by Sarah Sundin
“Excuse me?” The blood flushed from her face.
He picked up a pincushion from the cutting table and studied it. “Things aren’t going well over there.”
“Over where?” she asked, but she knew the answer.
“They lose almost 10 percent of their planes on each mission. Who could survive twenty-five missions?”
The coldness slapped Allie in the face and made her father’s image waver in her eyes. “What an awful thing to say, and I don’t like what you’re insinuating. Nothing is going on.”
“I’m not blind. I wasn’t fooled when he asked Baxter’s permission to write you. I should have spoken up, but I mistakenly trusted you. I see what’s happening. I see how you light up when his letters come, how they get thicker and more frequent.”
“It—it’s not what you think. We’re friends, but nothing more.” She could dream of his love, but it was nothing but a dream.
“I won’t let you hand over my company to that man—or anyone but Baxter.”
That was the problem. She would inherit the company, and if she married . . .
“Baxter Hicks is the only man I trust to run my company. He’s earned the right to own it through his hard work, skill, and loyalty.”
“I understand. I do. I agree he should run the company, but I refuse to marry him.”
“You don’t understand. I will not give my company to anyone but Baxter.” Father slammed the pincushion onto the table.
In shock, Allie watched him storm from the room. She’d never seen her father, her defender, so angry. Would he deprive her of the company? Could he?
She rubbed her forehead and closed up the Singer for the night. Her father’s point was clear. She couldn’t have both Walt and Miller Ball Bearings. What a strange choice—a man whose love she could only fantasize about, a man in constant mortal danger thousands of miles away—or the company she had always expected to own, never with anticipation, but with assurance of lifelong security and position.
For the first time, she saw the dark side of her daydreams. Her parents would never accept Walt, never love him as they loved Baxter. Beyond the fantasy, what could her future hold with Walt?
She sat at the table and rested her forehead in her hands. Never had she imagined a future much different from her present. Privilege and luxury meant nothing—she could learn to live a more modest life. But how could she bear a life without her parents’ favor?
Allie shivered. She loved Walt, but did she love him that much?
37
Thurleigh
April 17, 1943
Walt sipped his coffee and grimaced at the gritty brew. He had to choke down a cup to stay awake for the briefing.
“How’s the grub?” Cracker set his tray across from Walt, and the rest of the crew joined him at the table.
“Eggs are good. Coffee’s bad.”
J.P.’s upper lip curled enough to show he didn’t trust Walt’s word even about the food.
Walt sighed. As a boy, he’d spend hours constructing a tower of blocks, and then knock it down with a sweep of his hand. Trust, also, took a whole lot longer to build than to destroy.
“Say, Preach, I hear you’ve got a big date tonight,” Abe said.
“Um, yeah.” His stomach contracted around the scrambled eggs he’d swallowed. Why did tonight’s date make him more nervous than today’s mission?
Louis pulled a bottle of Tabasco sauce from his pocket and sprinkled some on his eggs. “Where are you taking her?”
“Movie in town, I guess.”
“She’ll like that,” Cracker said. “Chance to show off her American officer.”
Walt spooned some oatmeal in his mouth and grunted. He never thought a girl would want to show him off, and now it bugged him. People called her Walt’s girl, she’d given him an unmistakable “kiss me” look when he took her home last Saturday, and it all bothered him. However, he only had three more missions to fly. The whole thing would fall apart when he went home. In the meantime he should enjoy the attention, but he couldn’t get Allie off his mind.
Her letters were still coming. Not much longer. Surely she’d read his last, stupid lie by now. That thought was bitterer than the coffee.
Riverside
Allie savored the cool night air. It was time to go in, but she hadn’t enjoyed an evening on the porch with her family in ages, and she didn’t want it to end.
