The Sky Above Us

by Sarah Sundin

  His face brightened. “I fancy it even better than cricket.”

  Probably because the flyboys didn’t frequent the cricket fields—or whatever they were called. “How did you get so good at batting? Tell me what you do.”

  “It’s easy.” He gripped his pencil like a bat. “You set up your stance—your feet, your knees, your shoulders, your bat. Then you keep your eyes on the ball, wait for the right moment, swing, and follow through.” Jimmy demonstrated.

  Violet stifled a smile at how his actions and words mimicked the Yanks. With a serious face, she shook her head. “That’s an awful lot of steps.”

  Hazel eyes narrowed—he knew he’d been tricked.

  Violet laughed. “Long division only has four steps, and they flow in a circle. If you can learn to bat, you can learn to divide.”

  She talked him through the steps again, showing him the flow. Then she wrote out four problems, each with one digit going in to five.

  He moaned. “That’s too long.”

  “No, it isn’t. The same four steps, over and over, round and round. You can do it. Hit those numbers right out of the park.”

  That made him grin.

  She patted the paper. “You work on those while I start cleaning up.”

  It was two o’clock. Time for Griff to drive the children home and for the ground crewmen to go to their hardstands and wait for the returning planes.

  Violet assigned the older children to wash the paintbrushes in the kitchen, while the airmen helped the younger children screw lids on paint jars and the ladies wiped little fingers with a damp rag.

  Herb Steinberg set the colorful rocks in a cardboard box to send back to the village. “Say, Miss Lindstrom, you’re good with kids. You ought to be a teacher.”

  She laughed and helped little Margie Haywood out of a smock made from one of Violet’s dad’s old shirts. “I am. Well, I was.”

  Those two years teaching third grade had been delightful. She’d loved the children and had enjoyed helping them understand new concepts.

  Great-Aunt Violet had warned her not to enjoy it too much.

  Her neck muscles twitched. Why had she allowed discontentment to tarnish her joy?

  Violet peeked at Jimmy’s work. He’d finished three of the problems, and they were correct. She squeezed his shoulders. “You did it, Jimmy. Very good. I knew you could.”

  He smiled up at her with even more pride than when he hit a line drive.

  Tom Griffith entered the room with a tall, skinny private. “Hiya, kids! Who wants a ride in my truck?”

  The children bounded to their feet, grinning and shedding smocks.

  Violet scanned the room. “Excellent job cleaning up. Put your smocks in the box and then you may go home. Thank you for coming.”

  Griff flicked his chin in Herb’s direction. “Say, Herb, could you take them out to the truck? I’ll be right there.”

  “Sure.” He carried the box of rocks over his head. “Come on, kids. Follow the leader.”

  “Miss Lindstrom?” Griff motioned the tall private closer. “This is Paul Harrison. He’s new in the motor pool.”

  “Hi, Private Harrison. It’s nice to meet you.” She shook his hand. The young man had soft brown eyes in his long face.

  “Paul was raised in China. His parents are missionaries. Miss Lindstrom here wants to be a missionary too.”

  Violet grinned, questions welling up inside her. This had to be a sign that the Lord would sway Adler toward missions. The timing couldn’t be coincidental. “I’d love to hear your stories.”

  “I have the afternoon off.” Paul nodded toward the emptying room. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll tell stories.”

  “I’d love that. Why don’t you fold the tarp while I clean up paint splatters?” She picked up a damp rag and bent over to look for paint that had defied the tarp. “First, tell me how you ended up in England.”

  Paul picked up one end of the tarp and walked it over. “When the Japanese invaded China, our mission board ordered us back to the States. My parents didn’t want to go, but my youngest sister was only a baby and they were concerned for her.”

  “I can understand that.” Violet dabbed at a yellow smear on the cement floor. Thank goodness for poster paint. The powdered paint traveled well from Kansas, mixed up with water—and wiped up with water too.

  “I was drafted right after my eighteenth birthday, and here I am, fixing truck engines.” Paul folded the other side of the tarp over.

  “Will you return to China?”

