by Sarah Sundin
Allie stopped. Cressie’s house had to be the tiniest bungalow she had seen, probably a living room and kitchen, one bedroom and a bath. Even in the dusk, she could see the house was yellow—not subtle, but sulfurous.
What would the ladies from St. Timothy’s think to see Mary Miller’s daughter enter such a house? She laughed and knocked on the door. They’d never see her, because they’d never set a well-shod foot in such a neighborhood.
“Allie? Is that you? Come in, love.”
She gasped. Women packed Cressie’s miniature living room—Cressie, Daisy, Opal Morris, Mabel Weber—why, the entire Ladies’ Circle.
“Surprise! Happy birthday!”
Happy birthday? Tears welled in her eyes. She clapped her hand to her chest and felt the cross from Walt. Two surprises for her birthday. Walt’s gift arrived a week before, but for the life of her, Allie couldn’t remember mentioning her birthday to him.
Cressie crushed Allie in a hug, and then pulled back and clucked her tongue at her. “You’d have thought someone died by the look of those tears.”
She sniffed them back. “Oh my. Thank you, everyone. Thank you, Cressie.”
Cressie turned for the kitchen and flipped her hand over her shoulder. “Daisy’s idea, love. Daisy’s idea. We all put in a bit of butter and sugar for the cake.”
Allie turned to Daisy, whose brown pompadour defied gravity. “Oh, I don’t need a cake.”
“Sure you do. You made me sad ranting to your mom about not getting one.”
Allie’s stomach knotted at the memory of the scene she’d made—in front of Daisy, no less.
“Ooh, is that new?” Daisy took the cross in her hands. “Sure is pretty.”
“Isn’t it? My friend Walt sent it from England.”
“What’d Baxter get you?”
“Earrings.” She smiled, relieved at what she hadn’t found in the jeweler’s box.
Daisy’s forehead puckered, and her gaze bounced between Allie’s bare earlobes.
“He bought the wrong kind. I don’t have pierced ears.”
“Didn’t even notice.” Daisy rolled her eyes. “Just like a man.”
Allie didn’t want to be critical, but somehow Walt noticed she didn’t own a cross, while Baxter failed to notice her ears weren’t pierced.
Cressie returned with a white cake and had Allie sit in the seat of honor, where the upholstery sported giant red and orange roosters strutting on a turquoise background. A spring poked her thigh. She crossed her ankles to relieve the pressure and set her elbow on a doily on the armrest. A purple doily. Where had Cressie purchased such thread, and why?
Yet the confidence that allowed Cressie to use purple doilies appealed to Allie. Cressie never fretted about appearances and propriety and what people thought—only what the Lord thought.
At least Cressie had better taste in her baking. The cake was almost as sweet as the friendships that produced it.
Cressie refilled the ladies’ teacups. “I apologize for not having coffee. I love you, Allie, but not enough to give up my coffee.”
Allie laughed. Since coffee was scarce, rationing was scheduled to start November 29 and would provide less than a cup a day. Everyone grumbled, but Allie didn’t mind tea.
Tea. Did Walt drink British tea and eat genuine British fish and chips? Had he been to London to see Big Ben and the Tower and Buckingham Palace?
Much too soon, the ladies rose to leave. Allie lingered to thank her hostess again. While she waited for the others to depart, she studied a photograph on the wall. A handsome young man in a dark suit gazed down at a young lady in a white shirtwaist and long, slim skirt. Allie drew in her breath. Cressie hadn’t been plain; she’d been ugly—coarse features, a broad mouth and crooked nose, and thick black eyebrows. Age had been kind to her. Extra pounds softened her features, and gray hair reduced the effect of the eyebrows. Yet her husband adored her—in the photograph and now, some forty years later.
“I love that picture,” Cressie said. “Doesn’t Bert look smitten?”
“That’s what I noticed. Was this taken when you were engaged?”
Cressie snorted. “Couldn’t have been. We married out of necessity—oh, not like young people do nowadays. You see, Bert was orphaned at eighteen. He had five little sisters to care for, a house to mind, and a business to run. He needed a wife, and fast, and I was the only marriageable girl in our Kansas town.”
