by Sarah Sundin
Louis cheered. “I told you it was good luck.”
“No such thing,” Walt said. “It was God’s mercy. Pray for more mercy. We’re in worse shape than before and a long way from home.”
“Allie, I thought you were volunteering today.”
She looked up from her desk to see Mother in the doorway. “I am but—”
“Goodness, you’re not even dressed. You’d better hurry. What’ll they say?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She squeezed her eyes shut, exhausted from hours of prayer.
“It always matters what people say.”
Allie turned back to the desk. “I’ll be down shortly.” She frowned at her own rudeness, but the urgency and sweetness of her prayer time lured her back into the Lord’s presence.
A sting on his face.
“Come on, Preach, don’t you dare leave us.”
Walt struggled to open his eyes.
“Come on.” Pete shook Walt’s shoulders. “You see the coast? We’re gonna make it, but you’ve got to stay awake.”
“Can’t.” His eyelids dropped like window shades.
“You have to.” J.P. kicked him in the leg. “Louis found an RAF airfield, Bill’s contacted them, but you need to land this plane.”
“Yeah,” Pete said. “What’ll they tell Emily if you don’t make it?”
“Allie.” Walt forced his eyes open. If he died, Betty would tell Allie. She took Frank and Jim’s deaths hard, and she barely knew them. How would she take Walt’s death? And what about Mom and Dad? And Jack would be the first to know, would have to break the news.
He shook his head hard enough to make his cheeks flap. “What’s our heading?”
“Can you see it?” J.P. said. “There’s the control tower.”
That tower perked him up better than a cup of coffee. Engine number four gave off smoke. “Come on, girl. Not much farther.”
The fuel gauges stood on empty. No time to circle the field. No time to wait for clearance. Bill Perkins fired two red flares out the radio room roof hatch to indicate wounded men on board.
Down came the landing gear. White sparkles appeared before Walt’s eyes. His approach was too fast, too low, and Flossie bounced hard.
The runway was short, built for fighters, trees at the end— and darkening. He groped for the brakes, but his foot wouldn’t move. Darker and darker.
Lord God, help us.
40
Riverside
Allie’s eyelids flickered along with the newsreel images until a warm drop trailed down her cheek.
She rose and fled the theater. In the ladies’ room she splashed water on her face in a vain attempt to stanch the tears. She was too drained from the previous night’s ordeal and a long day at March Field to control her emotions.
Daisy swung the door open. “Allie? Goodness. Figured something was wrong if you left in the middle of a newsreel. What’s the matter?”
She pulled herself together. “Nothing, really. Walt told me he has a girlfriend. I shouldn’t be upset. I should be pleased for him.”
“No! Allie, no.” Daisy clasped her in a tight hug. “What are you going to do?”
Daisy’s despair startled Allie into composure. She drew back and offered a smile. “I’ll be fine in time. I’m not the first woman with a broken heart.”
Daisy harrumphed and crossed her arms. “Isn’t that just like a man?”
Allie sighed. She didn’t want to make Walt out to be a villain. “I’ll be fine. But now I—I’m worried about him.” She hesitated. She’d never mentioned her dreams to anyone but Walt. “I—well, I have dreams when he flies missions, and yesterday’s was a nightmare.”
Daisy raised half a smile. “Honey, you watch too many newsreels. Don’t worry about that man ever again.”
Allie coaxed out a smile. “Let’s go watch the movie.”
How could she help but worry? How would she ever know if Walt was all right? He wasn’t writing anymore, and she couldn’t ask Betty without breaking her promise to Walt.
She led the way back into the theater. Lord, please let me know how he is. Please keep him safe in your arms.
The man’s voice was familiar. Deep and low. Dad? No, not Dad.
Walt tried to open his eyes. Nothing happened.
“Walt?” The man squeezed Walt’s left hand. “Nurse, I think he’s waking up. Walt? Come on, rise and shine. You’ve been in bed too long, lazybones.”
Lazybones? That’s what Mom called the boys in the morning. The voice—Ray? Jack? Yeah, Jack.
