alerted her to fires in the distance. She heard the cries of ambulances rushing to the aid of victims and felt the flow of adrenaline through her veins. In a strange way, she wished they did need her to drive. At least then she’d feel like she’d accomplished something instead of only bemoaning her lack of sleep. This was reality: another war-torn night on the edges of London.
Two weeks passed, each day the same as before. Margaret pursued her optimism, encouraging those around her and always finding victory in the bleakest of defeats. She took pride in her job, operating whatever vehicle the Royal Air Force needed. Sometimes her assignment led her to drive pilots in tarp-covered lorries to the hangars, move the injured to hospitals, pick up mail, deliver food and medical supplies, or simply chauffeur an officer to his or her destination. After all, she had trained for six weeks to learn how to drive, and it didn’t matter what manner of vehicle.
On a mid-November afternoon, Lieutenant Elizabeth Fitzgerald issued Margaret an order. “I need for you to transport two pilots from the hangars to an officers’ meeting immediately. I’ve been told you’ll need petrol before you leave.”
Margaret grasped the keys to the government vehicle and saluted the lieutenant. She’d taken pilots earlier that morning and wondered why these two fliers returned alone. After missions, the men normally tarried at the hangars until radar determined hostile airplanes en route over the English Channel. Praise God for this system of warning, for it hastened bombers and fighters to the skies.
Her stomach curdled. Surely nothing had happened to the other men. Generally, downed pilots parachuted into the water, where sea vessels rescued them.
Another possibility occurred to Margaret. The two officers could have taken pictures over enemy territory and now needed to report their findings. For certain, though, it had nothing to do with her duties.
Winding the officers’ car through the outskirts of London could have been a rough assignment if Margaret had not known the way. Road signs had been removed in the event invaders prowled over their land. Let the enemy stumble about. Britons valued vigilance.
The government had initiated various protective measures for its people. The air-raid alerts and underground shelters saved many lives. Blackout shields covered the headlights of what few vehicles were permitted to roam the streets. Lampposts were painted white so drivers could find their way during the night. All children ages fifteen and under had been removed from the larger cities to safety in the country. Rationing and training the citizens of E
ngland to protect their lives and property became an integral part of life. This and so much more kept the enemy at bay.
Women did more than their share by filling men’s jobs. They delivered the mail, trained for the home guard, joined a branch of the military, and worked in factories. Everyone had a job. Everyone had a purpose.
At the hangars, Margaret parked the car where two pilots stood talking with the mechanics. She rounded the front of the lorry and saluted two RAF officers, one a lieutenant and the other a corporal. Perhaps their rank supported special treatment or an undisclosed mission. She opened the passenger side of the backseat for them.
“To the colonel’s office,” the lieutenant said, his voice oddly familiar.
“Yes sir.” Her mind spun as she searched her memory for the officer’s identity, but nothing came to mind.
As soon as Margaret started the engine, the corporal began to talk endlessly about nothing important. She recognized his voice as one of the two officers in the air-raid shelter. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she instantly met the most incredible brown eyes she’d ever seen. They belonged to the quiet lieutenant. He smiled at her, a shy smile, almost innocent looking.
A moment later, she swerved to keep from hitting a huge rut in the road, but the maneuver proved too late. She tore her gaze away from the mirror while warmth rose from her neck to her cheeks. Had she gone daft? Embarrassment continued to flow through her veins, and she wondered how she could avoid facing the lieutenant, but she must. Once they did reach their barracks, she must open his door and salute him. What fun he must be making of her.
Stiffening, Margaret vowed to regain her composure and will away the redness she knew colored her cheeks. She tightened her fingers around the steering wheel and focused her attention on the road ahead, but her mind could not shut out the endless chatter of the corporal. He could hold his own in a host of women.
A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection Page 7