Baxter was home with a cold, and she had ventured outside, determined to flee at the first mention of weddings. She’d been spared. They discussed the meeting in Tunisia of U.S. troops from the west and British troops from the east. Before long, the Axis would be driven from North Africa. Mother and Allie talked about how the recent rationing of fresh meat, butter, cheese, and canned goods affected menu planning, and Father added his opinion of Roosevelt’s freeze on wages and prices.
“I think I shall retire,” Mother said as she always did around ten o’clock.
“Me too.” Allie gave her parents an appreciative smile and led the way into the house. She had two letters from Walt, but she kept a casual demeanor when she picked up her mail, as she had ever since Father confronted her.
She’d decided her future needn’t be bleak. When Walt came home, he could be stationed anywhere in the country, so their relationship would be based primarily on letters for the duration. Perhaps Walt could come to love her, and perhaps her parents could come to accept him. If God performed one miracle, why couldn’t he perform two?
Once upstairs, Allie changed into her nightgown and nestled into her bed with a pile of down pillows behind her back.
The letters were rather old, one from March 19, the other from March 21. She propped the letters on her knees and smiled. They wrote every other day now. Would they make the leap to daily letters?
He would have received a few letters written after she’d broken up with Baxter in February. Would he notice a change in tone? Would he notice she no longer mentioned Baxter or wedding plans?
Allie opened the first letter:
Dear Allie,
What a great day. Why not start with the letter I got from you? Whatever step of obedience you took, it must have been good, because you sound happier than you have for some time. I’m glad you chose to obey God.
We flew an outstanding mission today. Best bombing we’ve ever done. Believe everything you read in the papers.
Now for some news—my brother Jack is here. His group is coming to our part of the world, and his squadron will train at our base. It’s great to see him. I received plenty of news from home and letters so fresh you could smell the ink.
We stayed up late talking, and it’s almost tomorrow. I’m writing by flashlight, or torch as they call it here.
I had a flash of insight tonight. Jack has a way about him that draws people, and he’s never had to work at it. Late tonight I watched him talk with Cracker. I realized I envied Cracker’s charisma as I envied Jack’s, and I was just as much to blame as Cracker for the friction between us.
Wow, I shouldn’t write so late at night. Another crazy look into the head of Walter Novak. My flashlight battery is dying. Earl Butterfield just threw something at me—you don’t want to know what—and said my pen scratches make his head throb. More likely it’s the whiskey.
We don’t fly tomorrow, so I can get some sleep. You can too. Sleep well, Miss Miller.
“I will.” Allie laid a kiss on his signature. How wonderful that Jack was in England. What a comfort his brother must be.
Jack set a hand on Walt’s shoulder. “Now, when you push the wheel forward, the plane goes down. Pull it back, you go up. Forward—down, backward—up. Got it?”
Walt glared at his brother, seated next to him to observe the briefing, but Jack’s grin made him laugh. He would never live down his first flying lesson with Grandpa. On takeoff, ten-year-old Walt had pushed the stick forward. Why didn’t the plane go forward? Ray and Jack had rolled in the pasture grass, howling with laughter.
“I�
�ll try to remember,” Walt said.
“Good. I like having my kid brother around.” Jack sat back and crossed his arms.
For once, Walt didn’t mind being the kid brother. Jack had come with Walt’s crew on a week’s liberty to London early in the month when Flossie was in for an engine overhaul, and it was great getting to know his brother again as a grown man and fellow soldier.
Everything was looking up. Even though the 306th lost four planes over Antwerp on April 5, the worst was behind them. Four new bomb groups gearing up for battle, adequate replacement aircraft and crews, nose-mounted .50s in the B-17s, and three fighter groups with P-47s—Hitler didn’t stand a chance.
Allie opened the second letter, and it was far too short. She hoped Walt wouldn’t be so busy with Jack that he wouldn’t have time for her. A selfish thought, but she cherished his letters as she cherished him. What a joy to love him, to admit it and savor it.
Every day her excitement grew. Walt would be home soon, and then . . .
