by Sarah Sundin
“We’re finally putting this place together.” Violet strolled down a hallway at the end of the dining area. Her light blonde hair fluffed in curls below her garrison cap.
Adler took care to stay at the end of the line.
“Man alive,” Rosario muttered. “That’s one tall broad.”
“Yeah?” Riggs hefted his chin. “I’ve climbed that ladder.”
Everything inside Adler constricted. He grabbed a fistful of Riggs’s flight jacket. “You touch these ladies again, and I’ll—”
“Lay off me, Paxton.” Riggs shrugged him off. “I can behave myself.”
“To your right . . .” Violet said in a low voice that still carried. “That’ll be the library if we ever receive books.”
At least she hadn’t heard Riggs. Adler uncoiled his fists and peeked inside. Deep green paint, stuffed armchairs, brown curtains, and empty dark wooden bookcases. Manly and inviting.
“This is the writing room.” Kitty pointed to the room just beyond, painted in cream with tables and chairs and red-striped curtains. “The Red Cross provides writing paper and envelopes to anyone who wants them.”
“The game room.” Violet’s sigh reached back to Adler. “Or it will be when we receive recreational equipment.”
A big long room to the left, also painted cream, but with dark brown bands so the room resembled a half-timbered English pub.
Kitty kept walking. “We rounded up checkers and chess sets and a dartboard in town, and I brought a pack of cards from home. That’ll have to do for now.”
“Very nice,” Nick said. “I’m sure the men appreciate it.”
“Thank you.” Violet gestured to the right. “The lounge.”
Stuffed chairs, deep red walls, magazines and newspapers on a low table, and an actual fireplace. Adler wouldn’t mind spending time in there. Except he’d never set foot in the club again.
“This will be the music room if we ever receive instruments.” Kitty opened the last door on the left, which led to an empty room with light yellow walls.
“We still have work to do, but it’s coming together.” Violet led the group down a short hallway to the right—the exit, thank goodness.
She and Kitty lingered outside by the door.
“For you.” Kitty faced Riggs and dangled a donut between two fingers as if it were rotten.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. I’ve learned my lesson, ma’am.” Riggs managed to sound sarcastic and apologetic all at once.
Violet gazed over Riggs’s maggoty head and smiled at Adler. “Lieutenant Paxton, may I steal a minute of your time?”
Luis Camacho grinned at Adler and mimicked whistling.
Adler fought off a wince. He ought to join the men moseying down the road. He’d kept his distance from women since Oralee’s death, and that policy served him well.
But Violet’s hopeful expression drifted down to disappointment, embarrassment.
What was wrong with him? He raised a smile. “Sure.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Kitty slipped inside, leaving them alone.
He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Say, I thought you were going to work with—”
“Children.” She heaved a sigh. “I was mistaken, but I’m making the best of it.”
“I can see. Looks nice in there.”
“Thank you, and I’m glad you’re here. You’re an answer to prayer.”
“Me?” He almost choked. He’d never been anyone’s answer to prayer.
Violet laughed, her face glowing. “You see, I had the best idea, but I need help and you’re just the man.”
That choking changed to a strangled feeling.
“Let me explain.” A light laugh curved her eyes into crescents. Mighty cute. “My job is to provide wholesome fun for the men, but the fun they want? It’s anything but wholesome.” She wrinkled her nose. Also mighty cute.
Adler’s throat loosened, and a smile twitched up. “True.”
“But the men seem to love children, and the children in town adore the Americans. You’re like movie stars to them. I want to organize crafts and games and parties, maybe some outings—the airmen and the local children. Activities that would be good for the men’s character and morale. The children would love it. Their lives are so difficult with rationing and shortages and air raids, and some are evacuees from London, far from home and family. And—” She took a deep breath. “Listen to me. I never go on like this.”
She ought to do it more often. Her eyes sparkled, and her hands made pretty little gestures. “Sounds like a right good plan.” A plan he needed to avoid.
“I thought so. It’ll endear you boys to the British. Will you help?”
Adler’s brain and tongue froze. He swallowed. “Baseball.”
“Hmm?”
He was never tongue-tied. “I could play baseball with the kids.”
“That would be wonderful, but I really need your help with your commanding officer.”
“Colonel Chickering? Why?”
“I need his approval, and it would help if someone of influence came with me.”
Adler grimaced. “I’m not important around here.”
“I don’t believe that for one minute.” Her blue eyes rounded. “You have such authority with the men. I’ve seen how they listen to you, how they respect you.”
He felt that old bending inside. Flattery was his weakness—both giving and receiving. “My mama always said, ‘Flattery gets you nowhere,’ but my daddy always said, ‘You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’”
“Battling proverbs?” She laughed. “Which is winning?”
Why did she have to look so doggone hopeful?
He dropped a wink. “Flattery, honey.”
Violet flushed and grinned. “Thank you. I’ll set up the meeting.”
Flirting? What on earth was he doing?
“Bye.” He strode away. He had no business flirting, no business meeting with beautiful blondes, no business getting involved with any woman, anywhere, ever again.
Especially Violet Lindstrom.
A lowdown stinking sinner and a missionary. As farfetched as a skunk at a church picnic.
