by Sarah Sundin
Violet let out a low laugh. “I’d expect a pilot to think so. Do you fly fighters or bombers or . . . ?”
“Fighters. I’m in the 357th Fighter Group. We’ve been assigned to the Ninth Air Force in England, the tactical force. The Eighth Air Force is strategic.”
“What’s the difference?”
The cracks in his control filled in again. “Think of it this way. Tactical is for today. Strategic is for tomorrow.”
“All right.” She nodded, head tilted.
“A tactical air force usually supports ground troops, shooting up airfields and trucks and gun positions, meeting today’s needs. A strategic air force knocks out the enemy’s war machine—the factories he needs to keep fighting tomorrow. In the Eighth Air Force, the fighter aircraft escort the bombers.”
“I understand now. So, are you an ace?”
That hit another sore spot. “Haven’t seen combat. And they made me a wingman, so I might never make ace.”
“A wingman supports the other pilot, right?”
“The leader. Yeah.”
“That sounds important, protecting and guarding.”
Adler’s hands clenched in his pockets. “Second class. It’s a second-class job.”
Her smile widened. “As Jesus said, ‘The last shall be first, and the first last.’ You’re in a wonderful position indeed.”
He knew better than to argue with a woman quoting Scripture. “Yeah.”
But if that were true, he would have been first long ago.
The wind curled around the stern end of the superstructure, and Adler charged into it.
“Paxton!”
Adler followed the sound of the voice over the railing to the decks below, which dropped off like steps at the stern of the ship.
“Paxton! D’you hear me?” someone barked on the promenade deck right below. But that area was for enlisted men, and no enlisted man in the 357th would talk to Adler like that.
“Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant.”
Adler sucked in a breath. He knew that voice.
A soldier turned from the railing below. A dark-haired soldier with a familiar tan complexion and a familiar stocky build.
“No.” Adler’s voice huffed out. Clay? It couldn’t be. Clay was in Texas, in college, studying to be a physician.
“Get your tail in here,” the sergeant barked.
“Yes, Sergeant.” That gait. No mistaking it.
Adler darted back from the railing, out of his younger brother’s line of vision.
“Daddy and Mama can’t protect you forever,” Clay had said that night, his eyes black with rage. “If you ever come back home, I’ll kill you.”
He would. He’d finish the job he’d started. Adler didn’t intend to give him the chance.
“Adler?”
Violet.
She stood there, staring at him.
He forced calm onto his face, then pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Remembered something I’ve got to do. See you later.”
Adler marched away from Violet, away from Clay, away from his memories.
If only he could get away from what he’d done.
3
HMT Queen Elizabeth
Greenock, Scotland
Wednesday, December 1, 1943
Violet closed her suitcase and patted her overcoat pocket to make sure Elsa was safe.
In their stateroom, Kitty and Jo and Winnie chattered. “Scotland! I hope we see men in kilts.” “Do you think we’ll meet the king?” “The air raids are over, aren’t they?” “I brought Pride and Prejudice. Imagine reading Jane Austen in England.”
Violet kept her face toward the bunk, put her helmet over her Red Cross cap, and blinked away the moisture in her eyes.
“You’re quiet, Violet,” Jo said.
“Making sure I packed everything.” She was supposed to be excited, not homesick. This was what she’d worked for, the closest she could get to being a missionary with the war on.
If only Dennis Reeves hadn’t abandoned the dream of missions that had led to their engagement. Then they would have been serving abroad well before the United States entered the war. As Adler had said, “Boys destroy.”
A rap on the open stateroom door. “Ready, ladies?”
Kitty pulled her helmet over her brown curls and saluted the Red Cross chaperone. “Yes, sir! Mr. Porter, sir! Private Kelly reporting for duty, sir.”
Long-suffering Mr. Porter shook his gray head. “The Nazis are quaking in fear.”
Even Violet laughed.
“Come along, ladies.” Mr. Porter motioned them into the passageway.
Violet slung her purse and musette bag and gas mask across her chest and picked up her suitcase. She peeked under the bunks, but nothing had been left behind.
