by Sarah Sundin
“What’s going on here?”
Silence. He faced his men. “I repeat—what’s going on here?”
Bill fidgeted with the radio cord. “Well, we stocked up so we can sell to the Brits. Cracker said not to tell you. He knew you’d get riled up, because you hate booze.”
Walt’s fists clenched as tight as his gloves allowed. “It’s not the booze, it’s the weight.”
He picked up a duffel and tossed it into the radio room so he could get through the door. Just how much weight was there? He counted forty-eight crates. If each crate weighed forty, fifty pounds, he had about a ton of cargo.
He waded through the bags to the left waist window and threw a duffel to Mario Tagliaferro, who stood in the doorway, mouth wide open. “I need some help,” Walt said.
“What are you doing?” Mario asked.
“Ditching the weight.” Walt lifted the top crate by the window and slammed it down in the space he had cleared on the floor. Now he had room to work.
Al pushed past Mario. “Hey, that’s our profit.”
“Profit? Fat lot of good that’ll do if you’re at the bottom of the ocean.” He dropped another crate, with a satisfying crunch of breaking glass.
“Stop it!” Al leaned over the crates Walt had moved, his face red and twisted. “We put a lot of money in this.”
“Too bad. Stupid investment. Would’ve frozen anyway.” He slid the Plexiglas window open. The Arctic wind gusted in and knocked his breath away. He braced himself against the slipstream and heaved a crate through the window.
Al grabbed his elbow. “You can’t do that.”
Walt whipped around, fury hot in his veins. “I can and I will. If you don’t want to join your cargo, you’d better get to work.”
One of Al’s eyebrows twitched, as if he knew Walt just might follow through on his threat. He grumbled and backed off. “Just ’cause you don’t drink doesn’t mean we can’t have our fun.”
Walt plugged in his headset by the window. “Fontaine, recalculate the fuel consumption data with an extra two thousand pounds of weight.” He pointed to Al, Harry, Mario, and their startled passenger. “And you—get to work.”
“Yes, sir,” Al said, no mask over his hostility.
Over the next few minutes, Walt and the men dumped the crates into the Arctic Ocean five thousand feet below. Despite the cold, sweat dampened the sides of Walt’s undershirt. The exertion and some muttered prayers took the edge off his rage.
When the booze was gone, Walt returned to the cockpit. He took his seat without a word to his copilot. Sure enough, the elevators had been re-trimmed. Must have gained altitude. He plugged his headset in and pressed the mike button on the control wheel. “Pilot to navigator. Fontaine, do you have those calculations?”
“Um, yes.”
“And . . .”
“And—we probably wouldn’t have made it.”
“What if we’d had engine trouble?” He glared at Cracker, who wouldn’t meet his eye.
“Um, no. Definitely not.”
“Okay, crew, get to praying. Pray your stupid stunt didn’t cost us too much fuel on takeoff. That water is icy down there.” His fury cooled with the satisfaction of being proved right. “If you’d been honest with me before we left, you could have gotten your money back. I might even have let you keep a few cases.”
One more point to drive home hard. “Dishonesty always has a price.”
18
Bedford, England
September 9, 1942
“Like a fairy tale,” Frank said.
“Yeah.” Walt stuffed his hands in the pockets of his flight jacket and glanced over the embankment to the Great Ouse River. Thanks to Cracker’s scheme, they’d landed on fumes the other day, but thanks to God’s mercy, they landed. Now Walt was actually in England, in Bedford, where John Bunyan wrote Pilgrim’s Progress while in prison, and swans actually swam in the river.
The place didn’t remind him so much of a fairy tale—more like the colorful pictures in the black and white checkered Mother Goose book Mom used to read to him. “I half expect Little Miss Muffet or Wee Willie Winkie to run by.”
“I’d rather see Lady Godiva.”
“Hey! You’re a married man.”
Frank cocked his head to the side. “Speaking of naked ladies, gotta get something for my Eileen.”
Walt laughed and turned right onto who-knew-what street. During the invasion scare in 1940, the British had torn down the street signs to confuse German paratroopers. Now the American invaders were confused. Bedford’s streets lay like wheel spokes, not in a grid like Antioch’s. Walt and Frank passed the Swan Hotel on the right and the tall white spire of St. Paul’s cathedral on the left. A fourteenth-century cathedral— he couldn’t believe it.