He tried every one of his facial muscles until he found the ones that operated his eyelids. Light stabbed his eyeballs. He cringed, then opened his eyes again. A face came into focus with black hair and a big grin under a mustache.
“Lazybones?” Walt croaked out. “You’re the one too lazy to shave.”
Jack’s laugh tumbled out. “You’re okay. Thank God, you’re okay.”
He was okay? Why wouldn’t he be okay? His eyelids flopped shut, and he forced them up again. Why was he so tired? So numb?
“You had me worried. Sweating out the mission at the control tower, counting the planes as they came in. No Flossie. Sure was relieved when we got the call that you landed at that RAF field. When I got down there and saw your plane—wow. That was some fine flying you did. I don’t know how you got that Fort back.”
Oh yeah, the mission to Bremen. The nose, Louis, Abe, Cracker, the engines, the wounds, the guns, the German, J.P. “I didn’t do it. God did.”
“That’s the truth.” Jack’s voice choked.
Walt looked around. His eyes took moments to adjust to each sight. White walls. A blonde in a white uniform at the foot of his bed. “Where am I?”
“The hospital in Oxford. You’ve been out for two days. It’s Monday the nineteenth.”
“Oxford?”
“They—they brought you here for surgery.”
Surgery. Oh yeah, his arm. They’d have to get the bullets out. No, they’d gone through. His gaze drifted to his right arm.
Jack’s hand clapped on Walt’s cheek and turned his face. “Walt, look at me. I want you to look at me.”
He blinked at the intensity in Jack’s gray blue eyes.
“You’re alive. That’s the important thing. You’re alive.”
He became aware of dull pain the whole length of his arm. “Yeah. Alive.”
Jack’s face twisted, and he gripped Walt’s jaw. “You lost a lot of blood. A lot. They told me you might not make it. But you did. That’s what matters.”
“That’s what I prayed for.” And for the others to make it. He frowned. “The others?”
“It was—it was a bad mission. Worst yet by far. Sixteen Forts went down.”
“Sixteen?”
Jack let his hand drop. “Yeah, and well—you’ve got to know the 306th took the worst of it. Ten—you folks lost ten B-17s.”
“No. Ten? Can’t be. That means—no—only sixteen made it back?” Walt slammed his eyes shut, slammed his mind shut. Ten Forts, a hundred men from Thurleigh.
“Afraid so. I’m sorry. And a lot were hit as hard as Flossie. You should have gone down too. You know that, don’t you?”
Walt’s head swam with the losses. “My crew?”
“They’ll be okay, thanks to the Lord’s grace and your piloting. Abe’s got a big bump on his head and the doctors’ embroidery all over his torso. Louis? He’ll get lots of girls to sign his casts. They’ll be back to duty before you know it, but ground jobs. They’ve done their share.”
“Cracker?”
Jack’s cheek twitched. “They shipped him home today for more surgery. The doctors say he may never see again.”
“Oh no.”
“The good news is he’s going home. So are you.”
“Me? Why? Broken bones, stitches. I can fly.”
Jack’s hand clamped on Walt’s cheek again, and his gaze bore down. “You’re alive, remember? That’s what matters.”
Walt straine
d against his brother’s hand. He was alive, but . . .
“There was a lot of damage. A lot. Bones missing from your hand. Your elbow was shattered. Too much time without blood flow. The tourniquet saved your life but . . .”
“But what, Jack?” he said through clenched teeth. “Tell me or let me look.”
“Walt, they had to take your arm.”
“My arm? Take it where?”
Jack sighed and lowered his hand. “They had to amputate above the elbow.”
“Amputate?” No. Impossible. His elbow hurt, his forearm, his hand. He could feel his fingers. His stomach churned, and he looked to his arm. Where was it? “No. Dear God, no.”
“You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
His entire insides recoiled. His arm lay on top of the blanket, but it ended. Stopped. Masses of white bandages formed a knob where his elbow should have been. No, he could feel it, feel his elbow.
“I’m so sorry, Walt, but you’re alive.”
