by Sarah Sundin
14
Northwest of Leipzig, Germany
Sunday, February 20, 1944
Swivel-headed. That’s what a fighter pilot had to be to do his job. To survive.
Adler checked the blue sky in all directions. Checked his instruments and controls. Checked the American aircraft silhouetted against the snow twenty-five thousand feet below.
Finally a mission into Germany. The Luftwaffe often ignored Allied sweeps over France, but they wouldn’t ignore a thousand heavy bombers and eight hundred fighters knifing deep into the Third Reich.
Adler’s flight of four made another turn in its pattern a thousand feet above the B-17 Flying Fortresses of the 1st Bombardment Division. The P-51s had to weave to keep pace with the poky bombers.
He smiled under his oxygen mask. The Nazis would definitely fight if they knew the plans of the RAF and the US Army Air Forces this week—“Big Week,” they’d dubbed it. Before the Allies could invade western Europe, they needed air superiority.
Big Week was an all-out attack on the German aircraft industry, destroying planes before they could hit the sky and luring Luftwaffe fighters up so the Allies could shoot them down. Today the B-17s were going to bomb a plant in Leipzig that assembled Junkers Ju 88 bombers.
Adler’s fingers burned for the trigger on the control stick, but the sky remained clear and the radio waves silent.
Besides, shooting was Nick’s job. Adler’s job was to be a second set of eyes for Nick.
Maybe things would change under the new group commanding officer. Three days earlier, Eighth Fighter Command had shuttled Colonel Chickering to headquarters and replaced him with Col. Henry Spicer.
Spicer was Adler’s kind of CO—hard-driving and charismatic. Already Adler sensed more confidence and daring among the men.
Violet’s worried face flashed in his mind. The other day she’d approached Adler in the mess and asked if she should get permission from Spicer for her children’s programs.
Adler had told her to proceed as before unless stopped. Fine advice, but he mainly wanted to avoid another meeting with her. He couldn’t risk more damage to the flimsy network of welds and electrical tape and chewing gum that held his pathetic soul together.
If Violet Lindstrom knew what was good for her, she’d keep her distance too.
Adler stomped his feet to keep the blood circulating and shifted his seat on the foam rubber pad Beck had laid on top of the rock-hard dinghy pack. They’d be in the air four and a half hours, a long time to sit in a cramped position.
Through his tinted goggles, he gazed toward the sun and caught sight of something dark in the outer rays.
Six dark somethings.
Adler pushed the “A” button on the radio box to speak to his squadron, then depressed the microphone button on top of the throttle. “Judson leader? Six bogeys at two o’clock high.”
“Judson leader here.” Morty Shapiro’s voice came over the channel. “Roger. Let them come closer.”
“Yellow one to yellow two,” Nick said to Adler. “Patience.”
Patience? This was no time for patience.
Let them come closer? Why? So they could rip through the bombers and blast them to bits? So more of their kin could join the attack?
Adler could get up there, start racking up victories. Wasn’t that what the brass had ordered—to destroy the Luftwaffe?
“Sick and tired of this.” Tired of being wingman. Tired of being second to Nick. Second to Wyatt. Second, second, second.
“Enough.” He gritted his teeth. The only way to make ace was to be first.
Adler pushed the red button on top of his stick and dropped the empty auxiliary fuel tanks under his wings—they’d slow him down. Then he flipped on his gun and camera switches, and he shoved the stick down and to the right.
“Yellow two!” Nick called. “What’re you doing?”
“Driving off the 109s before they knock down our Forts.”
“Judson yellow two, get back in formation.” A direct order from Shapiro.
Too late. With his throttle open and his airspeed up to four hundred, he pulled the stick back to climb and to surprise the Germans with his deflection shot.
The enemy came into sight clearly now without the sun to camouflage them. Six Messerschmitt Me 109s, their slender airframes and square wingtips dangerously similar to the P-51. But ugly iron crosses on the fuselage gave them away.
They broke, peeling off in all directions.
Shapiro barked out orders for the squadron to maintain position.