Frank turned left. “This street looks good. Lots of shops.”
“Not much in them.” Walt peered through the store windows at the empty shelves. Across the street, a line of women and old men stood outside a store called “Marks & Spencer.” Must be a grocery. The people showed the results of strict rationing, all thin and pale. Some airmen from the 306th swaggered around the line and flirted with the prettiest girl with gum-smacking Yankee vigor.
“Let’s check in here.” Frank nodded to a jewelry store and ground his cigarette butt into the flagstone sidewalk. “Can’t wait to see what the Brits do when an Irishman waves money in their faces.”
Walt stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dark store. A man with wispy gray hair and a worn tweed jacket stood behind the display case. “How may I assist you?”
Frank leaned one forearm on the case and pulled out his wallet. “Looking for a grand necklace for me wife,” he said in his fake Irish brogue.
Walt stifled a smile and looked down through the glass at a collection of gold crosses. One grabbed his attention. Long-stemmed flowers formed the four arms of the cross. “Excuse me. What are these flowers called? On this cross?”
The jeweler glanced over and sniffed. “Those would be called lilies, sir.”
“Oh yeah. Like Easter.” Leave it to the English to make a man feel like an uneducated dolt. Lilies—he knew that. Why did he think of Allie? Oh yeah. One day she’d worn a dress with a big lily up the side. Sure was pretty on her. That cross would look pretty on her too.
“Getting something for your girlfriend?”
Walt looked up. “Hi, J.P. Didn’t see you come in.”
“Ah, Sergeant Sanchez,” Frank said. “Faith and begorra, it’s good to be seeing you this fine afternoon.”
J.P.’s eyebrows drew together at Frank’s accent, and Walt fought a chuckle.
Frank’s eyes lit up, and he turned back to the Englishman. “Must be doing your heart good to be seeing so many fine American lads. Don’t you be worrying. We’ll be getting you out of this war as we got you out of the last one.” He was breaking every rule in the handbook the American servicemen received about dealing with the British, and he sure was enjoying it.
“He’s joking,” Walt said. “We know you can handle yourselves. We’re only over here to get in a few licks of our own.”
The jeweler straightened his thin shoulders. “Would you gentlemen care to see anything?”
Frank fingered one necklace. “Sure and me wife would like this sapphire.”
“Nothing for me,” Walt said.
“What about your girlfriend?”
Walt glanced over at J.P. This story of his required as much maintenance as an aircraft engine.
“Saints be blessed, Walter. ’Tis your Allie’s birthday soon, ’tisn’t it?”
“’Tisn’t it?” He raised an eyebrow at Frank, who shrugged.
Walt had no idea when Allie’s birthday was and no business buying her jewelry, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off that cross. He didn’t remember Allie wearing a cross. Surely he could make some excuse for a gift like this. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll take this cross.”
The jeweler boxed it up, and Walt’s misgivings melted away. She’d
like it. Pretty, distinctive, and a sign of her faith. Besides, it felt nice to buy her something.
J.P. picked out a bracelet for his girl in San Antonio. “Another plane came in from Prestwick after you two left—with some news.”
“Yeah?” Walt stroked the velvet box in his pocket. He’d never bought jewelry before.
“That missing crew from the 367th Squadron made it— but barely. Ran out of fuel off Ireland, ditched the plane in shallow water, and walked to shore. The next tide washed their Fort out to sea.”
“Wow. So we’re down to thirty-three planes.” Walt held the door open, and the men walked out into weak sunshine. One plane from the 423rd Squadron had disappeared in a bright flash not long after takeoff. “At least the men made it this time.”
“Yeah.” J.P. nodded across the street to a half-timbered pub, full of airmen on liberty. “I think the booze did them in.”
“They weren’t drinking, were they?”
“Nope. Had a full load in the back of the plane. Sound familiar?”
Walt tripped over a flagstone. “You’re kidding.”
“Uh-uh. Al Worley—he turned even whiter than usual when he heard. And Harry and Mario—they’re singing your praises.”
