by Sarah Sundin
Only the sound of volumes swishing into place. “I was wrestling with something.”
Vague again. She studied his back—the olive drab shirt tucked into olive drab trousers, but all that olive drab remained silent. “You men have been flying a lot. What are they calling it? Big Week?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grabbed another dozen novels. “The Eighth Air Force put up huge forces three days in a row. We’ll do so again if the weather clears. Our bombers are turning German aircraft factories into rubble, and our fighters are picking off Nazi fighters like prairie dogs. The 357th already has ten victories this week.”
She set down two automotive repair manuals. “Any for you?”
He frowned at the book in his bandaged hand. “One, but I shouldn’t have.”
“What do you mean?”
“I abandoned Nick, seeking my own glory.” He thudded a book into place. “Almost got him killed. The 109 I shot down was on his tail. If I’d been in position, the enemy never would’ve gotten that close.”
“Oh.” That must have prompted his change of heart. She pulled the last group of books from the box—all biographies.
“I’ll never leave Nick’s side again. He got his own victory yesterday, so he forgave me. Actually he forgave me long before that.”
Violet shelved the biographies. “I’m not surprised. He seems like a very sweet man.”
“And a married one.” He wagged a finger at her with a mock glare. “Don’t get any ideas about him, missy.”
“I won’t.” She laughed and wrapped her arms around the top box on the stack by the door.
“Let me.” Adler nudged her aside and carted the box to a low round table nestled among armchairs. Four red spots appeared on the bandage around his hand.
“Adler, you’re bleeding.” She reached for his hand but stopped herself.
“Rats.” He twisted his wrist to see. “That’s the problem with scabs on knuckles.”
“Come with me. We have a first aid kit in the kitchen.” She led the way.
“The Red Cross—prepared for any disaster.”
No one was in the kitchen. Kitty was meeting with the Minister of Food, and Sylvia and Rosalind would arrive in an hour to prepare for the evening rush.
Violet opened a drawer and found the first aid kit. But where was the flashlight? She opened another few drawers. “Bother. I hope our thief didn’t strike again.”
“Thief?”
She nodded to the sink. “Take off the old bandage and wash with soap and water.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He obeyed her. “A thief?”
“Do you remember that day we couldn’t serve coffee after your mission? We think someone stole our supply.” She removed gauze, scissors, and iodine swabs from the kit. “Since then we’ve lost a sack of flour, several pounds of sugar, and now our flashlight.”
“One of our boys?”
“Why would they want flour? Unless they’re selling it on the black market. It’s most likely one of our workers or volunteers, or locals sneaking in.”
He dried his hands with a rag and returned to her. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”
“Thank you.” She took his fingers to inspect the damage. All four knuckles were badly scraped, but the bleeding had stopped. “How did this happen?”
His fingers tensed in hers. “A wrestling match.”
“Oh.” She released her grip and opened an iodine swab, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. She’d heard about Adler and Riggs’s fight in the officers’ club. “Do you . . . get in fights often?”
“Reckon I have that reputation.” He tucked in his chin. “I’ve only gotten in one fight here. Riggs was getting fresh with a girl.”
Always chivalrous. She took his hand and dabbed on iodine. “So this . . . ?”
“This I got wrestling with God.”
“With God?” She snapped up her gaze into eyes too blue and too close.
One of those eyes twitched. “Would you hurry up with that iodine? No time to be poky.” He managed to look both pained and amused.
She painted manly knuckles brown. “You’re the most cryptic man. Wrestling with God?”
“Sure. Like Jacob in the Bible. Only God and I had our match at twenty-five thousand feet. This is what happens when you punch a cockpit canopy without gloves.”
Violet’s mind tumbled. “Who won?”
“Nick asked me that same question. I told him God won. Reckon that means I won too.”
Did that mean what she thought it did? She blew on the brown spots to dry them, then let go so she could cut gauze.