In the passageway two dozen Red Cross volunteers tramped along, looking for all the world like GIs, if not for skirts, curls, and lipstick.
Violet stroked the polished wood paneling as she walked. Her brother Karl would love to get his woodworking tools on bird’s-eye maple like this.
Her throat swelled. Maybe she should follow Adler’s advice—if it hurts, don’t think about it. But why would she want to stop thinking about the people she loved?
Someone bumped her and apologized, and Violet said, “That’s all right.” And it was. She’d be all right.
The throng of officers and Red Cross girls climbed the broad elegant staircase in the middle of the ship. The ladies had been billeted on the deck that would have housed first-class passengers in peacetime.
She scanned for Adler once again. She hadn’t seen him since Thanksgiving. Hardly surprising given the quantity of troops aboard, but disappointing.
Most men stretched taller when they talked to her, stood on steps, lifted their chins. But Adler looked her straight in the eye, unfazed by her six feet of height.
And that sad air of mystery about him.
Why had he left so abruptly, ashen faced?
Violet shook herself and climbed the final steps onto the promenade deck. She’d never see him again anyway.
“Stay together, ladies.” In the crowd of GIs, Mr. Porter waved his hand overhead. “If you get separated and catch different ferries to shore, meet at the Red Cross booth on the pier.”
Violet made her way along the covered promenade deck with its banks of long painted-over windows. Cool air flowed through the opening for the gangway, relieving the stuffiness.
Mr. Porter paused at the top of the gangway. “Let this group pass so we can stay together.”
“A gal could get claustrophobic in here.” Tiny Jo looked pale, walled in by the crowd.
Violet didn’t have that problem, but she offered Jo a reassuring smile. “We’ll be on our way soon. Take deep breaths.”
From the other direction, a group of men filed onto the gangway. They wore pilot’s caps.
Violet’s gaze flew over the men. She recognized a few faces from New York, including that horrid Riggs, who was busy joking with a friend, thank goodness.
There was Adler. He had his head down and his collar up, as if he didn’t want to be seen.
“Adler,” she called.
His gaze jerked up. After a bewildering long pause, a smile twitched and he worked his way over to her. “Hi, Violet. Good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too.” Why did she feel like an awkward schoolgirl all of a sudden?
“Listen, I apologize for how I ran off the other day.” He gave her a sheepish look and adjusted the duffel bag over his shoulder.
“It’s all right. I understand.” Although she didn’t.
“Thanks.” He flashed that great grin. “You and Elsa have a good time in jolly old England, you hear?”
“We will.” She smiled, longing to wish him so much more than a good time—to pray for his healing and joy and safety and success. “I’ll be praying for you.”
“Thanks.” He tipped his cap to her. “Bye, now.”
“Good-bye.” He didn
’t say he’d pray for her too. Not that she selfishly wanted his prayers, but only a hint that he might know the Lord. God, please be with that man.
“Follow me, ladies.” Mr. Porter led the way.
Violet stepped outside and had her first glimpse of a foreign country. Across the gray waters of the Firth of Clyde, heavy dark clouds pressed low over flat green hills. It was pretty in a brooding sort of way, but it wasn’t . . . home.
For the first time since she was a child, Violet felt very small.
Raydon Army Airfield, Suffolk, England
Thursday, December 2, 1943
So this would be home. Adler peered over Nick Westin’s shoulder out the back of the canvas-covered Army truck.
Through the drizzle, gray-green forms rose from the mud, hangars and huts and utility buildings.
“Notice what’s missing?” Luis Camacho said from the bench across from Adler.
Riggs leaned out the back and swore. “Where are the airplanes?”
“Airplanes for pilots?” Lt. Tony Rosario slapped his hands to his thin cheeks, making his ears stick out even more. “What’ll you want next? Guns for soldiers? Boats for sailors? You keep talking crazy like that, and they’ll lock you up.”
Adler joined the men’s laughter.
“Don’t worry, boys,” Nick said. “We’ll have planes before you know it.”