  He chuckled. “My parents will be on the first ship after the war, but I’m going to college to become an engineer. Working on engines—I like it. I want to design even better ones.”

  Violet frowned at a stubborn red splat. “What do your parents think about that?”

  “They’re happy for me, but they say they’ll miss me.” He shrugged as if he didn’t quite believe the part about being missed.

  She smiled at his back. “I’m sure they will, but I’m surprised they don’t want you to follow in their footsteps.”

  “They said I’ll be a missionary in the auto industry.”

  What an interesting way to think of it.

  He folded the tarp into a square. “Where do you want to go, Miss Lindstrom?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” A spot of green caught her eye, and she scrubbed at it. “My great-uncle and aunt serve in Kenya, but I’ll go wherever I’m sent.”

  Paul flattened the tarp bundle. “You don’t care where you go?”

  “Wherever I’m needed.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Odd?”

  He picked up a rag and knelt on the floor, squinting out the window. “My parents have always loved China and the Chinese people. Now that they’re stuck in the States, they moved to San Francisco to work in the Chinese community. I’ve met a lot of missionaries over the years. They’re all drawn to the country, the culture, the people.”

  A twinge in her gut. She’d met a lot of missionaries in her college mission society. Each had a strong, specific passion like that.

  Paul’s family loved China and the Chinese. Great-Aunt Violet loved Kenya and the Kenyans. And Violet? She loved the Lord. She loved . . . children.

  “Do you see any more spots?” Paul asked. “I don’t.”

  “Oh.” Violet brought her eyes back into focus. “I don’t either.”

  “Anything else I can do?”

  “No, but thank you.” She got to her feet and smiled at the young man. “I need to make sure the kitchen is ready, but please stop by the Aeroclub any time. I would love to hear your stories.”

  “I’ll do that. Good-bye now.”

  Violet gathered the tarp and paint bottles into a box and stacked it on the box of smocks. She didn’t like the unsettled feeling inside her.

  She carried the boxes to the storage room. Why did she want to be a missionary if she didn’t have that specific passion? She thought back to the age of ten when she’d made the decision and to her subsequent decisions.

  Why? Because she loved God. Because missions seemed the noblest, the most sacrificial, the most . . . difficult.

  Violet made a face as she opened the storage room. Difficult? That didn’t sound quite right. That almost sounded wrong.

  She set the box on a shelf and rubbed her forehead. Had God really called her to be a missionary or only to be willing to be a missionary?

  With a groan, Violet shut the door. Was God swaying her heart, or were her feelings for Adler doing the swaying? What if the Lord chose her heart to change instead of his?

  Maybe the Lord had something quieter for her. Less sacrificial.

  Violet leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. Lord, I promised I’d allow myself to be swayed by you. By you and you alone.

  She pushed away from the wall and headed for the kitchen. I’m willing.

  30

  Near Munich, Germany

  Monday, April 24, 1944

  At 250 yar
ds, Adler squeezed the trigger. Texas Eagle’s bullets erupted the length of the Messerschmitt 110’s right wing, and smoke plumed out of the right engine. Flames.

  One more burst to let them know they’d had it.

  The Me 110 rolled over, and two figures tumbled out.

  Adler pulled up. When was the Luftwaffe going to learn to stop sending twin-engine fighters up against the Mustangs? Almost too easy to count a victory. But he’d count it. The second swastika to paint on the fuselage.

  This victory would be easy for intelligence to confirm. He could still hear Willard Riggs cussing at the intelligence officer for not awarding him the victory he’d stolen from Adler. A week on restriction had only increased the man’s surliness. No remorse. No apologies.

  Adler sighed into his oxygen mask. Thank you, God, for letting me learn from my mistakes.

  “Yellow leader, 109 at two o’clock below,” Floyd called.

  Adler spotted him. “Here we go.” He shoved the stick forward and to the right, and Eagle dove after the single-engine fighter. A fairer match.

  The Me 109 jerked and dove straight down. Adler plunged after him. Green landscape, red-roofed buildings, and one of Germany’s finest aircraft spun below him. He fired, overshot.

  His airspeed climbed—450 miles per hour, 460. He knew pilots who’d pushed it past 500 in a dive.