Allie’s heart went into a brief palpitation. It was one thing to make fantasy plans and another to put them into action. Events tended to turn out different than expected.
Walt struggled with the controls. The new formation would have been difficult anyway, but too many rookies made it downright tough.
Bomber Command kept tweaking the combat box to minimize losses. The lead squadron usually flew the low position, with the other squadrons in a diagonal line echeloned up and toward the sun. The lead bore the brunt of the Luftwaffe attack, earning the nickname “Purple Heart Corner.”
Today they flew a “vertical wedge,” like an arrowhead tilted to a forty-five degree angle. The 91st Group flew the tip of the arrow, the 306th behind at the lower corner, and the upper corner contained planes from both groups. The 303rd and 305th flew a similar wedge behind them. Any Germans foolish enough to attack the leaders would be demolished by the guns of the lower group on the way out. Flossie’s Fort flew in the middle of the low group with rookies on either side.
“Tourists at three o’clock level,” Pete called from the right waist.
Walt let out a low whistle. They were over the Frisian Islands in the North Sea, still an hour from the target at the Focke-Wulf factory in Bremen.
Behind Walt, J.P. swiveled his top turret around. “They’re early, as if they knew we were coming.”
“Thirty, forty Fw 190s,” Pete said. “Just watching us.”
“Yeah, but we’ve got 115 Forts,” Mario said from the tail. “That’s eleven hundred guns, Jerry. Eleven hundred. And I’ve got two of them.”
Cracker turned to Walt. Above the oxygen mask, his cheeks lifted. “Tagger’s going to add a few more swastikas to Flossie’s nose today.”
“I’ll beat him,” Al said from down in the ball turret, “if the cowards come closer and let me take a shot.”
Walt let Flossie drift a bit north to avoid the rookie to his right, who was trying to hide from the schoolyard bully. Unlike his gunners, Walt was in no hurry for a fight. Let the Fw 190s track them for a while, burn off fuel, and lose nerve at the sight of the largest force ever dispatched by the Eighth Air Force.
The attack was inevitable. No need to rush it.
Dear Allie,
I have mixed feelings about writing this letter, and you may have mixed feelings about receiving it.
First the good news. Remember those talks we had about how hopeless I was with women? You’ll be glad to know those days are over. I didn’t mention Emily earlier, because I didn’t want to get your hopes up—or mine. Emily’s a local Red Cross girl who serves coffee and doughnuts after missions. Her best friend, Margaret, is Cracker’s girlfriend, and Cracker said Emily had a crush on me. After I got over my shock, I asked her out. She’s a real nice girl, and—hard as it is to believe—she’s crazy about me.
Now the bad news. I’m afraid Emily’s a bit jealous of my friendship with you. She appreciates how you listen to me, but she feels that should be her role now, and I agree. I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss our correspondence, or how much your friendship has meant to me. But soon you’ll be busy with your husband and your new home, and you won’t have time to write scruffy pilots anyway.
I’ll always remember what a special woman you are, and how your letters, packages, and most of all your prayers encouraged me. I’ll still pray for you, especially for God to bless your marriage.
Your friend always, Walter Novak
Good news? Allie clapped her hand over her mouth. No, it was all bad news. Her stomach churned, and she pressed her hand more firmly over her mouth so she wouldn’t become sick.
Walt had a girlfriend. No romantic meeting at the train station, no sweet kiss by the orange tree, no . . . no . . .
His handwriting blurred, danced, taunted her with what would never be. Some pretty English girl enjoyed his smile, his embrace, and his kiss. Allie never would.
Tears slithered down her cheeks. She curled up on her bed, one hand clutching her stomach, the other her mouth. No more letters, no more of Walt’s humor and openness and understanding. Far worse than the loss of a silly and unfounded fantasy was the loss of a real and precious friendship.
A yawning chasm opened before her—life without Walt.
A trickle ran down the side of Walt’s oxygen mask. He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, but the leather glove only smeared the sweat.