An ember of hope lit in Allie’s chest. “Your love grew after you married?”
“Yep. I went to a revival meeting and met Jesus Christ. Imagine that, the daughter of the choir director had never let the truth sink through her thick skull. Well, Bert fell head over heels with the new Cressie.”
Allie stroked the polished wood frame. “Was he—was he a believer?”
“Nope. Stubborn young fool. But after a very long year, God got ahold of Bert and wouldn’t let go. That’s when I fell for him.”
Allie recited the verse she’d promised herself to find and memorize, “As the Bible says in 1 Peter 3: ‘Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands; that, if any obey not the word, they also may without the word be won by the conversation of the wives; While they behold your chaste conversation coupled with fear.’”
Cressie was silent. Allie tucked her pocketbook under her arm and reached for the doorknob.
“That’s a strange verse to memorize,” Cressie said.
“I like it. Isn’t it—” Allie turned back to Cressie and rolled the doorknob in her hand. “Isn’t it encouraging? Hopeful?”
Cressie’s little blue eyes narrowed, almost lost in her cheeks. “Your young man—I thought he was a brother in Christ. He isn’t?”
Allie winced. Why had she let that slip?
“That verse—read it again. Peter’s talking to married women, to wives who come to Christ after marriage, like I did, not to unmarried women.”
Allie tilted her head. What was the difference?
Cressie looked up to the ceiling and drummed her fingers on her thigh. “Where’s that other passage? Corinthians? Yes, 1 Corinthians 6—pretty near certain.”
“I’ll read it.” She put on her grateful guest smile and hugged Cressie. “Thanks again. It was a lovely party.”
“You deserve it, love. You deserve it.” Cressie almost smothered Allie in her soft shoulder. “You’re a special girl.”
She pulled back and smiled. “You’re special to me too. You’re one of my favorite people in the world.”
“One of?” Cressie leveled a glare at her. “Who’s my competition?”
Allie laughed. “Betty, of course.” The person who introduced her to Christ, to friendship, and to fun. “And Walter.” The person who understood her, forgave her, and encouraged her.
Cressie released a rueful sigh. “Should’ve known. The way you talk about those two.”
22
Thurleigh
November 13, 1942
Wait till the folks back home heard he got to see King George VI.
Walt pedaled a bicycle down the road heading west from the living sites, past a flurry of bikes and men. Not only was the king visiting, but also the top Eighth Air Force brass— Generals Carl Spaatz, Ira Eaker, and Newton Longfellow.
Walt passed through the technical site, the complex of workshops and administrative buildings, dominated by four massive hangars in camouflage paint. He swerved around a pothole in front of HQ. The weather that had grounded the 306th for a month had turned the base into a muddy pit. He had to change into dress uniform before the visit, but the less laundry he had to do, the better.
“Hiya, Preach.”
“Hi there.” He let go of the handlebar and waved to Frank’s copilot.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Petrovich called. “Gotta shine those shoes.”
“Later. I want to check out Flossie first.”
“Yeah? While you’re over there, check out Pearl.”
He gave a salute, but he had no intention of doin
g so. The nose art on String of Pearls showed the rearview of a blonde lying on her side, smiling over her shoulder, wearing nothing but high heels and her namesake jewelry. It annoyed him. He liked that song. He’d danced with Allie to that song.
When he reached the control tower, he turned left onto the perimeter track. Thirty-six hardstands for bombers stuck off the perimeter track like leaves on a vine.
“Preach?” Bob Robertson, Pearl’s pilot, ran toward him. “I need a word with you.”
From his tone, Walt knew it wasn’t a friendly word. He swung off the bike. “What’s up?”
“You behind this? How could you do this to Pearl?”
“Pearl?”
“Don’t play innocent. Look!” Bob grabbed Walt’s arm in his meaty grip.
He shook him off and let the bike clatter to the ground. “Let go. I’m coming.”
A dozen men surrounded the Fort, pointing and arguing. For once, Walt could look at the nose art, because the woman was clothed. She now wore a flight jacket, which covered her backside and slouched off one shoulder to show off her pearls.