He studied his painted knuckles. “I grew up going to church, but the preaching glanced right off me. It wasn’t hard to pretend though, make my family happy. Remember how Jacob talked about the God of Abraham and Isaac? That was me. He was the God of my father, my mother, my brothers. Not mine.”
Violet wrapped the gauze around his hand. She couldn’t imagine hearing and not believing, but it was common enough.
“I think Oralee suspected the truth. Why that woman loved me, I’ll never know.” Sadness washed across his face, but without the pain she’d seen before.
“Your fiancée?” She worked her fingers under the bandage in his warm palm and secured the loose end with a safety pin. “She must have been a lovely lady.”
“She was.” He turned his hand back and forth. “You did a right fine job. Slower than molasses in January, but right fine.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a sarcastic smile.
“I know a good bandaging job. There were three of us Paxton boys, always getting into scrapes. Mama could bandage faster than any doctor and pray faster than any preacher.”
Violet laughed and headed back to the library. “I imagine so. And I imagine she’d order you not to use that hand for the rest of the day and not to lift any more boxes.”
“Fixin’ to order me around?”
“Would it work?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.
A slow smile grew. “Maybe.”
Her pulse raced, but she ordered her emotions not to follow. Not yet.
In the library, she emptied the box on the table, separating fiction from nonfiction. “After Jacob wrestled with God, he called him his God.”
“Wrestling with the Almighty will do that to a man.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Her heart warmed all the way through. “Your parents will be glad too.”
“Can’t tell them.” His voice lowered. “We’re—I’m estranged from my family.”
“Estranged?” She straightened up. “How can that be? How long?”
Adler rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand. “Almost three years. The night Oralee died. Let’s just say I took out my grief and anger on both brothers, and I’m no longer welcome in Kerrville, Texas.”
Violet sank into an armchair. “I—I can’t imagine. I’m such a homebody. My family—why, I’ve only been away four months, and it aches. But three years? No calls? No letters?”
“They don’t know where I am.” He plopped into a chair across from her. “Clay almost found out.”
“Clay?”
“My younger brother. I saw him on the Queen Elizabeth when you and I were on the sundeck. I saw him on the deck below us, heard his voice, no mistaking it. That’s why I fled.”
“Oh my goodness.” What this man had gone through—the loss of his fiancée and his family—no wonder he was so sad and mysterious. But for some wonderful reason, he’d told her.
“Well.” His face tightened, and he scooted forward and braced his hands on the armrests. “Thanks for the fine bandage, but—”
“Don’t flee again.” She gasped at her own boldness.
Adler halted, halfway to standing, and he raised startled eyes.
Somehow the boldness felt right, coming from outside herself, and she held his gaze. “Please stay. Shelve books. Tell me about flying, about your favorite Zane Grey, anything you’d like.”
He stretched to
his full height, his expression inscrutable.
Oh dear. She’d pushed too hard, hadn’t she?
Then one corner of his mouth edged up. “How ’bout instead you tell me about Kansas, about how a self-proclaimed homebody wants to be a missionary to Africa.”
“All right then.” She smiled, stood, and gathered up the nonfiction stack. “But I don’t care where I go—Africa, China, Brazil, wherever the Lord wants.”
As she shelved books, she talked about her goal, reminding herself not to let a cowboy-pilot distract her. He might share her faith now, but that didn’t mean he’d come to share her dream.
That would be too good to be true.
16
Leiston Army Airfield
Saturday, March 4, 1944
“Berlin!” In the squadron equipment room, Theo pulled his flight coveralls over his olive drabs. “Can you imagine?”
Riggs closed his locker. “If they don’t recall us again.”
“Sure hope not.” Adler zipped up his coveralls. The day before, the entire Eighth Air Force had been briefed to hit Berlin for the first time but had been recalled due to worsening weather. One group of P-38 Lightnings missed the recall message and flew over Berlin alone. “We ought to be the first fighters to actually escort bombers over Hitler’s house.”
Nick laughed and strapped on the shoulder holster for his Colt .45 pistol. “Unless Hitler’s taken up residence at the Bosch electrical works, he’s safe.”
