The Sky Above Us

by Sarah Sundin

  He snorted. “I doubt it, but now you and Nick and Beck can get off my back.”

  All that gruff talk concealed a soft heart. And one corner of his mouth puckered in such a vulnerable way, she longed to kiss it.

  Thank goodness the lineup advanced, so Violet had a reason to scoot away.

  Adler scooted too. “Speaking of home, any news from Kansas?”

  Violet joined in the applause around her, although she had no idea what had happened. “I received three letters this week—what a treasure. My sister Alma told me she’s expecting her third child. I wish I could be there when the baby’s born, but at least Mom can help. And my brother Karl is doing well as a fireman—Dad’s the fire chief. And Nels—he’s the youngest—he’s determined to enlist. Dad doesn’t want him to, but Nels is nineteen now.”

  “You’re still homesick, aren’t you?” Adler’s eyes were soft but discerning.

  A sigh leached out. “Horribly so. It’s hard to think of them going about their lives when I’m not there. I can’t watch my nieces and nephews grow up. But it’s more of an ache now rather than a sharp pain.”

  “I understand.” He plucked a blade of grass. “Suppose your great-aunt gets homesick?”

  “I doubt it. Kenya’s her home, and she has Great-Uncle Gus, so she isn’t alone.”

  “Have you heard from her?”

  “That was one of the letters.” A smile wiggled at the memory of the contents. “She’s doing well. Kenya hasn’t been affected much by the war, other than sending men to fight for Britain. Great-Aunt Violet has much to say about that.”

  “A woman of strong words, huh? I wondered how she convinced a homebody to become a missionary.”

  That was the second time he’d asked about that. Was he asking for personal reasons? But he only twirled the blade of grass in his fingers.

  More cheering, and an airman came pounding across home plate.

  Violet shrugged and scooted down in the lineup. “She can be convincing, but in the long run, I want to be a missionary because I love the Lord. He gave up everything for me, so I should be willing to give up everything I love for him.”

  “For the first time I understand that. I—” His voice roughened, and he shook his head. “I can’t ever pay him back.”

  “Aren’t you glad we don’t have to?” She coiled her fingers into the grass so she wouldn’t reach for his arm. “But the fact that you want to is good. It means you love him and want to please him.”

  He flicked half a smile. “Do I have to go to Kenya to please him?”

  She tilted her head and made a face as if thinking deeply. “Brazil would do in a pinch.”

  Adler laughed. “I doubt Great-Aunt Violet would agree.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. She is not pleased with my assignment to the Aeroclub.”

  “Because you’re not working with poor, sick, crippled refugee orphans?”

  “Worse.” She leaned closer and used a stage whisper. “I’m working with pilots. Avoid them, she says. They’re full of charm and full of themselves.”

  “Wise woman. Listen to her.”

  Violet expected a playful grin, but Adler fixed his gaze on the game.

  “Good try, Colin.” He applauded, then got to his feet and offered Violet his hand. “Inning’s over. What position do you play?”

  “I’m good at running and fielding. Put me in the outfield.” She took his hand and felt his strength as he helped her up.

  She wasn’t so sure she wanted to avoid pilots. At least not this one.

  22

  Near Ulm, Germany

  Thursday, March 16, 1944

  Texas Eagle screamed toward the earth.

  “Come on, darlin’, you can do it.” With his hand steady on the throttle, Adler tightened his muscles against the building g-forces.

  Almost straight below him—ahead of him in the steep dive—Nick plunged after a single-engine Messerschmitt Me 109. Machine-gun fire lit on the edge of the German’s wing.

  The snowy landscape drew closer. Both pilots hoped the other would lose control and barrel into the ground, but the pilot who pulled up first would surely lose.

  At two hundred feet, the German pulled out level, with Santa’s Sleigh right behind him. Adler drew back the stick, and the change in g-forces slammed him back in his seat. He grunted and leveled off.

  Sparks flew along the enemy’s fuselage, then the fighter plowed through the snow.

  “Get out. Get out,” Nick said as he overran his victim. “Yellow two, did he get out?”