He blinked. Wow. That looked good.
“You did this, Preach. I know it,” Bob said.
“Nah, I’m no artist.”
“He’s lying,” someone said. “I’ve seen him carve.”
“Yeah, technical stuff—planes. I’m an engineer, not an artist.” But he knew someone who was, someone with experience painting flight jackets.
“You know,” one man said. “I think she looks better, more alluring.”
Catcalls.
“You’re kidding.”
“Are you blind?”
“No, Joe’s right. Makes you curious, makes you want to see her goods.”
“But we could already see her goods.”
Bob squinted at his plane. “You know, Joe may have a point.”
Since he was off the hook, Walt left the men to their debate. He mounted his bike and made his way to Flossie’s hardstand, one of several tucked around Whitwickgreen Farm. He’d never seen civilians and livestock and crops at a U.S. airfield, but the British needed farmland as much as they needed air bases.
Flossie looked great. The ground crew had done a good repair job. After the month of bad weather, Walt flew three missions in a row. On November 7, the 306th flew to Brest and bombed the U-boat facility with no casualties or damage—a “milk run.” Then they returned to Lille and lost one B-17. But the next day some idiot at Bomber Command ordered them to bomb St. Nazaire’s U-boat pens at the low altitude of 7,500 feet. The flak couldn’t miss, and three planes fell.
Most of the men got rip-roaring drunk that night.
Flossie’s Fort took minimal damage. Her crew insisted the cow and the Scripture reading gave them good luck. Walt hated to see them rely on superstitions and rituals, but at least the crew was working as a unit. Cracker was still useless in the cockpit, but his star had dimmed with the men, and he knew well enough to lie low.
Walt coasted the bike up to his plane. J.P. Sanchez stood on a scaffold and painted over the metalworkers’ patches on his artwork. Pete Wisniewski, the right waist gunner, waved at Walt. The first mission proved one waist gunner wasn’t enough, and new gunners were recruited from around the base. Pete, a big, yellow-haired kid, had come to Thurleigh as a medic.
Walt planted his feet and leaned on the handlebars. “There’s a ruckus with Pearl’s crew.”
“Is that right?” J.P. dabbed black paint on a verse printed below the cow: “The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust.”
“Seems someone painted a flight jacket on the lady,” Walt said.
“Defacement of government property? Sí, sí, señor. Blame the wetback.”
Walt chuckled. “I’d say it’s improvement of government property.”
“You know, the king’s coming. Can’t have him look at naked ladies.”
Pete nodded. “At twenty thousand feet I get icicles on my eyebrows.”
Walt laughed. “So we wear leather and sheepskin, but Pearl . . .”
J.P. shrugged and dipped his brush in the paint. “She looked cold.”
“Look. Eleanor Roosevelt promised warmer socks and faster mail when she visited London last month, and she came through.” Frank waved a letter in Walt’s face. “Only two weeks old.”
Walt sorted his pile of mail. “Now for those socks.”
“I’ll settle for mail. Warms my heart, don’t care about my toes.”
Walt sat on his cot in the Nissen hut, the half-cylinder of corrugated steel that thirty-two officers called home. He had letters from Mom and Dad, one from Ray in Texas, a really old one from Jim Carlisle in the Pacific, and two from Allie. Also a package from Allie, big and heavy. What did she do? Chop up the B-17 model and mail it back?
Frank knotted his tie. “You don’t have time.”
“Just the package. Won’t take long.” Walt cut the string with his pocketknife and lifted the lid. Sheet music and a note:
Yesterday I bought more music to play for the patients at the hospital, and I remembered you mentioned a piano in the Officers’ Club and a shortage of sheet music. I hope you can use this. “Tangerine” reminded me of how you gave away your orange on the train. What could be more appropriate for you than a song about a girl named after fruit?
I also hope you’ll enjoy the applesauce. Baxter says it’s a good batch.
Applesauce! Walt flung aside wads of newspaper and found a glass jar—no, two jars, quart jars.
“Applesauce?” Frank said. “First the peach jam, and now this. That girl’s mad about you.”
