by Sarah Sundin
Allie swallowed hard. “Yes. Yes, it is.” As disgraceful as Josie’s accusation.
Mother lifted her chin and gave her curls a shake. “I told her she was foolish. With her looks, she couldn’t afford to be choosy. And she certainly should have had the sense to follow her family’s advice.”
Allie unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Certainly.”
“I was always afraid . . .” Mother’s eyelashes fluttered, and then she gave Allie a smile. “Well, I’m glad you have Baxter, and you have far more sense than Agatha.”
Allie could hardly breathe as she passed through the Mission Inn’s courtyard with its lush greenery and brilliant flowers. She saw the parallels as clearly as Mother did, saw the lessons to heed in Miss Montclair’s story.
So why did she feel the Lord was pointing her in the opposite direction?
29
January 27, 1943
Walt stepped off the train onto American soil, under California sunshine, into a Delta breeze. Dad and Mom waved from the platform, so did Ray and Jack, Grandpa and Grandma Novak, George and Betty, Jim and Helen. Walt squinted in the heat. Where was she?
Boy, the sun was hot. He looked down. No wonder he was frying—he wore full, high-altitude flight gear, complete with life preserver and parachute.
Walt scanned the crowd. Everyone he knew was there—the whole Kilpatrick clan, Art, Dorothy, Eddie Nakamura from Cal. But where was Allie?
There she was, way in the back. He shouldered his way through the crowd, threw his arms around her, and swung her around in circles. Wasn’t that what coming home was about—swinging the girl you loved around in circles?
“Oh, Walter darling.” She took off his flying helmet and ran her fingers deep into the curls on top of his head. “I don’t love Baxter. I love you.”
Even though the sun roasted his cheeks, he smiled. This was what coming home was really about—kissing the girl you loved. He bent toward those pretty lips.
“Okay, you lunkheads, up and at ’em.”
Walt opened one eye. He had one hand under his meager pillow, the other buried in his own hair. Of all the lousy times for reveille.
The Charge of Quarters walked down the aisle, shook shoulders, and thumped backsides. “Mission today, you good-for-nothings. Rise and shine.” The sergeant relished this duty. When else could an enlisted man insult and abuse officers?
Walt groped for his wristwatch. Three o’clock? He pressed the cool glass to his cheek. Yeah, he was burning up again. All his covers were kicked off, even though his breath condensed in front of him. Before the Charge of Quarters could smack his bare feet, Walt swung them to the icy concrete floor and kicked aside a chunk of dried mud. Every muscle ached, down to his fingers and toes.
He popped a couple of aspirin into his mouth, grimaced at the bitter taste, and swallowed. The aspirin would knock out the fever before briefing, and if he could manage not to cough, he might get past the doc.
He couldn’t go home until the war was over, and the war wouldn’t be won nursing a cold in bed. Too bad his homecoming would be nothing like his dream. Frank and Jim were dead, Eddie Nakamura was locked up in a desert camp, and Allie wouldn’t be there. Nope, she ran her fingers through Baxter’s hair, if he ever let it get mussed up.
Walt coughed and groaned at the pain in his chest. That was new.
“Wow. That’s one bad cold.” Louis had wrinkles pressed into his cheek from the pillowcase.
“It’s not that bad.” He stood and closed his eyes against a rush of dizziness and guilt. Every day God made it harder to tell fibs. “No, it is bad, but I’ll get through.”
The aspirin worked, some hot tea with breakfast steamed the rattles from his chest, and the briefing knocked out any misgivings. When Colonel Armstrong pulled back the blue cloth at the front of the room, the men went wild.
Germany. For the first time, the Eighth would hit the enemy’s heartland, and the 306th had the honor of heading the force, with Colonel Armstrong in the lead plane. The men of the 306th would be the first Americans to bomb Nazi Germany. The red ribbon on the map ran round the continent, over the North Sea, to the shipyards at Vegesack, with the secondary target at the shipyards and docks at Wilhelms-haven.
No stupid chest cold would keep Walt from this historic mission. This was a story to tell his kids, or more likely, his nieces and nephews.