“Glory be, ’tis wonderful news.”
Walt laughed. “Knock it off, Frank. We’re out of the store.”
“Sorry. Can’t help myself. But say, that is good news. Tell the CO. Cracker will crumble in your hands.”
“Nah. I forgot to tell you. Talked to Colonel Overacker this morning. Seems Cracker’s from some hoity-toity family. Can’t get rid of him. And Overacker doesn’t want to switch crews. He knows Cracker’s weak. That’s why I got him.”
“That’s a fine compliment,” Frank said.
Walt snorted. “I’d rather have a fine copilot.”
19
Riverside
October 8, 1942
“I couldn’t pick if I were her either,” Daisy Galloway whispered, then stuffed more popcorn in her mouth. “Bing Crosby or Fred Astaire? Bing Crosby or Fred Astaire? They’re both dreamy.”
Allie shushed her—again. Daisy guffawed during the cartoons, crunched popcorn during the newsreel, and chattered during the movie. Allie had seen Holiday Inn before, but not this week’s newsreel, which showed U.S. aircrews landing in England after a mission over Nazi-occupied Europe. She had strained her eyes looking for Walt. Although he couldn’t say where he was stationed due to censorship, his references to Mother Goose and Pilgrim’s Progress indicated he was in Great Britain.
“Oh, Fred. Definitely Fred,” Daisy said when his tap-dancing feet set off firecrackers.
“Oh, Bing. Definitely Bing,” she said when he crooned “White Christmas.”
Allie sighed, but she did enjoy her outings with Daisy after Ladies’ Circle every Thursday, her day off from the Red Cross. What a joy to tell Walt she now had friends, fun, work, and a good church, all of which brought purpose and contentment, despite Mother’s comments that Allie had abandoned her.
The house lights flipped on, and the ladies filed out of the Fox Theater, a Mission Revival building with a bell tower over the box office.
Daisy sang “I’ve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo” as they strolled across Seventh Street in the sunshine.
Allie frowned at a crowd ahead of them. A shipment of something scarce must have arrived at the grocery. Beef? Coffee? Even bobby pins would be nice.
“Sugar,” Allie overheard.
“Sugar.” She gripped Daisy’s elbow. “They have sugar. Do you have your ration book?”
“Yeah. Do you?”
“Yes.” Allie opened her pocketbook. She always took the family’s ration books when she went out. The apple trees were in peak production, and now they could make applesauce. For once, she’d make Mother happy.
Allie counted Mason jars. The Miller family had rations for six pounds of sugar for October. Allie had poured two pounds into the empty sugar crock, and the remaining four pounds would yield over twenty quarts of applesauce. With Daisy’s help, she could finish before choir practice.
Daisy wiped her forehead and stirred the kettle of boiling apples. “Why does canning season have to be the hottest time of the year?”
“I think it’s part of Eve’s curse.” Allie ladled cooked apples from the second batch into the food mill.
“That and men.” Daisy set her hand on her hip. “Could you believe the nerve of that soldier at the theater? Asking me out—a stranger, and I don’t even know if he’s a Christian.”
“Mm.” Allie cranked the food mill, her stomach as jumbled as the apples.
“I’d never marry a man who didn’t share my faith, so why would I date one?”
“Mm.” Allie didn’t dare speak up, not until she found that Bible verse about how a believing wife could help her husband come to Christ. But what if Betty and Daisy were right, and she was wrong? She couldn’t be wrong. She had to find that verse.
After Allie fed the batch through the mill, she shook out her sore arm. Then she stirred in sugar and cinnamon, poured the applesauce into quart jars, sealed them, and eased them into a kettle of boiling water on the iron top of the white enamel stove.
“Do I smell applesauce?” Mother pulled an apron out of a drawer.
“You sure do, Mrs. Miller. But dontcha worry. We’ll be outta your hair by dinnertime.” Daisy cracked her gum.
Allie winced at Mother’s tight smile. Mother had never said a word about her new friend, but she clearly disapproved of her unpolished ways.
Allie wrapped towels around her hands and hefted the kettle of boiled apples to the sink. “Sugar came in today. I’m thankful I had the ration books with me.”
