A Memory Between Us (18 page)

“Smart,” Jack said. “The Nazis target historic sites. At least the U.S. aims for military targets. Sure, there’s civilian damage, but not on purpose.”

“The RAF, on the other hand,” Charlie said. “Carpet bombing at night, not that I blame them.”

Jack looked around at the razed lots and boarded windows, his jaw set forward. “Yep. Hitler started it.”

In her mind, Ruth replaced Westminster Abbey’s boards with stained glass. “I’m glad we don’t deliberately cause damage like this, don’t try to kill innocent people.”

“Compassion makes you a great nurse,” Jack said. “But you’d make a lousy bombardier.”

“We already have a bombardier on this crew,” Charlie said. “She’s our navigator. Speaking of which …”

Jack pulled out the map and unfolded it for Ruth.

“Come on, Novak, give her the map.”

“It’s mine.”

Ruth studied the map. Two months ago, she would have suspected he kept the map for these moments of closeness, but now he kept it only from masculine pride. “This road to the right takes us to a street that runs along St. James’s Park to Buckingham Palace.” She drew back, and her arm cooled away from Jack’s touch. Ridiculous.

She strode ahead at full pace, passing Charlie and May.

Jack’s footsteps thumped up beside her. “Hold yer horses there, ma’am.”

“Since when have you turned into a cowpoke?”

“Can’t rightly say, little filly. Somethin’ ’bout this here town brings out the rebellious Yank in me.” He pursed up his mouth. “Got me an urge to spit. Maybe get a little gunfight goin’.”

“Don’t you dare. You’ll get us kicked out of town, and I’ll never see the palace.”

“You’re an enthusiastic little tourist, aren’t you?”

Ruth gave him a glare for the patronizing
little
. “Can you blame me? We’re in London. London! All these places I’ve read about all my life, but I never dreamed I’d see. These two days have been the best of my life.”

“Mine too.”

Ruth’s mouth went dry. He’d been to London before, so he had to mean the company. At the corner, sharp stone buildings gave way to a broad avenue with greenery on the far side. They waited for shining black taxis to pass, then crossed the road and turned onto a path that edged the park.

“Jack?” She cleared her throat and willed her stomach to stop hopping around. “You and May and Charlie—well, you’re part of the reason this trip is special. I never imagined I’d have friends like this.” She looked back to where Charlie and May lagged behind, then to Jack’s face, full of affection.

Ruth tripped on a flagstone, and Jack caught her elbow. “Watch it, there.”

She managed to laugh, but her ankles wobbled until he let go.

They walked under the partial canopy of trees, the sun warm on her back, and they discussed the American breakout at Salerno. If Italy was a boot, the Allies controlled the shoe portion. Jack thought an invasion of France was necessary but would be easier with the bombing campaign weakening German defenses, the Soviets reclaiming Russia in the east, and the Allies marching up Italy.

What really made Jack light up was the progress in the Pacific. The Americans and Australians had almost secured the Solomons and were pushing across New Guinea, land he’d flown over and watched friends die over.

Ruth studied this man who thrived on adventure. “Sometimes I have a hard time picturing you in the pulpit.”

His face twitched. “Any news from your family?”

Once again he avoided the topic by addressing her favorite subject, except today it made her stomach knot up. “I had a letter from Aunt Pauline.”

“She has your youngest sister, Maggie, right?”

“Right.” She glanced through the trees to a lake—could those be swans on the lake? They’d have to walk down there on the way back. “My aunt can’t make ends meet. My contribution isn’t enough.”

“Forty-two bucks a month isn’t enough?” Jack’s eyes flashed. “Come on. A man can support a family on twentyfive a week.”

Ruth didn’t dare indulge in the same line of thought. “Uncle Clancy doesn’t make much, and Maggie’s growing. She needs food, clothing, schoolbooks.”

“Still—”

“Still they need more, and they can’t make it until Chuck graduates in June.”

Jack groaned. “And your aunt has legal control over your sister.”

“Yes.” Her voice cracked, and she hated that.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get into the flight nursing program.” He gave her a look so full of compassion her throat ached.

If only she shared his confidence. Every day the dread grew. What if she didn’t get in and couldn’t care for her family? What if she did get in and had to leave her friends?