Rosario flipped one end of his silk scarf over his shoulder and struck a pose. “If we killed Hitler, then this war would be over. There would go all our fun.”
Adler didn’t join the men’s laughter, but Rosie had a point. The bomber boys dreaded missions deep into Germany, sitting ducks that they were, but the fighter jocks loved them—more Messerschmitts, more victories, and a whole lot more fun.
The 357th Fighter Group had flown eleven missions and had racked up twenty-four victories, but the men itched for more.
After Adler put on his holster, flight jacket, and scarf, he turned in his wallet to the squadron intelligence officer. He hated parting with his only photo of Oralee, but no one could take away the scrap in his pocket. Besides, if he were shot down, what could the Gestapo learn from a bit of yellow fabric?
With three little white daisies.
His chest seized, and he didn’t fight it. Strange, but the more he’d allowed himself to feel pain over the past two weeks, the less it hurt.
With his flight gear in his kit bag, Adler filed outside with his squadron and frowned at the sky. Cloudier than when they’d left the briefing. If only the weather would hold until they got this mission off the ground. Hitting the enemy’s capital would do wonders for morale.
The men piled into and onto a jeep. Adler perched over the left rear wheel and held on to a bracket sticking out between his knees.
The jeep bounced down the lane toward the perimeter track.
Rosario lounged on the hood on the passenger side. “Say, Paxton, don’t forget to kiss your Red Cross girl good-bye.” He made a kissy face.
Adler kept his expression impassive, the best way to halt teasing. “I’m just helping with the kids’ programs, as y’all should be doing too. There’s a meeting tomorrow night. Be there.”
“Yeah,” Camacho said, scrunched in the backseat. “Great way to meet dames.”
Adler suppressed a smile. Cam talked tough, but on Sunday afternoon Adler had seen him helping little kids with scissors and paste, patiently explaining that he wasn’t Indian but Mexican and he’d never set foot in a tepee.
Wind ruffled Theo’s blond hair. “Maybe I’ll go.”
“Great.” Nick flicked a knowing smile at Adler.
Yeah, Adler had deflected talk about Violet, and Nick saw right through him.
How good it felt to be known and forgiven. How strange it felt.
After his wrestling match, bruised and disoriented and reeling, Adler had told Nick every detail of his life story. Every single stinking detail.
Nick hadn’t rejected him. He’d stayed by Adler’s side, and Adler was determined to pay him back tenfold.
The jeep reached the perimeter track and waited for other vehicles to pass.
“Not too late, Paxton.” Rosie blew a kiss toward the Aeroclub.
Adler flapped a hand. “What would a nice girl like that want with the likes of me?”
Cam laughed. “You got that right, amigo.”
What would a girl like that want with him indeed?
Nick said Adler was a new man, washed clean, but he didn’t feel clean. Definitely not clean enough for Miss Violet Lindstrom.
Too bad. She had all of Oralee’s thoughtful sweetness, but with a dash of gumption and drive. Always busy, that woman, always planning and doing. When she’d bandaged his hand, he’d wanted her to be even pokier, stinging iodine or not. And when she’d told him not to flee—insightful, compassionate, unbending.
That woman could be his undoing.
He hauled in a lungful of frigid air. Every fiber in his being wanted to run, but he’d keep his word. He just had to remind himself—missionary, missionary, missionary.
Thank goodness he’d asked her to talk about that. She loved God so much she was willing to give up everything she loved in order to do something that didn’t seem to suit her.
The jeep made a lurching turn onto the perimeter track, and Adler gripped the bracket. One of the reasons he’d avoided God so long. Bad enough the Lord told you not to do things you liked, but then he told you to do things you didn’t like.
At least God had only asked Adler to keep his promises and do his duty. Fair enough. But after what the Lord had done for him—he still couldn’t comprehend it—he ought to be willing to do a whole lot more.