If only it were true. He smiled though. Frank’s comment was intended for the other men. He was a great accomplice, as was Allie—although unwittingly.
“Preach got applesauce from his girl,” Abe Ruben said. “Who’s got spoons?”
He clutched the jars to his chest. “Get away, all of you. Mine, all mine.”
Frank set his cap on. “We know. Don’t get between this man and his fruit.”
“Come on, you know I’ll share.” He held up a jar. Flecks of pulp and cinnamon clung to the glass. He swallowed. Sure looked good. Baxter said it was good.
Baxter knew what a wonderful woman he had, didn’t he? Of course, he knew.
So why . . . ?
Walt huffed and took off his leather jacket to change into dress uniform. He’d wasted too much time stewing over Allie and Baxter. If she loved him, why hadn’t she talked about him that week? If he loved her, why had Allie seemed so receptive to Walt, so unfamiliar with attention and compliments and all that? Why didn’t he go to church with her? And what about those pecks? How could he not want to kiss her? Didn’t make sense.
“What’s this?” Frank picked up the sheet music. “‘Tangerine’?”
“A joke. Allie thinks I should have a girl named after fruit.”
Frank laughed. “Sounds about right.”
Walt buttoned up his jacket, the same one he’d worn at the wedding reception, the same sleeves that had circled Allie’s waist. He’d rather have a girl named after music.
23
Thurleigh
November 23, 1942
“I got him,” Mario Tagliaferro said. “Two hundred yards. Broke apart.”
“Yeah, Tagger got him. Saw his chute.” Al Worley drained his slug of whiskey.
Mario rolled his shot glass between his hands. “Fw 190s everywhere.”
“Everywhere.” Cracker’s hands shook as he lit another cigarette. “Pearl didn’t stand a chance. They pounced on her, picked her out.”
“I counted six chutes,” Pete Wisniewski said.
“Seven,” Al said.
“Slow down, everyone. One at a time.” The intelligence officer gestured with his pencil at Flossie’s crew seated around a table in the briefing room. He pointed at Walt. “You said the Luftwaffe attacked head-on?”
“Yep. Never seen that before. Crazy, isn’t it?” Crazy was
n’t a strong enough word. Walt still couldn’t shake the shock, the terror of fighters rushing straight at him. The closing speed had to be close to six hundred miles per hour. Walt sketched a B-17 nose in his logbook and racked his brain for a solution.
Louis tipped up his shot glass, but it was dry. “They know. They know we’re weak up front. The .30s in the nose—the range is too short, can’t reach ’em.”
Abe rocked back and forth in his chair, hands deep in his jacket pockets. “The nose guns—they angle too far to the side. Can’t train them to twelve o’clock.”
Walt sketched a .50 in the nose, straight out front. But how could it be braced? The Norden bombsight was right underneath.
“That’s how they got Pearl.” Cracker took a drag on his cigarette. “Head-on. Shot up the nose, killed the pilots.”
“How do you know?” the intelligence officer asked.
“The blood on the cockpit windows.” Cracker banged his fist on the table. “Do you think I’m blind?”
“Calm down,” Walt said. “You know they have to make sure. Next of kin.”
“They’re dead. We’re all dead. The Jerries have it out for us. The 306th has lost seven planes. Seven! We’re all dead men.”
The intelligence officer poured Cracker another shot, which he gulped down.
Walt shook his head and drew braces straddling the bombsight. Whiskey wouldn’t help. Yeah, tonight Cracker would get a good drunk on, but when he sobered, the pain and anxiety would come right back.
The Germans did seem to have it out for the 306th. They had the highest losses in the Eighth Air Force. Granted, they were now the grizzled veterans. The other bomb groups transferred to the Twelfth Air Force in North Africa after the U.S. invaded on November 8. The 91st, 303rd, and 305th Bomb Groups had arrived with B-17s, and the 44th with B-24s, but no one got picked on like the boys from Thurleigh. They could only muster eight planes today, and four aborted with mechanical problems. The fewer planes, the more vulnerable they were to Goering’s men.
“Tell me about the flak,” the intelligence officer said.