  A dark figure stumbled across the field as his aircraft burst into flame.

  “Yellow leader, he’s out.” Adler swooped up to avoid the debris. “Careful, buddy. That mercy could get you killed someday.”

  “A risk I’ll take.” Nick climbed toward the clouds, the bombers, and the rest of the fighter group.

  Adler slipped into position, never letting up his scan for enemy aircraft, even at this altitude. He pushed the microphone button. “One 109 destroyed by Westin.”

  “Yellow three here. Just blew up a 110. How about you, yellow two?” Riggs never gave up.

  “Yellow two, don’t mind him,” Nick said. “He’s jealous you got two home runs and a grand slam off of him yesterday.”

  Adler grinned. That had felt good indeed, especially with Violet watching.

  “Ah, that’s just a game,” Riggs said. “This is real life.”

  “Yellow flight, cut the chatter.” Morty Shapiro’s voice sliced the radio waves.

  “Roger,” Nick said.

  Adler braced himself against the sting. Riggs was right. The only place Adler had ever been first was on the baseball diamond. Not in anything that mattered.

  “Davis just made ace!” someone called.

  “Warren got three. He made ace too.”

  That made Glen Davis and Jack Warren the first aces in the 357th.

  “Good for them,” Adler said. “Good for them,” he repeated so he’d mean it.

  At this rate, Adler would never join their ranks. The invasion of Nazi-occupied Europe was coming soon, in May if rumors held true. After D-day, the war was sure to wind down quickly. If not, Adler’s tour would end in a few months.

  Besides, the Luftwaffe seemed to be in decline. Sometimes the fighters came up in force, but they didn’t oppose most missions. They appeared to be conserving aircraft, pilots, and oil.

  The bomber crewmen might appreciate fewer German fighters, but the American fighter pilots didn’t. Especially those who wanted to make ace.

  “Lord, help me, I still do.” Adler followed Nick up through the clouds.

  Part of him wanted to make ace for personal glory, but something new in him only wanted to give back, to help the Allied cause and save lives by ending the war.

  And his air cargo company. ACES was a great name, but he had to earn it to claim it. If not, he’d have to find a new name. He needed the company. Even if his family forgave him, he could never work at Paxton Trucking. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to make a visit.

  To see Daddy and Mama averting their eyes? Wyatt and Clay keeping their distance? To see Oralee’s parents? Ellen Hill?

  Adler hauled in a heated breath as he broke out of the clouds and linked with Nick. No sign of other aircraft.

  What if his whole air shipping idea was a dud? What could he do with his life? Follow Violet to Africa? The only appealing part was Violet herself.

  Those long legs as she ran the bases. The ferocious way she hit that line drive, nearly decapitating Willard Riggs. The sweet way she praised the children. How she accepted his teasing and teased him right back. She made him feel first. Better than first.

  But Adler could barely wrap his mind around the fact that he was forgiven. To become a missionary? He couldn’t see that. Of course, he really couldn’t see Violet doing that either. He pictured her as someone’s wife, a mama, a teacher, a community leader.

  Adler studied flashes in the distance. “Lord, if you can make her
a missionary, maybe you can make me—” He barked out a laugh. Too ridiculous to put in words.

  “Blue three!” Shapiro cried. “He’s on your tail.”

  Blue three? That was Stan Mulroney, and Adler squinted at those flashes.

  “I know,” Mulroney said in a tight voice. “I need a little more throttle.”

  “Break!” Shapiro said. “Break now.”

  Adler gritted his teeth. Just like Mulroney, always too cautious.

  “A little more—” A horrendous shriek tore the airwaves.

  An orange fireball tumbled down the sky.

  Adler couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop staring as a man burnt to death before his eyes.

  “Lord in heaven,” Nick said.

  “Oh, Lord.” The only prayer he could imagine was for God to end it soon, end the man’s misery.

  The shrieks stopped. Maybe Mulroney had lifted his thumb from the microphone button. Maybe God had answered Adler’s prayer.

  “Take that, you lousy Hun.” Shapiro’s voice was ragged and angry, and another fireball lit up the sky.