Riggs waved away Nick’s words. “Baloney. They left us here to rot in the mud.”
Adler chose the middle road between cheerleading and whining. “You know the Army Air Force. Hurry and wait. Hurry and wait.”
“Adler’s right.” Nick gave him a warm smile. “While we wait, we’ll have plenty to do.”
Camacho chuckled. “Leave it to Saint Nick to find that silver lining.”
The nickname had sprung from Nick’s easy way of talking about God.
Adler’s grip tightened around the duffel bag between his knees. Violet talked that way too. So did Mama and Daddy. So did Oralee and Wyatt and Clay.
Clay.
His chest tightened. After he’d seen his brother on the Queen Elizabeth, Adler had stayed in his stateroom except for meals in the officers’ mess.
When Adler fled Texas in June 1941, Wyatt had just graduated from college to take his place in Paxton Trucking, freeing Clay to start college. After Pearl Harbor, the universities had converted to three-year programs, so Clay should have been about done with his bachelor’s degree, ready for medical school. The US desperately needed physicians, so medical students were deferred from the draft.
How on earth had Clay Paxton ended up in an Army uniform on a troopship? And how far was he stationed from Raydon Army Airfield?
A bump in the road jolted Adler. No way of finding the answer, so no use pondering.
The truck stopped in front of a Nissen hut. The building looked as if a giant had pressed a tin can sideways into the mud with only half showing.
Adler hopped out and shielded his eyes from the cold mist. He’d lived in better places, but he’d also lived in worse.
The pilots stepped through a door in the brick end of the tin can, lugging their duffel bags. Cots ran down both sides of the hut, and two coal-burning stoves sat in the aisle.
Nick threw his gear on the cot at the far end, farthest from the stove, and Adler took the one next to it.
Rosario pressed his cap over his heart and sang “Home, Sweet Home” in a warbling falsetto.
The last place Adler wanted to think about, but Rosie’s antics kept the men laughing.
Adler hung up his overcoat on a long rack that ran above the cots and set his cap on the rack. Then he unpacked his uniforms and underwear, and stacked his books on a wooden crate beside his cot—well-worn Zane Grey novels he’d bought in a secondhand store in Los Angeles.
Next to the books, Nick set out framed photographs.
Adler picked one up. Nick and a pretty light-haired woman on their wedding day. “Can’t believe you found a woman willing to put up with you.”
“Neither can I.” Nick handed him another photo. “Here’s Peggy with little Gail.”
“Beautiful.” The baby sat on her mother’s lap, one plump hand stretching for the camera as if waving at Daddy.
If Oralee had lived, they’d have been married by now, might have had a baby.
“Do you have any photos?” Nick asked.
“No.” Adler set down the frames. “I told you I’m estranged from my family.”
Nick sat on the cot. “Your former fiancée?”
Adler stuffed his empty duffel under his cot. “Her picture’s in my wallet.”
He’d escaped that night with his wallet in his trousers and the scrap from Oralee’s dress in his shirt pocket. And he’d barely had time to fetch his trousers and shirt.
Pain ripped through him. He would not think of that.
“Want to hear my theory?” Riggs rummaged inside his duffel. “Paxton’s a wanted criminal. No mementoes, no pictures, no mail.”
“Better watch your back.” Adler cocked one finger at him like a gunslinger and dropped an exaggerated wink.
Theo Christopher jumped in front of Adler and planted his fists on his hips. “I’ll protect you, Riggs. I’m your wingman.”
Adler patted the kid on the shoulder. “We’ll all sleep better.”
Riggs kissed a stack of envelopes. “I get letters from dozens of dames.”
“Good thing you’ve got so many women,” Adler said. “Once they get to know you, they scram.”
Riggs laughed. “Shows what you know. Then we’ve got Baby-Face Theo. Bet he’s never even kissed a girl.”
Theo whirled around. “That’s a lie. I kissed a girl once.”
The men all roared with laughter.