“Give us some milk, Floss.” Cracker patted the cow on the nose of the plane.
The rest of the crew followed, laughing and adjusting flight gear. “Make it a milk run.”
“We love ya, Floss.”
“Give Papa some milk.”
Walt smiled, although even his lips hurt. Morale had never been higher, thanks to Armstrong. Sure, the men groused about the strict discipline and training at first, but they flew better and they knew it.
“Okay, men.” Cracker clapped his hands together. “Germany. Today we’ll drop bombs right in der Führer’s face. Ruben, you got those coordinates dialed in?”
Abe grinned. “I’m aiming for his mustache.”
“We’ll blow it right off.” Cracker’s face lit up with his old luster. “We’ve had milk runs lately, and today won’t be any different, not with our captain at the helm.”
Captain—sure sounded good, as good as those double silver bars felt on his shoulders, but not as good as it felt to have a unified crew. He had never seen a man work as hard as Cracker had the last few weeks. When they weren’t flying a combat or practice mission, he studied the B-17 manual and racked up hours in the Link Trainer, which simulated instrument flying conditions. As Walt suspected, when the men saw their pilots work together, they rallied.
“What’s the Scripture for today, Preach?” Bill Perkins looped his yellow “Mae West” life preserver over his head.
Walt dug in the shin pocket of his olive drab flying suit— escape kit, bottle of aspirin, scrap of paper with Psalm 91 written out. He’d read it before, but no one tired of the promises of the Lord’s protection.
He watched the men climb into the Fort, coughed, and braced himself against the fuselage, his hand on the large blue squadron identification letters. Lord, please give me strength. I can’t deprive the men—or myself—of this mission.
What a long mission—the longest the Eighth had flown yet, three hundred miles to the target. At least the Jerries were caught off guard. They sent up plenty of flak but didn’t aim well, and compared to the fighters over France, these guys didn’t know what they were doing.
When the 306th reached Vegesack, solid clouds prevented bombing, so they turned for the secondary target of Wilhelmshaven, where fifty-five B-17s dropped their bombs from 25,000 feet through a hole in the undercast.
On the return flight the aspirin wore off, and Walt began to shiver. He poked two aspirin under his oxygen mask and choked them down dry.
Didn’t help. The shivers became shakes. The coughs ripped deeper into his lungs, and he had to take off his mask every once in a while to clear his mouth and nose of nasty brownish gunk.
Good thing he’d been flying all his life. Good thing Cracker could finally be trusted. Together they kept Flossie in the “combat box,” which had been developed by the 305th Bomb Group and lately adopted by the whole Eighth Air Force. Each group flew in a tight, staggered formation to maximize defensive firepower.
The English coast looked good. Walt could almost feel the pillow under his head, the heavy blankets over his frozen body. Flossie landed unharmed, and all sixteen planes from the 306th returned with only minor damage. Another milk run.
Half a dozen reporters greeted Flossie’s Fort. The crew cheered and hammed it up for the cameras, and Harry and Mario hoisted Walt up on their shoulders. He looked down, the ground blurred, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness.
“Hiya, Captain. How’d it go?”
Walt opened his eyes. A man in a brown suit circled him with a movie camera. What if he was in a newsreel and Allie saw him? Or his family? Had to
look healthier than he felt. He grinned. “We showed Hitler, showed him not to mess with the USA.”
The men hooted and hollered, and the camera wheeled to Cracker. Yeah, he’d look good on film.
J.P. shrugged off his parachute. “Wouldn’t that be something if we made a newsreel?”
“Your girlfriend would like that, Preach.” Mario jostled Walt as he and Harry headed for the truck. “See your ugly mug on the silver screen.”
Walt laughed, which churned up another gurgling mess of coughs. At least the coughing prevented more lies. He just couldn’t lie anymore. Hurt more than his chest. Allie called silence a truthful solution, but was it? Was it truthful when it perpetuated a lie?
The men lowered him to the ground, and he stumbled to the two-and-a-half ton truck. What do you want me to do, Lord? Am I supposed to tell them I’ve been lying to them all along? Lose their respect, this unity? Can’t do that.