“One o’clock level,” J.P. called. “Heading for the rookie in front of us.”
Walt blinked instinctively when he flew through a black cloud from a spent shell. Flak was “so thick you could walk on it,” as the men said. The Germans had masses of antiaircraft guns in Bremen to protect the port and the aircraft plant.
Usually the fighters avoided their own flak, but this bunch pressed through it. Stupid, but strategic. On the bomb run, the B-17s spread out in a long trail and lost the clustering of machine guns they had in formation.
Was Allie praying for him? Did he even deserve her prayers after the tale he told her? She didn’t know he’d lied, but God knew.
The Fw 190 rolled past the rookie, and Flossie vibrated from her own guns. Smoke poured out of the rookie’s number two engine, then orange flames.
“Come on, put it out, put it out,” Walt said.
The rookie lost altitude, slipped back, and as Walt coasted past, flames engulfed the left wing. “They’re bailing out,” Harry said from the left waist. “I count three chutes. Four, five.”
“There goes another Fort,” Mario said in a flat voice. “Direct flak hit, took off the tail. Too far off, can’t see chutes.”
Walt shook his head. That made four B-17s the 306th had lost so far, and they hadn’t even reached the target.
“Watch it, Bayou Boy,” Abe said. Down in the nose, Abe would be hunkered over the Norden bombsight, while Louis operated the nose gun just to the right over his head—something he’d never done before.
The interphone picked up Louis’s swearing. “Unless you want those surgeon’s hands filled with Nazi lead, I’d—”
“Come on, boys,” Walt said. “Interphone discipline.”
A Flying Fortress from the 91st spun far below, with three fighters all over her, and Walt forced himself to take a deep breath. He’d never seen such a savage attack.
“Bombs away,” Abe called.
Flossie rose as five 1,000-pound general purpose bombs dropped to German soil 25,000 feet below.
“Let’s go home, folks.” Walt turned off the autopilot and pulled Flossie back into formation at the Rally Point. The low squadron of the 91st looked almost obliterated, and the 306th had an awful lot of holes.
Flak burst closer, closer. Flossie shuddered harder with each burst. Walt patted the wheel. “Come on, girl, don’t be scared.”
Another burst. Black as Satan’s heart, red flames straight from the pit he lived in. The blast slammed Walt back in his seat. Shrapnel rained on the cockpit window. Cracker screamed. J.P. screamed. Walt heard himself scream t
oo.
38
Allie rolled over in bed, and her hand landed on the damp spot on her sheet where she’d cried herself to sleep. She blinked in the darkness. No sliver of light peeked around the blackout curtains.
The prompting was familiar and unmistakable. The Lord wanted her to pray.
Did Emily pray for Walt? Did God prompt her to pray for him? Could she possibly love him as much as Allie did?
She groaned. Now was not the time for grief or jealousy or resentment. Now was the time to obey the Lord’s call. She tucked her hand under her pillow and prayed.
Even if Walt didn’t want her friendship, he still needed her prayers.
Walt gasped. The cockpit windows were cracked and scratched, but intact. He glanced down the nose in front of him. Shards of Plexiglas. All that was left.
“Abe! Louis!” He spun around. “J.P.—”
“I’m going.” J.P. stepped off the turret platform, grabbed a portable oxygen bottle, and dropped into the crawlway between the pilots’ seats that led to the nose. Frigid wind blustered through the nose and up the crawlway.
Louis hated to wear his parachute. What if—no, Walt wouldn’t even let himself think it.
Flossie lost airspeed. Walt pushed the throttles forward to stay in formation. The controls and engines were undamaged, but the shattered nose caused drag.
“They’re here.” J.P.’s voice crackled on the interphone. “Alive, but wounded. Must have gotten blown back by the explosion, blacked out.”
“Thank you, Lord,” Walt said.
“We’ve got to get them out of this wind,” J.P. said.