At the end of the park lay a roundabout with a monument in the center. To the left stood Buckingham Palace, far larger than any home had a right to be. They headed for a wrought-iron fence, tipped with gold, which separated the common from the royal. Ruth grasped the bars and peeked through. Hundreds of windows, and unimaginable grandeur inside.

“Makes Redgrave Hall look tiny, doesn’t it?” May said.

Ruth nodded, her throat tight. Behind those walls people still got sick and died and hurt each other. But behind those walls people never went to bed hungry, never watched their loved ones work themselves to death, never turned to immoral means in order to eat. Behind those walls people never worried about little girls being sent to orphanages, never had to leave their friends to pay the bills, never had to spurn a wonderful man because they were filthy. She’d sold her affections, sold them away, and now she had none left to give.

Jack nudged her shoulder, smiled down at her, his lips in motion. Conversation volleyed light and frothy over her head. She uncurled her hands from her prison bars and followed the group across the roundabout to the monument.

So many GIs in London. So many. How many from Chicago? From her neighborhood? Could they recognize her? She wore an officer’s uniform and a different hairstyle, but she was still that tramp selling her kisses.

Many of the soldiers eyed her, violated her in their minds. They knew. They knew what she was.

She dragged her feet up the steps of the monument and circled the marble rising in carved splendor to golden winged figures on top. Ruth gazed up at Queen Victoria bright in the midday sun in all her marble purity. The queen looked down her pure white nose with disdain in her pure white eyes. She knew. She saw Ten-Penny Doherty in her filthy shame, sullying her beautiful land.

Ruth broke the gaze and whipped around, breathing hard.

A group of enlisted men sauntered by, their shoulders sporting patches of the Eighth Air Force, a yellow winged
8
encircling a red-and-white star on a blue field. The men didn’t look at her, thank goodness, but at a group of English girls to her left.

One of the men—there was something about his lazy walk, the fall of brown hair over his forehead, the set of his boyish smile in profile.

Eddie Reynolds.

Dear Lord in heaven, no!

Ten years before, she and Eddie had sneaked to the alley to share some kisses after school, after she’d spent another fruitless afternoon begging for work, any work. Ma couldn’t support them all cleaning that big old office building at night. The level in the money jar fell lower every day. But no one would hire an unskilled thirteen-year-old girl.

“You’re the best kisser in the whole eighth grade,” Eddie had said with that great wide grin.

Too bad kissing didn’t pay. Or could it? “Eddie, would you pay to kiss me?”

His grin fell. “Pay? Money?”

“Not you. You’re my boyfriend. But if you weren’t, would you pay?”

His face constricted. He let go of her and leaned back against the brick wall. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“How much would you pay? For a kiss like the last one.” A ten-minute kiss.

“Oh, that’s worth a dime.”

A dime. In an hour, she could earn sixty cents. That was a whole lot of money. “Kissing lessons. Most boys kiss too puckery or too slobbery or too pecky. I could teach them.”

He crossed his arms. “Penny, you’re talking crazy.”

Not crazy, smart. She’d tell her parents she’d found odd jobs. Since God didn’t provide for her family or her future, she’d do it herself. She had raised a wobbly smile. “Ten cents for ten minutes. Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

Under the British sun, Eddie’s gaze swept the length of the palace, closer and closer.

No! No, she couldn’t lose all this. If her secret were revealed—a morals violation—she could lose her job, her commission, her license, and her ability to provide for her family.

Ruth grabbed Jack’s arm. “The park. I have to see the park.” She dashed across the roundabout with Jack’s body as a shield from Eddie’s knowing eyes.
Oh God, please no.

She thought she heard Jack say, “Whoa, there, little filly,” thought she heard May’s laughter follow behind, thought the road threw up white sparks, taunting her with unattainable purity.

An opening. Stairs. Ruth ran down, out of Eddie’s view, into the park. Now to get away, farther away. She pushed through the grass, the dark grass, past dark trees, in dark, heavy air.

Her knees buckled. She stumbled.

“Ruth?” Jack caught her under the arm, his voice in a fog.

Oh no, she was hyperventilating. She staggered to a black tree. Jack’s voice echoed in the fog, incomprehensible. She heaved herself back against the tree, let her head fall over her trembling knees, squeezed her eyes shut, blew out her breath, and sucked it in past swollen throat tissue.