  Altitude five thousand feet, four thousand. Adler fired a burst that lit up the Messerschmitt’s tail assembly. Chunks of metal dinged off Adler’s windscreen, and he instinctively ducked.

  No cracks. Thank goodness for the extra-thick Plexiglas. Airspeed 475, altitude fifteen hundred. His eyesight grayed over.

  He had no wish to black out and crash, so he pulled the stick back. After his eyesight cleared and he had enough altitude, he turned to the right.

  A column of smoke rose from a clump of trees. “Yellow two?”

  “No chute. He flew straight into the ground.”

  Adler blew out a long breath. He’d probably shot off the elevators on the tail, making it impossible for the German to pull up.

  He hated to see a man die, but that man could have gone on to strafe the fleet and landing beaches on D-day.

  After he got his bearings, Adler climbed toward where he’d last seen the stream of B-17 Flying Fortresses. The bombers had targeted aircraft factories in Erding. Better to keep enemy aircraft from hitting the sky in the first place.

  Depending on the weather, the Eighth Air Force hit transportation targets in France some days and aircraft and oil industries in Germany on other days.

  A speck ahead of him—another Me 110, flying perpendicular to his course, slow and steady. Something jumped in his chest. Easy pickings. Wouldn’t it be something if he could get another two victories today and make ace?

  The jumping calmed. Or he could lead from second and teach Floyd. The pilot had gained in skill and confidence, and it was time for him to take the next step.

  “Yellow two, one o’clock. See him? That maneuver we planned.”

  “Roger.” Floyd got in place, close behind Adler to the left.

  Adler made a diving turn to get on the German’s tail. They were only at twenty-five hundred feet with the Me 110 at about one thousand feet. At such a low altitude, the enemy had no room to maneuver.

  Adler closed the distance, out of the sun, a perfect attack. After he got within 300 yards, he would wheel off to the right, distracting the German pilot and letting Floyd swoop in.

  He dove into position—500 yards, 400.

  “He’s mine!” Willard Riggs’s voice sounded on the radio, angry and strident.

  “Yellow leader!” Floyd shouted. “Watch out!”

  A flash of olive drab over his canopy. Riggs! Diving on the same target!

  “Yellow two, break!” Adler gave Eagle full right rudder to skid out of Riggs’s path, then right stick to turn away, careful to keep his nose up.

  Orange light blinded him, filled the canopy. A boom overrode his own engine noises. A shock wave buffeted Eagle’s wings. Debris pelleted his fuselage.

  Adler fought his controls. “Floyd! Riggs!”

  He cranked his head around. A jumbled ball of flame and smoke plummeted to earth. “Floyd! Riggs!”

  “I—I’m hit.” Floyd’s P-51 remained airborne. “Debris. My wing.”

  Adler circled. The fireball—no, two distinct fireballs—splattered in a green field, flames and smoke twisting around the wreckage. Two planes.

  “Oh, dear God. Riggs,” Adler breathed.

  “He—he—he—”

  “Floyd! How’s your plane? Can you fly?”

  “He—he—he—”

  He was dead. Riggs was dead, and the reality slammed Adler in the chest. For the sake of the intelligence officer’s stupid reports, he snapped a picture with his gun camera to document Riggs’s last victory and what it had cost him.

  Adler couldn’t think about it now. He had to get his flight home. No sign of Theo—Riggs must have shaken him off before the attack. “Floyd, your plane. How bad is it?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Adler came alongside Floyd’s Mustang. The right wing was mangled but intact. No damage on the fuselage. “Test your controls.”

  Floyd nosed the plane up and down—elevators fine. It yawed right and left—rudder fine. “The ailerons. They’re not responding.”

  “Use your rudder for turns. You’re going to be fine. We’re going home now, and I’ll be your wingman.”

  Adler set a course for Leiston, his stomach twisted into a knot. This was the first loss that had really hit Floyd. He’d barely met Shapiro before the squadron commander had taken to his parachute. But he’d shared a hut with Riggs.

  Now Riggs was dead.