A stump. He had a stump. Like a tree, chopped down, sawed in half. A stump. Like the Great War vets, like the old-timers from the Spanish-American War, like crotchety Old Man Horton, who lived alone in a run-down shed outside town. Children feared him, teenagers harassed him, women pitied him, and men ignored him.
Vile sickness wrenched his stomach.
“Nurse?” Jack said.
A hand on his shoulder rolled him to his side just in time for him to retch into an enameled pan. A stump. A stump.
“I’m like—” He spat out the last of the bile. “I’m like— like Old Man Horton.”
“Don’t say that. You won’t be. You know what Grandpa always said. Horton was an angry, unhappy man before he went to Cuba. Yeah, his injury made him bitter, but he was halfway there beforehand.”
The nurse wiped Walt’s face. A stump. His right hand— gone.
He closed his eyes and pressed his head back on the pillow. This had to be a dream, a nightmare, and when he woke up he’d be whole again.
“I don’t know what to say, Walt. I wish this hadn’t happened. I wish I could take your place. I sure wish Dad or Ray were here instead of me. I’m the one who almost flunked out of seminary. They’d know what to say.”
“Would they?” He opened his eyes to see Jack’s face warped with concern. The nurse pressed a pill between his lips and handed him a glass. The water scorched its way down his throat. “What could they say? I—I lost my arm. My arm, Jack. My right arm. It’s gone. My right arm. I can’t—I can’t write. Oh no, I can’t fly. I can’t fly, can’t push the throttles.”
His chest heaved. No—no, he wasn’t going to cry like a stupid baby.
“You’re an engineer. Thank the Lord for that. You can still use a slide rule, can’t you? You’ll be fine. Really, you’ll be fine.” Jack brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. No, he wasn’t crying too, was he?
“Yeah? Who’ll hire a cripple?” He screwed his eyes shut, hating the dampness, hating the huskiness in his voice. Twice in one year he’d cried. War was supposed to make him a man, not a blubbering baby.
“You’re not a cripple. You’re a war hero. You wouldn’t believe the reporters beating down the doors, waiting for you to wake up. And your crew too. You saved their lives.”
“I’m no hero.” Walt lifted his hand to wipe his eyes. No—no hand. He had to use his left hand, felt clumsy.
“Sure, you are. I bet you’ll have twenty job offers before you get home and at least that many marriage proposals.”
Marriage. Walt stared at the clump of bandages. Any self-respecting woman would be repulsed. Allie would be. Good thing she had a whole man to marry.
41
Riverside
May 6, 1943
Allie checked the list in her hand: florist, photographer, bakery, printer, Mission Inn, St. Timothy’s. Only the dress shop remained. It had been a long day, and her feet and head ached.
She caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window. At least she still looked fresh in her peach linen suit. To make the old outfit more fashionable, she had added four box pleats to the skirt and epaulettes to the shoulders.
She paused outside the door, took a deep breath, and plunged into the shop.
Miss Montclair knelt in front of a dress form in the back of the store. She wore a slim dress with broad, vertical black and white stripes. Few women could wear such a bold dress, much less dominate it as Agatha Montclair did.
“Excuse me?” Allie said.
Miss Montclair’s eyes widened. She rose and set aside the tape measure. “Dearest Allie, I must say I’m astonished to see you.”
“Oh? Mother made an appointment for me.”
“Yes, but you haven’t kept an appointment for months.”
“I’m sorry. I truly am. But—well, I’m here today.”
“Yes, I see.” Miss Montclair’s gaze grew steelier with each step. “Your mother will be quite pleased.”
“No.” She tried not to make an unladylike face. “She’ll be most displeased.”
“Is that right?” A smile cut a rocky canyon in Miss Montclair’s face. “Come along. Let me show you what I’ve done.”
Oh no. Mother’s wedding gown.
Miss Montclair disappeared in a black and white blur behind a maroon curtain. She returned with a garment bag, which she hooked over a dressing room door. She glanced at Allie and chuckled. “Oh, if you could see your face.”
Allie set down her pocketbook and joined Miss Montclair, who lifted the bag and removed a white gown with a deep, pointed lace collar, a blousy bodice, and narrow, elbow-length sleeves.