“Ruth? Ruth?” Jack’s voice came from down in front of her, his hands strong and supportive on her shoulders. “Darling, what’s the matter?”

“Ruth? Jack? What happened?” May laid a calming hand on Ruth’s back. “Oh dear. Is she hyperventilating again?”

“I—I don’t—”

Ruth nodded and concentrated on her breathing.

“What happened to upset her?”

“I—I don’t know,” Jack said, his voice thick. “We were having fun at the palace, the memorial. Suddenly she broke out running, and now this. Darling, what’s the matter?”

Darling. He’d called her that twice in a row. Not a chummy
honey
, or a paternal
sweetie
, but a lover’s
darling
, what he’d called her in the abbey. What had she gotten him into? He thought she was virtuous. He didn’t know who she was or what she’d done to pay for nursing school. He deserved better. She opened her eyes, and the grass stood green and still around her black Oxfords.

“That’s it,” May said. “Slow and steady. Feel better?”

She nodded, ashamed of her behavior and still fighting the terror that her secret could have been revealed to destroy all she’d worked for, sacrificed for, and sinned for.

Jack’s fingers eased up her chin. His face swam into focus, tender, concerned—loving. “Can you tell me what happened?”

No. Never. She pulled in a breath to speak. “Too much excitement, I guess. I’ve seen so much, done so much, and then—I must have run too fast.”

He brushed hair out of her face. “Be careful, okay? You scared me.”

She locked onto his gaze to show how much she meant her words. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”

21

Bury St. Edmunds Airfield

Saturday, October 9, 1943

The briefing room resounded with groans and nervous laughter, but Jack grinned. He knew the details from helping Colonel Castle and the senior officers plan the mission late into the night.

On the map, red ribbons stretched from England to Nazi targets. The lowest ribbon, representing two First Division B-17 wings, reached to the Arado aircraft component works in Anklam on the German coast. Ribbons for the B-24s of Second Division and two more B-17 wings passed over Denmark, then down to the ports of Gdynia and Danzig. Two wings from Third Division would proceed farther, to the Focke-Wulf factory in Marienburg in East Prussia.

“Marienburg,” Charlie said. “Great target.”

“Yep.” Jack slung his elbow over the back of Charlie’s chair.

Lt. Col. Louis Thorup, the executive officer, stated how the target factory produced 50 percent of Fw 190s. A slide flashed on the screen, a map of the target area with landmark towns, roads, waterways, and railroads.

Charlie and Norman studied the map, their eyes in rapid motion. Norman fidgeted in his seat. “Fifteen hundred miles round-trip.”

The longest mission to date, but that was part of the brilliance. Since the Eighth wouldn’t be expected, they could bomb from eleven thousand feet. More groans circled the room, but Charlie’s eyes widened. The lower the altitude, the higher the accuracy.

Thorup stood as straight as the pointer he tapped between his feet. He told the group each plane would carry three 1,000-pound general purpose bombs plus five 100-pound M-47A incendiary bombs, all fused one-tenth nose and onehundredth tail. He didn’t use notes.

Jack admired that. He could see himself giving a briefing. He’d relay information in a calm and precise manner, add gravity to impress the importance of the job, mix in humor to ease the tension, and end with a bang of confidence-building enthusiasm.

“I’ll be up there before you know it,” he murmured, but Charlie didn’t respond.

Jack leaned back in his chair as the flak officer took the floor. No flak batteries at Marienburg. None. The Germans thought they were safe, but they were wrong.

“This is our day to shine.” Again no response, but Jack brushed it off. He couldn’t have designed a better opportunity—a major mission with everything pointing to success, and Jack would lead the group. He’d had the chance only a handful of times, since the squadron commanders rotated the lead and the CO or executive officer flew the big missions.

Not today. To sweeten the deal, Babcock wasn’t flying. Everything stacked in Jack’s favor. Castle seemed to prefer him, he’d logged a solid fourteen missions, and now the Marienburg mission would glow on his record. Maybe Jack would get that promotion before he finished his tour.

The weather officer showed charts of predicted cloud cover—patches of fog over England, three-tenths to five-tenths medium and high clouds over the North Sea, clearing over the target. Ideal for bombing.