The jeep slowed as they reached the hardstands. Cam hopped out and headed for his P-51, named El Mesteño, the Mexican-Spanish word that mustang had been derived from.
Adler jumped to the ground and strolled to his plane. She looked magnificent. José Flores, the assistant crew chief, had painted “Texas Eagle” on the left side of the nose, in white script edged in black. On the right side, he’d painted an eagle, wings spread wide. One wing was emblazoned with the American flag, the other with the flag of Texas.
Beck shook his hand and pointed to the single swastika painted below the cockpit. “You’re going to get another one today, aren’t you?”
Adler hefted his kit bag onto Eagle’s wing. “Only if I’m protecting Nick.”
Another jeep pulled up, and an officer in dress uniform climbed out. “Say, buddy, you look like a future ace.”
Adler frowned and looped his Mae West life preserver over his head. “Time to get your eyes checked.”
The officer laughed and stuck out his hand. “A humble one too. Great. That’ll play well in the papers. Walt Schumacher, group public relations officer.”
“Adler Paxton.” He sized up Schumacher—tall, slight build, narrow-set eyes in a wide face.
“From Texas, I see.” Schumacher pulled a notepad from inside his jacket. “What town?”
Adler stiffened. “Why do you want to know?”
“Getting background on our top pilots. When you make ace, I can whip out an article lickety-split. Think how proud your ma and pa will be to see your name in the hometown paper.”
“No!”
Schumacher drew back. “No?”
Adler stepped closer and stared the man down. “No articles about me ever. Even if I die. Understood?”
His gaze skittered away. “Uh, sure, buddy.”
There he went, bolstering his hot-tempered reputation. He worked up a smile. “Besides, I’m a wingman, not an ace. Have you talked to Nick Westin, next hardstand down?”
Schumacher grimaced. “That little guy? Doesn’t look like much.”
“Don’t let looks fool you.” Adler tugged on his flight helmet and buckled it under his chin. “Best pilot in this outfit. Best man in this outfit. He already made ace in
the Pacific.”
Irresistible bait to a newsman. “He did? Thanks for the tip.” Schumacher jogged to his jeep.
Adler turned back to his kit bag.
The three men in his ground crew stood by the P-51’s tail, gaping at him.
Beck cracked a smile. “Who’d you kill?”
Adler groaned and yanked out his backpack parachute.
“Yeah.” Moskowitz, the armorer, clasped his hands before his chest. “Please tell me it was a big shootout in front of the saloon, with all the ladies crying in the windows.”
“I’m not a wanted man.” Adler wiggled into the parachute harness. “I’m just not on speaking terms with my folks. That’s all.”
“Too bad.” Flores nudged Moskowitz. “Wouldn’t that be something, knowing a real-life outlaw?”
Adler pulled the straps up between his legs and clipped them to the harness. “The only outlaws in these here parts are the Nazis, and if y’all want to see any shootouts, stop flapping your gums and help me get this bird in the sky.”
“Yes, sir.” Moskowitz snapped the most sarcastic salute ever.
Adler gestured to Eagle. “How’s my girl?”
“She’s in top shape.” Beck headed to the nose to start the visual check, and he faced Adler.
The searching compassion in Beck’s eyes made Adler hold his breath. He might have told Nick everything. He might have told Violet some things. But that didn’t mean he wanted to tell everyone everything.
17
Leiston Army Airfield
Sunday, March 5, 1944
Violet stood by the window in the Aeroclub lounge and read the list of activities, careful to be concise for the men. The group had flown a five-hour mission, which made a long day for everyone.
She glanced over the top of her paper. This wasn’t like the meetings she’d led in Salina. Instead of well-bred ladies in hats, two dozen young men in leather jackets faced her, sprawled over couches and chairs.
Adler sat with his ankle over his knee, his elbow hooked over the sofa back, studying the men he’d helped gather. Some pilots, but mostly enlisted men. He’d said it should never look as if officers were running the show, so he’d encouraged key enlisted men to do the main recruiting.