“Oh, good. Baxter can have lemonade again.” Mother peeked in the sugar crock, then looked up. “Is this all?”
“Well, yes. We need to put up the apples. Two pounds should meet our needs this month.” She drew back from the steam of the drain liquid—and Mother’s rebuke.
“It’ll meet our minimum needs, but you should have saved some for lemonade. Poor Baxter hasn’t had a glass for almost a month.”
Now steam rose in her head, unfamiliar yet uncontainable. “Poor Baxter can put a twist of lemon in his water. These apples need to be put up. We haven’t been able to make cake or pie for months, I know I won’t have a birthday cake, and you’re worried about Baxter’s lemonade?”
“Allie!”
She flung limp apples from the colander into the food mill. “If Baxter wants lemonade, he can buy his own sugar.”
“Allegra Marie Miller!”
“No. He’s over here every single night, eating all our meat, drinking down our entire sugar ration, but does he ever help? No.” How dismaying, how satisfying to speak out.
“Allie . . .” Daisy poked her and motioned to the door.
Baxter stood there, a brown bag in his arm. “The grocer had sugar. I bought a couple pounds—for you.”
The satisfaction of her anger drained away and left her dismay unbalanced.
“Apologize to Baxter this instant.” Mother’s voice climbed and shook, unaccustomed to such heights. “You ought to be ashamed.”
She was, but she couldn’t voice her shame at raising her voice, at speaking ill of Baxter—to Mother, to Daisy, to Baxter himself.
“No apology is necessary.” Baxter set the bag on the counter. “I’ve taken your hospitality for granted for too long.”
“But Baxter, we don’t begrudge you at all.” Mother patted his shoulder and glowered at Allie. “Why, you’re practically family.”
Allie gripped a Mason jar as if she could extract the sugar from the applesauce. She was wealthy, and he came from poverty. He probably never had lemonade in Oklahoma. “I—I’m sorry. I was rude, and—and what I said was uncalled for.”
“Nonsense. You were right.” He smiled, walked up to Allie, and took her hand. “Sugar is scarce, and I consume more than my fair share.”
“But I—”
�
�Hush.” He laid a kiss on her forehead. “I don’t want to hear another word about it. Water with a twist of lemon sounds delightful.”
Allie stared at him, as stunned by his tender kiss and merciful gaze as she was by her own behavior. “Thank you,” she whispered.
20
Thurleigh Air Field; Bedfordshire, England
October 9, 1942
“Four o’clock in the morning,” Frank mumbled.
“At least it’s not a false alarm today. Finally, our first mission.” Walt guided his razor over his chin. He needed a close shave so the oxygen mask would fit right.
“Four o’clock.” Frank pounded his shaving brush into the soap in his mug. His cheer wouldn’t come out until the sun did.
“Hurry up, y’all,” Louis Fontaine called from across the ablution hut, where the men washed up. “I hear we get real eggs before combat, not that powdered slop.”
Walt caught a strange light in Louis’s eyes—too bright. The men reacted to fear in different ways. Abe Ruben’s hands shook as he dried his face. Frank had some saint’s medal stuffed in his shirt pocket. Cracker dragged from a hangover, even though the bar in the Officers’ Club closed at 2000 hours the night before. Walt felt—well, normal. Eager but calm. Was he peaceful because of his faith, or was he stupid?
If he was stupid, he wasn’t alone. Frank perked up over heaps of real eggs for breakfast, and excitement charged the air in the briefing room. The jokes stopped when the group commanding officer, Col. Charles Overacker, took the stage at 0500 hours. Walt leaned forward in his chair. Where would the 306th first rain bombs on Hitler’s Third Reich?
Colonel Overacker drew back a blue curtain that covered the map at the front of the room. A red string stretched from Thurleigh across the Channel. One hundred eight bombers would hit the Compagnie de Fives steel and locomotive works at Lille in France. The 306th would join the veteran 92nd, 97th, and 301st Bomb Groups in B-17s, and the 93rd would fly the first mission in Europe with B-24 Liberators. It was the biggest mission the Eighth Air Force had ever sent up.