by Debby Lee
To her surprise, he fished through the pile of squares and picked one out. Then he took another square that had been cut from an old blue work shirt and began sewing the two together.
“There are nine squares to a block, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right, Captain.” Mama smiled.
“Remember, Stella, I told you my mother and sisters all sewed.” He aimed another of his winks at her.
Stella blushed but managed to keep her tiny stitches in line.
For the next thirty minutes they sewed in a silence that wasn’t the least bit awkward. Then there was a sharp knock on the door. Mama, who’d been resting in her rocker and sipping the last of her tea, said, “You two stay put. I’ll get it.”
Stella peeked around her mother’s thin frame to see a young enlisted man with papers in his hand.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m looking for Captain Morgenstern. Nurse Colleen Gardner said he might be here.”
“Yes, he is.” Mama stepped aside and motioned toward Irving.
Why would an enlisted man come looking for Irving? Stella’s breath hitched in her throat. This didn’t look good.
“I have orders here for him.” The soldier handed Irving the papers. Irving tore them open, and for a few seconds Stella thought her heart stopped beating. Was he being called to the South Pacific right then?
“Thank you for the fine evening, ma’am, Stella. I’m sorry, but I need to go.” Irving nodded at both of them. “I need to get to my quarters.”
He grabbed his coat and hurried out the door. Stella followed him.
“What’s going on? Why do you need to rush off?” she asked, fearing the answers. “It’s nothing serious or dangerous, is it?” It was difficult enough having her father at risk, but to have the captain in danger as well? It was too much.
Irving grasped her shoulders. “Look, I’m only telling you this so you know why I won’t be around for a few days. I could be court-martialed for telling you this.”
He paused, looked around. Stella’s stomach barrel-rolled like a B-17.
“First thing tomorrow morning I’m meeting with General Valens. He’s briefing me on my next mission and giving me an opportunity to get acquainted with two new crew members before we go up. We’ve been ordered to fly a mission day after next.”
“Gracious.” The word flew from Stella’s lips before she could harness her tongue. It frightened her to realize just how much she cared for this gentle but courageous man.
A sob rose from her middle and stuck in her throat as she spoke. “You will let me come see you off, see you before you go up, won’t you?”
His grip on her shoulders tightened. “Stella, no. You can’t. I need to focus on my mission, and nothing else. Do you understand?”
She nodded. He gave her a tender squeeze and walked away. Would it be the last time she ever saw him?
An empty ache took root in her heart and bloomed into a gnawing fear as she watched him go. She imagined the Japanese were a real threat now, if the army was sending planeloads of men on missions.
That night she prayed and cried like she hadn’t before. Papa had somehow survived D-Day and those long, grueling months in Europe. The captain had miraculously cheated death in a plane crash. If they were both headed to the South Pacific for more fighting, that meant they were both still in danger. It was almost more than she could bear.
The question still haunted her the next day. In an effort to steer her mind another direction, she went to the post exchange to see if any sewing supplies had come in.
“Afternoon, miss.” The clerk smiled at her. “We received only a hundred cases of Spam this time along with some dried applesauce, several cases of chocolate bars, and a pitchfork.”
“Do you have any sewing supplies?” she asked, devoid of hope.
“Why, yes we do,” the clerk piped.
After nearly fainting from surprise, Stella purchased some new thread, three yards of sage-green ribbon, and three yards of soft beige cotton. The pitchfork she had no use for. Thanks to Irving’s help the previous night, the quilt top was nearly finished. Mama had scrounged a threadbare blanket from Mary, which they planned to use as batting. An old sheet she obtained from the hospital would serve as the backing. Once they sewed it all together the quilt would be done.
She planned on giving it to Irving, but would he live long enough to enjoy it?
The following day she walked to the edge of the airfield. Irving didn’t need to see her, she just needed to see him.
A large supply plane came in and landed. It frightened her to hear the plane’s engine roaring. Would she ever hear one again without her stomach clenching with anxiety?
Then she watched the ground crew roll a staircase up to the plane’s side. The door opened, and moments later, a thin, hunched-over man hobbled from the exit.
“Papa?”
“The supply plane has been unloaded and is out of your way,” the air traffic controller said over the radio. “You’re free to take off, Captain.”
“Roger that,” Irving replied. He taxied the B-17 across the tarmac and stopped at the beginning of the runway. Silent prayer for a safe mission.
“Max power!” he hollered.
“Max power,” Jack repeated.
Irving gave the plane some gas and accelerated. Almost in slow motion, he guided the craft into the sky. If the mission went well, he’d be back soon to sew quilt blocks again with Stella.
In his right breast pocket he carried a small quilt square with her initials he’d sewn into it. He’d placed the rest of the quilt block in an envelope along with a letter he’d written. He’d given the envelope to the chaplain to give to Stella if he didn’t come back.
But Irving didn’t want to think of not coming back. For now, he had to focus on his mission. He worried about the two new crew members, turret gunner Private Worley and right waist gunner Private Ormond. This wasn’t their first mission, but they were still green as an Irish shamrock.
“Where did the general say we were headed?” Ormond asked.