Adler singled out a bogey crossing his path. He aimed his nose ahead of the Nazi’s and fired a burst, the machine-gun fire rattling the Mustang. But he was too far away.
The German rolled onto his back and dove—he was going into a “split S” to change directions and come up behind Adler.
He assumed Adler would hold still. No such luck.
Adler tipped Texas Eagle onto her back and whooped as blood rushed to his head. Then he dove, circling until he was level again.
There was the German at ten o’clock low, and Adler gave Eagle more throttle.
The 109 zigged and zagged, but Adler gained on him. He fired another burst, but the tracers dripped down the sky. Too far away.
He met each of the German’s moves, a deadly dance.
Shapiro finally gave the order to attack. Adler would get reprimanded when he returned to base, but first he’d get a victory, maybe two. Shapiro might like Nick’s caution, but he had a hunch Spicer would prefer Adler’s aggression.
The Messerschmitt dove to the right toward a bank of clouds.
“Yellow-bellied coward.” Adler couldn’t let Jerry hide.
He squeezed the trigger. Eagle nosed a bit to the right, and only three streams of tracers arced toward the German, his aim off.
Great. One of his four guns had jammed.
Worse. The 109 slipped into the clouds.
So did Adler. He leveled off as his quarry would be doing too. Blinded, he flew on instruments alone, a skill he was good at but didn’t like. No one did.
He peered into the gray murk, but no flash of color revealed the German’s position. Adler emerged below the clouds. No sign of the 109. Back up into the clouds, then above.
Adler rammed his fist on his thigh. He’d lost him.
He wheeled Texas Eagle up and to the east. If he didn’t find his group in twenty minutes, he’d return to Leiston. But at nineteen minutes, a long dark stream came into view. Soon he picked out the “combat box” of bombers the 357th had been assigned to protect.
Flashes of light and zipping fighters, and Adler opened his throttle to rejoin the battle.
A P-51 raced on the tail of a 109—but another 109 dove in, about to bounce him.
Poor fellow didn’t have a wingman to watch his back.
Like Nick.
Despite the cockpit heater, a chill ripped through him.
The pursuing Messerschmitt fired a burst, hit the P-51’s wing.
Adler cussed. The code on the P-51’s fuselage. It was Nick.
Santa’s Sleigh slipped and slid, but the German stayed on his tail.
“No, no, no.” Adler turned onto the Messerschmitt’s tail. He couldn’t take a chance with a deflection shot, not with Nick’s life at stake.
The German fired again, missed.
Adler had to get closer. Had to. He couldn’t—couldn’t let Nick die.
A few more feet, and he squeezed the trigger. Tracers fell below the right wing, and Adler eased his nose up, drawing the tracers higher.
A big chunk of the tail flicked off. The 109 wobbled, rolled over, and the pilot bailed out.
Adler pulled back the stick to clear the wreckage. “Nick! Nick! Are you all right?”
“Yellow two? High time you showed up. You almost got me killed with your stunt.” Anger laced Nick’s voice.
Never once had Adler heard Nick angry. His mouth flopped open, but an apology stuck in his craw. What could he say? Nothing. Nothing he could say
would make it better. “Yellow one, can you—can you make it back?”
“I think so.” Hard. Chilly.
Adler eased Eagle down into the wingman position he never should have abandoned. The tip of the Sleigh’s wing was missing. A few holes punctured the forward fuselage. Where the engine was. And the delicate coolant system. “I—I’ll stick by you.”
“That would be refreshing.” Cold as the North Pole, and Adler deserved it. “Judson leader, this is yellow one. Damaged, heading home. Yellow two is with me.”
“Fat lot of good he’ll do you.”
Adler cringed. “I won’t leave him.”
Nick didn’t respond, just laid in a course due west.
Glued to the wingman slot. Head swiveling, eyes straining, and the rivets on his soul popped open like machine-gun fire.
He’d almost gotten Nick killed. Just as he’d gotten Oralee killed.
Adler beat his fist on his thigh and cried out. Unless he pushed the microphone button, no one would hear him.