11
Leiston Army Airfield
Sunday, February 6, 1944
Violet sang “Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus,” but she couldn’t concentrate. She’d left the aisle seat open for a latecomer, she’d told herself, but she’d told herself a lie.
She’d saved the spot for Adler Paxton. He wasn’t there.
How many times had she scanned the bland military building that doubled as theater and chapel? Now she felt foolish as well as self-conscious. As the only woman present, her off-key voice rose high above the tenors and basses, with no sopranos or altos to conceal it.
Maybe Adler was under the weather or flying a training mission, or maybe he attended the Catholic services. She’d ask Kitty if she’d seen him there.
No, she wouldn’t.
For all his fine qualities, Adler wasn’t a churchgoer and most certainly not a future missionary.
The chaplain announced the next hymn, “God of Our Fathers.”
Why was Violet drawn to Adler? It was more than his gentlemanly nature, although that appealed to her. In Colonel Chickering’s office, he’d backed her plan, not taking control of the meeting but merely lending the weight of his approval. Chivalry without condescension. Oh my.
His appeal ran beyond his good looks. Beyond his winking “Flattery, honey” that turned every bone to gelatin.
Something else pricked her heart. The way he fled. On the pier in New York. On the Queen Elizabeth. After he winked and grinned. After the meeting with Chickering.
Perhaps she should have read those incidents as slights, but instead she wanted to follow him, to reach out, to . . . to what?
The sad mystery. The sense of pain, as if he were retreating to lick unseen wounds. Those pulled her more strongly than any wink.
And he had a fine
wink.
Violet huffed and focused on the lyrics. She couldn’t let herself fall for a man who didn’t share her faith, who couldn’t share her dream.
But why worry? As an officer, he had no need for the Aeroclub. She wouldn’t see him in chapel. She might see him in the mess or if he helped with the children, but he’d been evasive when she’d tried to pin him down with details.
“Please be seated,” the chaplain said. “Good morning to all you ‘Yoxford Boys.’”
Chuckles swept the chapel as everyone sat on the wooden benches. The men had picked up the “Germany Calling” Nazi propaganda program on the radio. The infamous host, “Lord Haw Haw,” had greeted the men of the 357th Fighter Group and christened them the Yoxford Boys. Except his intelligence was off by a few miles. The base was nearer Leiston than Yoxford, but the airmen thought it a hoot and adopted the nickname.
“I’m glad to see so many of you in attendance. Please open your Bibles to Matthew 25.”
Violet flipped pages. Yes, attendance was high, as it had been with the 358th as well. There were far more good men in the Army Air Forces than brutes.
She stifled a giggle remembering how Kitty had put that awful Lieutenant Riggs in his place. If only she had some of her friend’s spunk.
The chaplain read the Scripture, culminating in one of Violet’s favorite passages: “‘Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”
That old passion stirred inside, tainted by sadness. That’s what she longed to do—to aid the lonely, the oppressed, and the mourning. So why had the Lord placed her among men who were healthy, well paid, and well fed?
At least she had her plan to help the children—the “least of these.” Colonel Chickering thought the programs would have a stabilizing effect on the men and be excellent for morale. Violet agreed, but she was more interested in the benefits for the children.
Every word of the sermon resonated with Violet’s soul, reinforcing all she believed. Energy welled within her, and ideas scurried around her head. She itched to write them down, to make them come to pass, to watch little faces shine with joy.
The chaplain closed in prayer. “Lord, please comfort my brothers here, lonely in their separation from family and loved ones, oppressed by the enemy, and mourning the fallen.”
Violet’s eyes and mind snapped open in unison.
With bowed heads, the men murmured and nodded, eyes squeezed shut.
They were far from home. They hadn’t seen combat, but they soon would. They’d already lost friends in accidents. How many more would they lose in battle? How many men here would die? How many would become prisoners of war?
Violet’s throat swelled shut. They were indeed lonely, oppressed, and mourning. And these men had faith to comfort them.
What about those who didn’t? Why should she be shocked that they turned to liquor and women for comfort?
Were these men also not “the least of these”? All of them, from the most gentlemanly on down? Didn’t they deserve more than a donut and a forced smile? Didn’t they deserve true compassion, as if for Jesus himself?
Oh, Lord. Her insides contracted, pulling her head low. Forgive me. You love these men, all of them. You placed me here for a reason. Help me serve these men with mercy and kindness. Help me see them through your eyes.
The chaplain dismissed the congregation, and Violet stood, her legs shaky.
As she waited to enter the aisle, she met each man’s gaze with a true sisterly smile.
A dark-haired man in Adler’s squadron approached and extended his hand. “Good morning, Miss Lindstrom. It’s good to see you again. I’m Nick Westin.”
She analyzed the insignia on his jacket—two silver bars. “Good morning, Captain Westin.”
“Please call me Nick.” Although he only came up to her chin, he looked her fully in the eye, unashamed of his height. “You’re Adler’s friend.”
Friend? “Well, we met on the ship.”
“He mentioned meeting with you and Colonel Chickering about a program for children. Please sign me up. My baby girl is growing up without knowing her father, and I’d like to help other children.”