Irving detected a note of apprehension in the nineteen-year-old’s voice.
“As far south as possible before refueling on the aircraft carrier and then heading farther south.”
“Look alive out there, men,” Jack called. “Remember to call out those fighters if you see any.” Irving knew Jack wanted to keep morale up, but all Irving could think about was coming back safely.
The blue sky spread out as far as he could see; the ground below him disappeared under a mass of cottony clouds as he maintained altitude.
Hours passed while the enlisted men told jokes. Jack poured a cup of coffee from his thermos and offered it to Irving. Irving gladly took the cup and sipped it, savoring the warmth. Sometimes they had to fly at such high altitudes frost gathered on the windows. So the coffee was a welcome treat.
“Zeroes, four o’clock low,” the belly gunner called over the headset.
The gunners swung into action and peppered the Japanese plane with bullets. Another silver plane with a red circle painted on the side appeared and fired at them. Ormond yelled but returned fire. Bullets pinged off the left wing.
Irving pulled up, attempting to get into a mass of gray clouds before the strafing tore his plane apart.
“Flak jackets and helmets, boys!” Jack called.
No more Zeroes popped over the horizon, but it was still several tense minutes before the crew could take a deep breath. Irving placed a hand over his pocket. Every part of him yearned to get back to Stella as soon as the mission was over.
“Anybody hit?” Jack asked. The men did a roll call, and everyone was unhurt.
Irving focused on the dials and gauges before him. Something wasn’t quite right. Then smoke began to pour from one of the engines on the left wing.
Chapter 8
Irving’s plane had taken off that afternoon. It cut Stella to the bone, knowing he had been sent to the South Pacific. If only they could
have spent more time together before he had to leave. Yes, he had to train for, and focus on, his mission, but there were so many things she wished they’d had time to talk about.
An ambulance had picked her father up from the airfield and taken him to the hospital. Stella ran home to get her mother, and together they rushed to see him. Mama cried and thanked the Lord at least a dozen times as they tended to her father’s every anticipated need. Not that he spoke of his needs or much of anything else, for that matter.
Colleen interceded when visiting hours were over. Stella walked her mother home and spent a sleepless night worrying about both men she cared deeply for.
Mama rose early the next morning and, with a bounce in her step, was anxious to get back to her husband. Stella shoved pins into her hair without taking much time to see if it looked presentable.
After gulping a cup of coffee, Stella held her mother’s hand as they strode back to the hospital.
The ward held fewer wounded men for Stella to visit, but the man resting beside the window was her father. She sat on one side of his bed, reading The Grapes of Wrath, but she knew Papa absorbed little of the words she read.
A much heavier version of him had gone off to war in Europe more than a year ago. Now all that remained was a thin, pale, shell-shocked soldier who rarely said anything.
Mama had perked up, though, at having her husband back from Europe. She occupied the other side of his bed and fed him a big bowl of beef stew that she’d scrounged from the kitchen. Afterward she covered him with an extra blanket.
“There you are, I hope this keeps you warm enough.” Mama smiled through the tears glistening in her eyes. Stella was grateful her family was together again, but the wounds to her father’s mind would heal much slower than the ones to his body. That is, if they healed at all.
Unable to watch her father in such a state, she rose and stepped to the front desk, which sat vacant. Stella wondered where Colleen might be.
Thinking her friend might have some ideas on how to help Papa, Stella tiptoed down the hallway. She really shouldn’t be snooping around the places where only medical personnel were allowed, but she needed to see her friend.
Colleen strode around the corner.
Stella’s heart pounded in her chest. “Goodness, Colleen, you scared me.”
“You shouldn’t be back here. If the doctor finds you near the operating room, he’ll yell at me.” Colleen craned her neck both directions. Then she said, “But I have something to tell you.”
She pulled Stella into a linen closet near the operating room. She put a finger to her lips. “What’s going on?” Stella hissed. “Why all the secrecy?”
“I received a telegram this morning.”
Stella shivered. Telegrams usually meant bad news, that loved ones were missing, or worse, dead. Except her friend acted way too chipper to be a grieving widow.
“Relax, Stella, it was from my husband.” Colleen squeezed Stella’s hands. “But you know Mr. Hapsock’s son, the one who’s missing in action?”
Stella nodded. She gulped and said a silent prayer for the Hapsock family. Knowing the answers were preferable to not knowing, but sometimes the answers produced as much pain as the unknown. She ached for her boss and for what the rest of the boy’s family must be going through.
Colleen said excitedly, “He’s not dead. My husband just operated on somebody who claims to be him. Officials are checking to be sure it’s true.”
“Oh, thank the Lord,” Stella said. “Is he all right?”
“Yes, though my husband wasn’t able to save the boy’s left leg. It was badly infected after spending weeks in a POW camp.”
A deep breath of relief flew out of Stella’s lungs. “At least he’s coming home. That’s more than what some families have.”
Colleen dropped her hands. “I have to go; they’re doing surgery on a new private.”
Stella frowned. “Surgery? Not for battle wounds, right? I would have heard about that.”