Oralee had died because Adler was selfish and manipulative, determined to have his way.
He’d wanted to cross that ravine with his brothers to get the best view of the sunset. Oralee just needed some gumption, and she’d cross that footbridge just fine.
Then Wyatt interfered. Of course he had. He loved Oralee too. Wyatt thought he kept his feelings secret, but Adler knew.
So the brothers fought like two stallions over a filly. Oralee hated it when they fought, hated it enough to cross that bridge just to make them stop.
Wyatt was right. Adler was wrong. And Oralee was dead.
With a roar, Adler pummeled his fist against the cockpit canopy.
Now Nick. A good man. A good pilot. A husband and father. He could’ve died because Adler wanted his own way. Wanted to be ace, to be first.
“God!” he screamed to the heavens. “I’m a no-good, rotten heel.”
It hurt. It hurt like blazes, but he needed to hurt, deserved to hurt, same as he hurt everyone else.
Adler had tried to murder Wyatt for having the guts to stand up to him. And Clay? How did Adler reward his younger brother for stopping that murder and keeping Adler out of the electric chair?
“God! What’s wrong with me?”
Drunk with grief, anger, and whiskey, he’d slept with Clay’s girlfriend. What kind of villain was he?
And Ellen? It didn’t matter that she’d thrown herself at him. He’d used her shamelessly.
He screamed, pounded that canopy, but nothing helped.
That night he’d ripped apart his family. His selfishness stirred up a hurricane of death and revenge and betrayal that destroyed everyone he loved.
He scanned the skies, the instruments, Nick’s plane. Not for his sake, for Nick’s.
It was happening again. His selfishness could destroy a friend, his whole squadron if he kept up his ways.
“God! I’m no good. No good at all. One, two, three strikes—I’m out!”
Despite the cold, he was sweating. He couldn’t take off his helmet or jacket, so he ripped off his gloves.
“Why don’t you just kill me, God? Huh? Why don’t you? Take me before I hurt anyone else.”
He rammed his fist up into the canopy. His knuckles snagged on the riveted metal frame. He cried out and swore.
Who cared if he cussed? Or got drunk? Or lied? What was one more offense on top of the giant, stinking manure pile of his sins?
He tipped his head back and spouted every foul word he knew and made up some of his own. What did it matter? Nothing—nothing could take away his sin.
Wet warmth coated the back of his hand, and he stared at it. Red rivulets ran from his shredded knuckles and dripped onto his coveralls.
Blood.
Oralee’s sweet voice flooded his memory, singing her favorite hymn.
What could take away his sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
15
Leiston Army Airfield
Wednesday, February 23, 1944
Violet tucked the book inside her raincoat and headed from the officers’ mess to the Aeroclub.
Despite the light rain pattering on her hood, she couldn’t imagine a brighter day. After having surveyed airmen, locals, and other Aeroclubs, she and Kitty had put together a calendar of events to benefit Americans and British alike. That morning, they’d met with Mr. Tate, Colonel Spicer, and officials from surrounding towns. The colonel and the officials had approved, and Mr. Tate looked proud and pleased.
“Slow down there, Miss Lindstrom,” a man called behind her. “You’re moving faster than a Messerschmitt with a Mustang on her tail.”
Adler? She spun around. Yes, Adler Paxton jogging to her. With a smile. “If I’d known I had a Mustang pilot on my tail, I’d have moved even faster.”
He laughed, and she felt double pleasure—for actually having a cute comeback and at hearing him laugh.
Adler fell in beside her. “You’re in an awful hurry.”
Violet resumed her pace. “It’s raining.”
“Oh? So that’s why they didn’t let us fly today.” He frowned at the gray sky.
Had she ever seen him in such good spirits?
He tugged his crush cap lower. “I tried to catch your eye in the mess, but you had your nose buried in a book. What’re you reading?”
She pressed the book closer to her chest. Since it belonged to the Red Cross, she had to take even better care of it. “Just a book.”
“Strange title.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t tell me you’re reading something scandalous.”
“No, of course not. It’s just . . . it’s not the sort of book ladies read.”