“Mother’s gown! You put it back together.”
“I thought you’d like that.”
“I love it. You have no idea how thrilled I am.” Allie fingered the delicate fabric, searched for signs of damage, and found none. “You did a beautiful job. Oh, I’m so pleased. The thought of Mother’s dress ruined for—” She looked up to Miss Montclair’s satisfied face. “How did you know I broke my engagement?”
“I had my suspicions. After our last conversation, I halted work. Then you stopped coming to your appointments, and Mary started avoiding me at church. She’s rather upset, isn’t she?”
Allie lifted the lacy sleeve and sighed. “Upset? To be upset would mean some degree of acceptance. No, she keeps making wedding plans, convinced I have cold feet. But today I cancelled all the arrangements. Now she’ll have to accept it.”
“Good for you.” Miss Montclair scrutinized Allie’s face. “Are you happy, dear?”
Her smile rose from a peaceful place in her heart, untouched by the chaos at home. “I am. I’ll be much happier when my parents take me seriously, but I made the right decision. I can’t describe how wonderful it feels.”
“You’ve forgotten, dear. I already know.” She returned the gown to the bag. “Is there another man waiting in the wings?”
Wings—what an unfortunate choice of words. Allie managed to smile. “No. This is between Baxter and the Lord and me.”
On the bus ride home, her feelings for Walt disrupted her peace—unremitting love, loneliness for his friendship, and nagging worry about his fate.
Her dreams had stopped. Had God released her from her responsibility? Had Flossie been damaged? Did Walt have a break from missions? Had he been transferred to a ground position? Or had something horrible happened to him? Betty hadn’t mentioned him in her letters, but then she never did.
Allie could still see the headline: “Forts flatten Nazi factory.” Then the subhead: “Sixteen B-17s lost.”
Sixteen! She’d never read of losses so high. Why, Walt’s chances . . .
No, she wouldn’t allow herself to worry. Besides, many of the men survived as prisoners of war. Some even managed to avoid capture and work their way to England via the underground. If anyone could make it back, Walt could.
However, the thought of Walt in a prison camp or hiding from Nazi soldiers in a French cellar made her shudder.
Allie
stepped off the bus and walked up the long driveway under rustling citrus leaves. “Oh Lord, wherever he is, whatever has happened to him, please keep him safe. Please comfort him and strengthen him.”
Over dinner, Allie steered conversation away from wedding plans and toward the resolution of the coal strike that had infuriated Father.
After a peaceful meal, Mother brought in fresh strawberries from the Victory Garden for dessert. “So, Allie, you had several appointments today. Did you keep them?” Her voice was stiffened by too many broken appointments.
Allie nodded, her mouth full of a strawberry she should have sliced.
Mother’s smile electrified. “See, Baxter, I told you she’d come around.”
Oh dear. She misunderstood. Allie chewed vigorously to clear her mouth.
“I told you she’d come to her senses, didn’t I?” Father said with a smile Allie had missed the last few months. “I didn’t have to change the will after all. Baxter, you still have that ring?”
“Of course.”
Allie swallowed too large a bite, and the acid ate into her throat. “The will?”
Mother poured cream over her berries. “You didn’t leave us much of a choice, dear. We were going to tell you next week when it’s finalized, to give you an incentive to do what’s proper.”
“What—what did you do?”
Mother’s smile fluttered. “Well, Baxter is now the sole heir of our estate. You told your father it was only right. But it’s nothing to worry about anymore.”
“The—the estate?” Her voice strangled in her throat. “You mean the company—just the company.”
“The whole estate.” Father lowered his spoon and the corners of his mouth.
It couldn’t be. He didn’t want to leave his company to another man, even though there was no other man. But the whole estate? It couldn’t be. “You disinherited me?”
“No, no, no,” Mother said. “When you marry Baxter, you’ll inherit as before.”
Allie’s breath bounced off the top of her lungs as on a too firm mattress. “You chose Baxter over your only daughter? You—you disinherited me?”
Father’s gaze hardened. “Not if you marry Baxter as you promised.”