  Adler’s head swung back and forth. This was harder than Mulroney’s death. He’d never liked Riggs and their competition had been fierce, but he’d never wished the man dead.

  Such a useless death. That Messerschmitt would have fallen to Floyd’s guns, to Adler’s if Floyd had failed. Riggs dove in for his own glory and to spite Adler. For nothing.

  “Lord, have mercy on his soul.”

  Adler scanned the sky, clear except for wispy cirrus clouds high above. Riggs’s death would be hard on Violet too. She had such a tender heart.

  One of the many things he loved about her.

  No doubt he’d fallen in love, hard and fast. Their walks were the highlight of each day as they strolled down country lanes, telling stories, laughing, and kissing. Knowing a jeep or a farmer’s wagon could pass at any time made him behave himself.

  Signs of a dogfight, far to the north. Looked like the Yoxford Boys would chalk up a high number of victories again today.

  Now Adler had three. Two more to make ace.

  His company idea seemed more realistic. He’d pored over an atlas the other day. Violet’s hometown of Salina had a good-sized population and flat terrain and was near roads and railroads.

  The perfect hub for an air shipping company.

  Close to her family. Far from his.

  To be fair, he’d also pored over a book about Africa. He’d love to visit someday. But to live there? To be a preacher?

  “I couldn’t handle that.” Then he frowned. His new self was like a brand-new airplane model. He was still testing the controls and the engines. He didn’t know its full capabilities yet.

  Maybe his new self could handle more than he thought.

  31

  Leiston Army Airfield

  Monday, May 1, 1944

  Violet turned a page in her hoedown notebook. “May 31, less than a month away. I can’t wait.”

  Sitting next to her on the couch in the library, Kitty checked her clipboard. “I’m making progress on the food. I’ve ordered the beans and bacon through Banister’s Grocery in Leiston, and Red Cross Headquarters is trying to procure cornmeal and molasses.”

  Violet made notes. “The theater building is booked, the men are asking around to see if anyone is a square da
nce caller, the Buzz Boys are practicing, and Floyd Milligan—I mean, Floyd Miller—agreed to play his harmonica. The Special Services Officer submitted a request for one of his movies.”

  Kitty nibbled on the end of her pencil. “Make sure we have an alternate movie.”

  “In case they can’t find one?”

  “In case . . . well, Floyd’s a pilot.” Her brown eyes stretched wide. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Violet sketched a border around the page. “No, you’re right. It’s a dangerous job. Your . . . your brother.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Kitty’s voice sounded strangled. She rarely talked about her pilot brother, but she never dated any of the pilots either.

  Violet made a note to ask for a second film. The death of Willard Riggs had pressed the dangers home—and shaken her.

  Never once had she thought a kind thought about the man. And worse, she’d never spoken a kind word to him. A good missionary would have been more concerned with his soul than his behavior. Now he was gone.

  “Violet?” Kitty clasped her hand. “Adler seems indestructible.”

  She forced a smile. All these vigorous young men did, but over a third of the original pilots had been shot down.

  Her gaze darted to the clock. The late afternoon was the hardest, wondering if he’d flown, if he’d survived.

  “I told you to have a fling.” Kitty raised half a smile. “I didn’t tell you to fall madly in love.”

  “I’m not . . .”

  Kitty gave her a comical look.

  “All right, maybe a little,” Violet whispered. But it was too early, and Adler hadn’t said anything yet. She turned a page. “Decorations. We have money in the budget.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What?”

  Kitty’s mouth scooted to one side. “Rosalind told me we lost another sack of sugar.”

  “But Millie’s gone!”

  “I know, but since then the girls have gotten lazy with the logs. I’m not sure if it was theft or just poor accounting. We need to return to keeping strict logs and locking the cabinets. In the meantime, I see no need to tell Mr. Tate.”

  Violet stroked the nubby brown upholstery. She didn’t want that nightmare to recur.

  “Howdy, ladies.” Adler stood in the library door in his flight jacket and khaki trousers, holding a slip of paper and scratching his head. “This here note on the office door says, ‘The Red Cross director and staff assistant are in the library if you need help.’”