Adler grinned and reclined on his lumpy cot. Thank goodness for the joking. The boys had dug too deep, too close.
When he’d talked to Violet, he should have stopped after he told her Oralee had died. Why had he let more details escape? Every detail poked a hole in his shell, begging more details to follow.
That would destroy him.
4
London
Monday, December 6, 1943
Violet, Winnie, and Jo shielded Kitty as she huddled under the eaves with the map. Mist feathered the back of Violet’s raincoat.
“This is Grosvenor Square.” Kitty pointed over Jo’s shoulder. “So that’s Headquarters.”
Violet peeked under the brim of her rain hat. Through the mist, bare trees filled the square, bounded by solid buildings in brick and gray.
“Let’s go.” Kitty tucked the map into her coat pocket and hooked her arm through Violet’s. “If this meeting doesn’t take long, what sights should we see this afternoon?”
Winnie strolled behind them. “Over the weekend we saw Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey and Big Ben and Harrods.”
“How about the Tower of London?” Jo said.
Kitty winked at Violet. “Wasn’t it nice of the English to put all their tourist attractions so close together?”
Violet laughed. It was exciting to be in London, if disorienting. She’d spent a month in Washington for Red Cross training and a few days in New York City before they shipped out, but she wasn’t used to traveling on subways and the crush of people and buildings.
Where would the refugee children be? The children had been evacuated from London during the Blitz in 1940, but Violet had seen plenty of little ones in town. If only she could serve in one of the charming villages she’d seen from the train. That would feel more like home.
They passed four American naval officers, and the men tipped their caps to the ladies. Mr. Porter had said several US military commands had headquarters in Grosvenor Square.
So did the American Red Cross, a tall brick building with the American flag and the Red Cross flag over the door.
In the coatroom they shed damp raincoats and smoothed their gray-blue uniforms. Violet loved the single-breasted jacket and knee-length skirt, the white blouse closed
at the neck with the enamel Red Cross pin, the garrison cap, and the black oxford shoes—with flat heels, thank goodness.
A matronly Red Cross worker led them to the Field Service Director’s office, where eight more girls from their ship waited.
Mr. Charles Abrams met them, a trim gentleman with wavy salt-and-pepper hair. “Welcome. Please make yourselves comfortable. I’m sorry I don’t have enough chairs.”
Kitty perched on the arm of a chair, and Violet leaned against the back wall.
Mr. Abrams sat behind a big wooden desk. “We’re glad you ladies are here. The troopships bring tens of thousands of our boys each month. Someday soon we’ll invade the continent and drive out Hitler and his gang. In the meantime, the boys need the services of the Red Cross.”
Violet raised a benign smile. That might be why the other girls were here, but not her.
“This month alone we’re opening two service clubs, seven Aeroclubs, and two clubmobiles. You may have your choice among these three assignments.”
An emptiness formed in Violet’s chest. “Excuse me, sir? What about those of us who are here to work with children?”
“Children?” He frowned around a cigar.
“Yes, sir. I’m a teacher. I’m here to work with refugee children or orphans or—”
“The British Red Cross takes care of those needs. The American Red Cross is here for our servicemen.” He tilted his head toward a poster that showed a GI raising a tin cup of coffee, with the slogan “Your Red Cross is at his side.”
The emptiness spread to her belly. “I was told I could work with—”
“You misunderstood. What’s your name?”
“Violet Lindstrom.” She took deep breaths as he shuffled papers. There had to be a mistake. Had to be.
“Lindstrom . . . yes, you were selected for your administrative skills. You ran your local chapter with distinction and helped organize other chapters.”
She nodded, but the hollowing carved out her last hopes.
“Service club, Aeroclub, or clubmobile?” Mr. Abrams grinned at the ladies.
Winnie leaned forward. “What’s a clubmobile?”
The director chuckled. “We’re proud of that innovation. The clubmobile is a van that contains a kitchen, serving counter, and a reading room. Two girls drive it to airfields and serve coffee and donuts to airmen returning from missions. It even has a phonograph and speakers so the girls can dance with the boys.”