  Mulroney’s revenge. But it didn’t bring the man back.

  Adler pried his lungs open, and his breathing resumed. Maybe he should worry less about what to do after the war and more about surviving the war.

  Yet the dream of life afterward . . . that pulled him through.

  Leiston Army Airfield

  Friday, March 24, 1944

  With hands on hips and nostrils full of paint fumes, Violet admired the men’s handiwork.

  The day before, Eighth Fighter Command had ordered each fighter group to paint distinctive colors and patterns on the noses of their planes. The 357th had been assigned a red-and-yellow checkerboard design, and Violet had asked the men to paint a band of the same pattern over the snack bar and around the arched walls at each end of the dining area.

  It looked swell.

  “Say, Miss Lindstrom.” Herb Steinberg waved her over to his table. “My wife sent a picture of our little boy. Want to see?”

  “Oh yes.” She passed tables where men read, chatted, and sipped coffee and cocoa. Herb sat with José Flores and Clarence Gold, and Violet rested her hand on the back of Herb’s chair.

  “Two years old. Can’t believe it. Look how big he is.”

  Violet smiled at the image of a laughing, dark-haired cherub. “Strong too, isn’t he? And he has his father’s good looks.”

  “You want to see good-looking?” Clarence slipped over a snapshot of a pretty young lady leaning against the side of a sedan.

  “Beautiful,” Violet said. “Both the lady and the car.”

  The men chuckled. Even José, which was good to see. A week ago, Violet had listened to his anguish over a Dear John letter from his sweetheart. Sometimes a man felt better talking about such things to a sisterly type than to a buddy.

  She smiled. “Don’t forget the party at Thorpeness tomorrow. We’ll have boating on the lake and all sorts of games for the children.”

  The men groaned as one. Clarence tucked his girl’s photo into his wallet. “Only if we don’t have a mission.”

  “Nonsense,” Violet said. “You’re all ground crewmen, right? It’s only three miles away, and we’ll have trucks running back and forth all day. You have a break while the flyboys are away, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Herb tapped his son’s photo on the table. “Might be nice to play with kids, you know.”

  “I know.” Violet strolled down the hallway, peeking into the rooms. So much wholesome fun at the Aeroclub, so much satisfying work. Ironically, her work with the children had softened her heart toward the men. Only a few were brutes, many were true gentlemen, and many were just as Adler said—rough on the outside but noble inside.

  Violet paused outside the library, where several men read in peace and quiet. Only a month ago, Adler had helped her shelve those books, his knuckles bloodied, his stories spilling out, bending Violet’s heart toward him.

  The other day she might have joked about Great-Aunt Violet’s warning, but the woman was dead serious. Not only was she afraid a dashing pilot would lead Violet astray, but she feared Violet would become too content in her work.

  Her great-aunt urged her to cultivate a “holy restlessness,” making the best of her current situation while longing for God’s true calling. Avoid the extremes of bitter grumbling and of lazy complacency, she’d said.

  Violet huffed and passed the game room, where four men whooped over their Ping-Pong game and half a dozen milled around the pool table. She didn’t feel lazy.

  For the first time she could remember, she disagreed with her mentor.

  Serving as a missionary wasn’t the only way to serve God. Wasn’t Violet doing the Lord’s work in the Aeroclub? If so, why should she cultivate restlessness?

  She headed back for the kitchen.

  Tom Griffith stepped out and grinned at her. “Hiya, Miss Lindstrom. Millie and I just returned from Banister’s Grocery, put the food in the icebox.”

  “Thanks.” Violet pushed open the kitchen door.

  Sylvia Haywood was hacking up a chicken, and Millie was humming and cracking eggs into a bowl.

  “Hi, Millie. Griff said you unloaded the groceries. Did you log the delivery?”

  “Log?” Millie’s face drooped. “I forgot.”

  “Millie!” Sylvia frowned at her. “I told you twice.”

  Violet grimaced and picked up the log she’d started that week. “Please tell me you checked the delivery against the invoice.”

  “I think Griff did. Don’t worry. Mr. Banister is a good sort. He’d never cheat you.”