Abe extended a hand to help Walt into the truck. “Your cough’s a lot worse.”
He climbed in, embarrassed that he needed help, that his knees buckled as he sat, that he hacked into his handkerchief and the men stared.
“I’ll talk to the driver,” Abe said. “We’ll swing by Sick Quarters first. My dad’s a doctor, and I know what rust-colored sputum means.”
Walt did too. He’d had pneumonia when he was eight. Only this felt worse.
30
Riverside
January 28, 1943
“Look how much scrap I got, Miss Miller.” Ricky Weber dumped the contents of his red wagon onto Groveside’s spotty lawn, where the Ladies’ Circle sorted the neighborhood collection.
“Oh my.” Allie knelt and rummaged through tin cans, tools, cookware, and what looked like a car fender.
“I guess I’ll be going now.” Ricky dropped the wagon handle, drew back his little shoulders, and walked away.
“Ricky, your wagon.”
“No, Miss Miller. That’s a whole lot of metal could be used for the war effort.”
Her heart ached at the quiver in the boy’s voice. The Webers couldn’t afford another wagon, and toys with metal or rubber parts weren’t being produced anyway. Ricky wouldn’t have a wagon to help with the next scrap drive.
She sprang to her feet. “Ricky, wait. Come back.”
He gave her a puzzled look and returned.
Allie picked up the wagon handle and held it out to the boy. “Your wagon is already part of the war effort.”
“It is?”
“Of course. Look how much scrap you collected. This wagon is as important as a jeep or a B-17.”
His smile exposed brand-new front teeth surrounded by gaps. “You think so?”
“I know so. Take your wagon, soldier, and bring more scrap.” She gave him what she hoped was a decent salute.
“Yes, sir—ma’am.” Ricky ran off, his wagon clattering behind him.
Allie smiled and knelt to sort the haul. A child should be able to keep his favorite toy. This war had caused enough loss.
Cressie came over and set down an orange crate. “Tin in this crate. Tin only.”
“Wow. Look at all this.” Daisy squatted next to Cressie.
“Thanks to Ricky and his trusty wagon.” Allie tossed cans into the crate, as well as a tin cookie jar, which reminded her how she gave up cookies for Lent last year.
“What are you giving up for Lent?” Allie asked. “I usually give up sweets, but with rationing, it’s hardly honest. The only thing I can think to give up is movies, but that seems too dear. I couldn’t stand to miss the newsreels.”
The only response was the fragrant rustle of eucalyptus leaves and the clunk of metal. Allie frowned and readjusted the silk scarf around her hair. She must have demonstrated the immaturity of her faith. “Maybe I should give up movies. Isn’t that the point? To give up something dear?” But how could she? She’d never spotted Walt, but seeing the Flying Fortresses land with four circular propeller blurs, seeing the men bundled in their flight gear, jubilant and victorious— those images reassured her.
“What do you give up for Lent, Cressie?”
“I don’t.”
“Me neither.” Daisy chewed her gum and blew a bubble.
Allie smiled and reached over to pop it. “Maybe you should give up gum.”
Daisy poked in the shreds of gum. “Honestly, what’s the point?”
For once, Allie was in the teaching role. “By giving up something we love, we show unity with Jesus in his sacrifice.”
“By giving up gum? Seems silly. If God wanted me to give up something, wouldn’t he want me to give it up for good, not just for forty days?”
Allie stared at Daisy, whose brown hair was tied up in a red polka-dotted scarf, leaving a round pompadour up front. “I’ve never thought of it that way before. But—but sacrifice is pleasing to the Lord. The Bible tells us to present our bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God.”
“Miss Allegra,” Cressie said. “Busy with your memory work again. Good for you. Good for you. And you’re right. Doing God’s will often means sacrifice.”
Daisy clasped her hands and gazed heavenward. “Not the gum, Lord. Not the gum.”
Allie smiled and added a tin pot to the crate.
“Silly, isn’t it?” Daisy said. “Giving up luxuries. Makes you feel holy without making you holy.”
Cressie got up and dragged over another crate. “Sometimes we do that, love. Sometimes we choose our sacrifices.”