“No, he put on a pair of roller skates he got from the post exchange and hung on to the back of a jeep as it raced around the base. Two sergeants bet him a week’s pay he couldn’t hang on for a mile. He held on for two miles and won the bet before he fell off and whacked his head good.”
Stella asked, “Is he all right?”
“He will be, eventually. Right now he’s got a broken nose and a broken jaw and needs stitches all over his fool head.”
“Good gracious.” Stella laid a hand on her chest. The idiotic things young men tried.
“I have to go. Don’t say anything about the Hapsock boy until we know more for certain.” Colleen exited the linen closet.
Stella stood there, thinking, and then remembered her father. She had to get back to him. She made her way to the cafeteria, hoping to find something to eat first. A tattered copy of Stars and Stripes sat on a counter beside a loaf of bread. She helped herself and went back to her father’s bedside.
General Valens boasted his way into the room, followed by a news reporter for the Adakian and one from Stars and Stripes as well.
They stopped at her father’s bedside, and the general stood ramrod straight and saluted. Then he pulled a small box from his pocket. “Major McGovern, I’m General Valens. It is my honor to bestow upon you this Purple Heart.”
Mama beamed, but Papa stared at the man and said nothing. The reporters snapped a few pictures and included Mama in one of them. Mama smiled at the camera but glared at the general. The man’s reputation for pompousness preceded him.
Stella wondered if this was the homecoming Mr. Hapsock’s son would receive when he returned. Her heart cinched tight in her chest, thinking of all the lives that had been changed by this war. And it wasn’t over, not yet.
Her thoughts turned to Irving. Nobility wove its way through the man’s character, but he didn’t seek fame or flattery, by any stretch. Stella doubted he’d want his picture taken, especially for a newspaper article. Where was that man, anyway? She hadn’t seen him since the night they’d sewn quilt blocks, when the enlisted man showed up with a message for him.
Panic shot through her heart.
“General,” she said, not entirely certain she wanted the answer to the question she was about to ask. “Is there any word from Captain Morgenstern?”
The man stood rigid as a fresh-cut board. “The captain and his crew have been sent to the South Pacific, as you very well know. The rest of the details are classified.”
Irving managed to shut down the damaged engine without too much difficulty. They could fly on three, but not too far. He placed his hand over his right breast pocket, the one that contained the remaining square to the nine-block in Stella’s quilt. He might make it back to Dutch Harbor to sew with her again after all.
He worked the dials and gauges on his plane without any difficulty or pain from his hands. He flexed his fingers. Okay, maybe there was a small amount of pain, but it would heal with time, he was sure of it.
The putty-colored clouds parted and revealed a warm summer sun. It had to be past noon, but where over the Pacific were they? The water had gone from dark to light blue. When they stopped to refuel, the men could eat some lunch before returning to the air.
They were flying low over the water when three additional Japanese fighter planes flew into his field of vision. Gunfire echoed in his ears. The Zero’s bullets made for a wicked pinging sound as they bounced off the side of his aircraft.
“Navigator and bombardier, take cover!” he shouted. They could hold out as long as they didn’t lose another engine, or worse, get shot down.
The gunners returned fire and managed to shoot down one of the Zeroes. Irving watched it burst into flames and go down in a hail of bullets.
Flames erupted from somewhere.
“We’ve been hit,” the bombardier hollered. “They ruptured our fuel tank.”
Déjà vu?
Irving gripped the steering column to steady the aircraft. Had he survived the last plane cr
ash only to crash-land again? This time in the ocean?
Images of Stella danced in his mind as the plane lost altitude and hovered over the vast blue water. He thought of the square of fabric in his pocket and prayed he’d return to give it to the woman he loved.
“Bombardier, make sure you get that life raft afloat. Everyone, get into your Mae Wests.” It was the last thing he screamed before the plane plunged into the water.
Chapter 9
Sleep refused to cocoon Stella with a blessed semblance of peace as she tossed in her small bed. Fear, anguish, and hopelessness had haunted her with eerie whispers of “he’s dead, he’s dead,” mocking her, tormenting her, throughout the darkest hours of night.
Regardless of what the voices tried to convince her of, she refused to believe her Irving was dead. MIA. That’s what the other pilots had said the previous evening as they wound down the search for the night, but her heart stubbornly clung to a thread of hope. After all, they’d only been shot down yesterday afternoon. She reminded herself of the Hapsock boy and how long he’d been missing, and he came home alive. Yes, there was still hope, and surely there must be news by now.
Tossing the covers aside, she rose from her bed and quickly donned her clothes.
Prayers for Irving and his crew had flown from her lips from the time she found out about his missing status. They continued through the night, and to that very moment.
She stepped outside to gather an armload of firewood. A faint pink colored the horizon to the east, announcing the dawning of a new day. In spite of the warm rays of sunshine lighting up the atmosphere, Stella was chilled to the core of her bones. She shivered and ducked back inside.
After stoking the fire so Mama would be warm when she awoke, Stella put on a pot of coffee. When it finished brewing, she took two sips before her stomach churned with anxiety. She rubbed her aching temples. Lack of sleep was likely the cause, but she could rest after Irving was found, alive and well.
Mama padded into the kitchen area. “Any word?”