  “That’s not the point.” Violet sighed. “With a thief on the loose, we have to keep careful inventory.”

  Millie gave her a smile too long-suffering for her tender years. “Honestly, Miss Lindstrom. That’ll only tell you how much is being nicked, not who’s doing the nicking.”

  “Regardless, please do so. Now, where’s the invoice? I have to piece it together after the fact.”

  “I put it in your office.” She smiled with too much pride in so small an accomplishment.

  “Thank you.” Violet left the kitchen and entered her office.

  Rufus Tate stood behind the desk, examining the ledger.

  “Oh! Good afternoon, Mr. Tate. I didn’t see you arrive.”

  “Are the thefts continuing?” He flipped a page without looking up.

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid so. We’re trying to keep track of how much we’re losing, but we’re still training the kitchen staff to fill out the logs.”

  “Your food budget is far higher than at the other Aeroclubs.”

  Violet clutched her hands together. “The thefts are foodstuffs—flour, sugar, tea, meat—”

  “All rationed items.” He sat in her chair and frowned at her. “Explain.”

  She wasn’t accustomed to being interrogated, and she shifted her feet. “Since it’s mostly staples, I don’t think it’s one of our men, unless he’s selling on the black market. I’m afraid it’s probably one of our workers or volunteers.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that.” His voice chilled her. “Everyone knows you favor the locals over our own boys.”

  “Sir, that’s not true.” At least not anymore.

  He crossed his arms over his large belly. “Someone accused you of being the thief.”

  “Me?” She grasped the edge of the desk.

  “A noble Robin Hood, stealing from the rich spoiled Yanks to give to the poor beleaguered English. It has a ring of truth about it.”

  “Sir, I couldn’t.” She fought for air. “Yes, I feel sorry for the English—shouldn’t we?—but we are helping them, by giving them jobs and helping end the war. And—and all our money comes from donations back home. I could never steal from the Red Cross.”

  “A pretty speech.” Mr. Tate slammed the ledger shut and stood. “I’m restricting your funds. You will receive the same amount as the other Aeroclubs. Stop the thef
ts, or you’ll have to limit other activities. If this doesn’t end soon, I’ll have you dismissed.”

  Dismissed? She gripped the desk hard so she wouldn’t collapse. If she were dismissed from the Red Cross, no mission board would accept her. Neither would a school board.

  Mr. Tate stomped out of the office.

  Violet sank into a chair and hugged her stomach. What she wouldn’t give to be home right now, with Mom doing the hugging.

  If her heart had been in the right place at the start, no one would have accused her.

  23

  Thorpeness, Suffolk, England

  Saturday, March 25, 1944

  A dozen boys swarmed Adler. “Let’s play baseball!”

  He gestured over the narrow lawn to the lake. “Not the best place, unless y’all want to feed baseballs to those swans out there.”

  The boys groaned.

  “But it’s a fine place to play catch. We can teach y’all to throw.” He and some other airmen organized the kids in two parallel lines stretching away from the shoreline.

  Jimmy Haywood pulled Adler’s sleeve. “I want to pitch like y’all, Lieutenant Paxton.”

  He suppressed a smile at the boy’s effort to sound like a Texan, and he squatted and held a baseball before the towhead. “First you’ve got to learn to throw. Accuracy first, then speed.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Adler plunked the ball into the boy’s hand, then wandered away. The kids were too attached to him. Better to let the other men take over, men who served on the ground. One bullet could put an end to him, and he deliberately flew in the path of bullets more days than not.

  He strolled along the lake. Airmen helped children into white rowboats rimmed with bright colors. Even though the water in the manmade lake was less than three feet deep, the men followed Red Cross instructions and put an adult or older child in each boat.

  Thorpeness had a storybook feel. Across the lake, a white windmill peeked above the trees and vacation homes, and the red “House in the Clouds” perched on top of a tall water tower. The islands in the lake had Peter Pan themes, and the kids could explore Wendy’s House, the Pirate’s Lair, and Smuggler’s Cove, while watching out for crocodiles.