“Thank you so much.” Her smile warmed. “I appreciate it.”
“That’s a well-worn Bible.”
She clutched it to her stomach. “Thank you.”
Nick’s gaze intensified. “Pray for him.”
“For—for Adler? Why?”
“I don’t know, but the Lord does.”
So Nick had seen it too, the sadness, the fleeing. “I—I will.”
Violet followed the stream of men outside. Puffs of clouds decorated the blue sky, and cool sunlight brightened the buildings and trees and men.
Her mission had broadened and deepened, and for the first time, she was truly glad to be in England.
12
Leiston Army Airfield
Friday, February 11, 1944
Technical Sergeant Bill Beckenbauer leaned over the cockpit of Adler’s new P-51B, Texas Eagle. “You don’t look like a man about to fly his first mission.”
Adler plugged in his radio headset cord. “What do you reckon I should look like?”
“Scared.” Beck ran his chamois over the windscreen for the hundredth time. “Granted, that looks different for every man.”
Adler had seen it all in his Nissen hut. Riggs spouting even more bravado than usual, Theo too bright-eyed, Mulroney fidgety, Camacho irritable, and Rosie cracking fifty jokes a minute.
Nick was the one Adler studied, the only man in their section with combat experience. He’d been quiet but calm.
To Adler the day felt like any other, a bit better because he was doing something worthwhile. “Everything looks fine.”
“All right.” The older man’s gray eyes narrowed, but he helped Adler snap the oxygen mask to his leather flight helmet and flipped the goggles down.
The smell and taste of rubber filled his nose and mouth, but he’d need oxygen to survive at twenty-five thousand feet. The radio microphone was built into the mask, so he didn’t have to wear the annoying throat microphone.
“Be careful with my baby. Watch where you’re driving, and don’t scratch her up.” Beck flopped the top section of the canopy into place over Adler’s head, then raised the left panel.
Adler locked the canopy and continued his cockpit check. From left to right, he swept over the controls and instruments. Flaps up, carburetor air control normal, trim tabs set, and so on. When he finished, he gave Beck a thumbs-up, honored to have the veteran mechanic as the crew chief for Texas Eagle.
Beck hopped off the wing, and soon he signaled Adler to start engines.
He set the fuel selector valve to the auxiliary fuselage tank, turned on the magnetos, primed the engine, and hit the starter switch.
With a cough, the Merlin engine came to life. Adler advanced the throttle and mixture control, then let her idle until the oil temperature rose and the oil pressure was steady. Vibrations rumbled through the plane and his body as one.
Ahead of him, P-51s taxied along the perimeter track. When Nick’s Santa’s Sleigh approached, Adler signaled Beck to remove the wheel chocks.
Texas Eagle rolled forward, and Adler stuck his head outside to watch where he was going. Barely above freezing, the air tingled the tiny spots of his face not covered by goggles, mask, or helmet.
He turned in behind Nick and weaved down the perimeter track. At the head of the main runway, he pulled around so Nick was on the left side of the pavement and Adler on the right.
Nick gave him a thumbs-up. Adler returned the gesture then closed his windows.
As wingman, he had to stick to Ni
ck’s side and resist the urge to attack the enemy. Any German planes spotted by their flight belonged to Nick.
Frustration churned, but he tamped it down. Before he could be first in this outfit, he had to excel at being second.
The tower cleared the two planes for takeoff. Nick rolled forward, and Adler did likewise a few seconds later.
With the stick back to keep the tail on the ground, he pushed the throttle forward. Speed built, and trees and buildings rushed past in his peripheral vision.
Eagle wanted to soar, but Adler kept her grounded. He maintained a circular watch on the runway and the instruments. Santa’s Sleigh rose into the air ahead of him.
Manifold pressure high enough, speed high enough, and Adler eased the stick forward. The tail floated off the ground and the nose followed.
Adler tucked up the landing gear and locked it. As the plane swooped up, he throttled down, adjusted the propeller, and trimmed the ship.
He made a climbing turn away from the airfield. Thirty seconds later, Riggs and Theo joined them. They pulled into the “finger four” formation, with Nick in the lead, Adler behind him to the right, Riggs behind Nick to the left, and Theo behind Riggs to his left.
As the landscape shrank below, the flight climbed into position beside Shapiro’s flight with Camacho, Mulroney, and Rosario. A few minutes later, their section of eight would join another to complete the squadron. Then all three squadrons would head for enemy territory.
Forty-seven P-51s of the 357th were being led today by Maj. James Howard of the 354th Fighter Group, the man who’d downed eight German fighters in a single day.
This was meant to be an orientation mission and an easy one, a “milk run.” They would sweep ahead of B-24 Liberator heavy bombers as they unloaded goods on a special military installation at Siracourt in Nazi-occupied France.
Adler’s gaze roamed between the formation and the instruments as England rolled by.
Perhaps he should be scared as Beck said, but he wasn’t. Almost three years of numbing himself helped as did a life framed by death. He’d killed his own mother in childbirth. He’d as good as killed Oralee. He’d tried to kill Wyatt. And he’d seen his own death in Clay’s eyes.