“Choose our sacrifices?” Allie stared at the diamond ring, so heavy on her hand.
“Sure. We think we’re doing something to please God, but down deep we’re only out to please ourselves.”
“Ooh. King Saul and the Amalekites.” Daisy nodded to Allie. “Just taught it in Sunday school.”
“Refresh my memory,” Cressie said.
Daisy dropped a frying pan in the crate. “You see, the Lord told King Saul to slay the Amalekites, every last one of them, livestock too. But King Saul, he kept the best animals, said he wanted to offer them as a sacrifice to the Lord. But he disobeyed. Boy, was God mad—Samuel too. Samuel told the king, ‘Hath the Lord as great delight in burnt-offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice.’ That was the kids’ memory verse this week. Isn’t it a good one?” she asked with a snap of her gum.
“Yes.” Allie rolled her fingers on the edge of the crate. The sunlight reflected off the diamonds and pierced her eyes as the words pierced her soul. “‘To obey is better than sacrifice,’” she whispered.
Was she like King Saul?
Allie walked down Eighth Street that afternoon, her pocketbook tucked under the sleeve of her chestnut wool suit. Am I offering this sacrifice for you, Lord, to lead Baxter to you? Or is it for me, to gain my parents’ approval?
Oh Lord, you couldn’t possibly want me to break my engagement. She smiled and nodded at a lady who worked at the grocery, while a shiver ran up her arms.
If she broke her engagement . . .
The shiver coursed through her whole body. Her parents would be disgraced to have raised an unfaithful, disrespectful daughter. Oh, the shame, the scandal, how everyone would talk. The gossips would dissect poor Baxter. That awful Josie would feel vindicated. And what about Father and Baxter? They were business associates, close friends, almost family. Would their relationship be marred or shattered?
And the hassle of a broken engagement. Baxter’s house pressed closer to completion, built with Allie in mind, complete with a music room and a sewing room. And the wedding— the church was booked, the invitations were ordered, and Mother’s precious wedding dress lay in pieces.
The wedding dress . . .
She was supposed to be going to the dress shop. She stopped and looked around in the winter sunlight. She stood at the corner of Eighth and Lime. Miss Montclair’s shop was back between Orange and Lemon Streets. Miss Montclair . . .
Miss Montclair broke her engagement, and people
still talked more than twenty years later.
Allie sighed and turned back. Miss Montclair greeted her at the front door. “Ah, there you are, dearest Allie. I saw you pass right by. Brides do tend to be scatterbrained creatures. Well, come along. I have everything set out for you.” She showed Allie a chair at a long table heaped with bolts of lace.
Miss Montclair wore a long-sleeved charcoal jersey dress, which brought out her unusual gray eyes and the gray streaks in her black hair, worn back in a snood. She spread sketches of wedding gowns before Allie, each fashionable and distinctive, and Allie pointed to the middle one because it was in the middle. Then Miss Montclair held up bolts of lace to Mother’s wedding gown on a dress form and described the merits of each, and Allie selected the first because it was first.
“My, you decided quickly.” Miss Montclair rolled up a bolt of delicate Chantilly lace. “Newly engaged ladies are usually so giddy.”
“I’ve never been much of one for giddiness.” She studied the chosen sketch—the short, puffed sleeves, the nipped waist, the skirt with cascades of silk and lace. “Miss Montclair, are you happy?”
“Excuse me?”
“I—I’m sorry.” Allie bent to pick up her pocketbook and to conceal the rush of heat in her face. “That was a personal question and none of my business whatsoever.”
Miss Montclair chuckled, and Allie glanced up to her. Miss Montclair rested on the edge of the table, leaned back on her hands, and crossed her ankles—very Katharine Hepburn. “Your dear mother never understood me. So what is your question? Am I happy in my tragic poverty? Or am I happy as a pathetic old spinster?”
“As a spin—I mean . . .” Allie’s cheeks flamed.
“I know what you mean. Yes, I am happy, despite what Riverside society says. As for my poverty, I never wanted to run a citrus packing plant. Perhaps I should regret putting my money in stocks, but if I hadn’t, I never would have gained this.”