Blond eyebrows inched up. She wasn’t helping her case.
Violet sighed. “It’s a Zane Grey, all right?”
“Is that so? He’s my favorite author.”
“Mine too. All the other Red Cross girls read Jane Austen, but I love Westerns.”
Adler nodded at the theater building. “They show Westerns. You should go sometime.”
You should, not we should. Whatever the reason for his sudden friendliness, it wasn’t romantic interest. “I should.”
“Why Westerns? The adventure?”
“Oh yes. But what I like best are the cowboy heroes. So noble and brave.”
“Mm-hmm. That’s why I like this fighter group. Like cowboys.”
On the far side of the theater building, wind gusted, and she angled her face away from the rain. “I don’t see the similarity.”
“Sure. Most every day we mount our trusty Mustangs and head off into adventure, six-shooters by our sides.” He pointed a finger gun at her, far too much like a handsome gunslinger.
She smiled. “At least you have the right accent.”
Adler holstered his hand in his pocket, and his face sobered. “It’s more than that. Cowboys look like they ride alone, but they work together, need each other. So do fighter pilots—a lesson I learned the hard way the other day.”
“Oh?”
Instead of explaining, he grinned. “And at the end of the day, both cowboys and pilots sit around campfires telling tall tales.”
“That’s true.” Her smile dissolved. “If only the airmen were as noble. But they’re so . . . coarse. The language, the drinking, the women.”
Adler stepped over a puddle on the walkway. “Real cowboys are plenty coarse. Just because a man is rough on the outside doesn’t mean he can’t be noble inside.”
She’d have to ponder that. She stopped in front of the Aeroclub. “Well, it was good seeing you.”
“May I come in?”
Very strange, but she opened the door. “Of course. The Aeroclub is open to all. Not many men here this time of day.”
Young Millie Clark sat at a table, sipping coffee with Tom Griffith, a skinny, curly-headed corporal from the motor pool. He’d become very helpful around the club since he met Millie.
Violet pushed back her hood and waved Adler t
o the tables with their cheery yellow gingham tablecloths. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He gripped his crush cap in his hands—one of which was bandaged. “Actually, I’m here to make myself uncomfortable.”
Whatever did he mean? She stuffed her gloves in her pocket.
Adler glanced away. “Listen, I don’t want to interfere with your work. Any way I can help?”
Violet unbuttoned her raincoat, careful not to drop The Lone Star Ranger. “I was shelving our new books—before the Zane Greys distracted me. You could help if you’d like.”
“Great. That’ll give me something to do while I apologize to you.”
“Apologize?”
Adler gestured down the hall. “Books?”
“Sure. Let me take care of my coat.” She hung it up in the office and shifted Elsa the Elephant from her coat pocket to the desk.
In the library, boxes and books and a pilot awaited her. “We received our shipment of books and games yesterday. Would you believe we now have a thousand books? All from donations to the Victory Book Campaign back home.”
Adler whistled and hung his leather jacket and his cap on a coatrack.
“Fiction on the left in alphabetical order by author. Nonfiction on the right by topic. I don’t know the Dewey Decimal System, so I’m making it up. Why don’t you work on the fiction? That pile is ready to be shelved.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He picked up some books and examined the spines. “I owe you an apology. I promised to help with the kids’ programs, then I broke my word.”
Violet surveyed her nonfiction stacks. “It’s all right. I know you’re busy.”
“No, it’s not all right. A wingman doesn’t abandon his leader, and a cowboy doesn’t abandon his herd.”
She’d never been compared to a pilot or a cow, but his apology warmed her. “Thank you.”
“I won’t abandon you again—or those kids.” Adler slipped a book onto a shelf. “Anything you want, I’ll do. Even cut hearts out of paper doilies.”
“Valentine’s Day is over. You’re safe.” She removed an armful from a box. “But Easter’s coming. Maybe we’ll dress you up as the Easter Bunny.”
He laughed. “That’d serve me right.”
Violet set philosophy, geography, and calculus books in stacks—someone had emptied their home of college textbooks. “Why the change of heart?”