A Memory Between Us (27 page)
Then Grandpa’s words rang louder, telling him he was meant for the military, not the ministry.
Or is that it, Lord? Is pride making me stick with a goal that was never your will for me in the first place?
Jack glanced between his father in the pulpit and his grandfather in the pew in front of him, both godly men who loved him. Which man was right?
Only God knew the answer.
Lord, help me follow your will—not Dad’s, not Grandpa’s, not mine—only yours.
Bowman Field
Wednesday, December 22, 1943
Ruth readjusted her pack over her aching back. “Remind me why we applied in the summer so we could go on a five-day bivouac in December,” she whispered to May.
“It was the glamour.”
Ruth clamped off her laugh. She wore fatigues, her hair hung in two short braids under her helmet, she was filthy, and she stank. She had never been less glamorous.
“How much longer, do you think?” May’s curls clung to her forehead.
“If I look at my watch, Sergeant Sadistic will send me on a fifty-mile run.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sergeant Sanderson driving alongside. His heckling was bad enough, but to do it from a jeep? He’d earned his nickname. “At least we’re almost halfway through.”
“Only half?” May’s voice rose. “I thought we’d come at least six miles.”
“No, the bivouac,” she whispered. “It’s Wednesday. At noon we’re half done.”
“Doherty! Jensen!”
Oh no. Ruth and May exchanged a glance.
Sergeant Sanderson leaned over the steering wheel of the jeep. “Shut your traps. Haven’t you learned your lesson? This ain’t a tea party. You think this is a tea party?”
“No, sir.”
“Get over here and give me twenty.” He pointed to a mud hole next to the jeep.
The rest of the nurses kept marching. They knew the routine. Ruth and May fell out of line and shrugged off their packs.
“Packs on,” he barked. “This ain’t the Girl Scouts. You think this is the Girl Scouts?”
“No, sir.” Ruth pulled on her pack. Without being obvious, she searched for a dry spot to put her hands. She failed. The sergeant yelled off the count. Each push-up drove Ruth’s fingers deeper into the clammy mud. By ten her arms burned, by fifteen they shook, by eighteen they felt like gelatin.
Sergeant Sanderson revved the jeep’s motor. The wheels kicked mud into Ruth’s face. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sting and spat out mud. No matter what, she wouldn’t let this man get in the way of her goal.
“Twenty.”
Ruth groaned, pushed herself back onto her knees, and wiped her hands and face.
“Now, quit your yakking. You wanna yak, you quit the Army Air Force and go back to the kitchen where you belong. This ain’t a quilting bee. You think this is a quilting bee?”
“No, sir.” Ruth chewed her muddy lip so she wouldn’t laugh. The penalty for giggling was even higher than for yakking.
“You dames wanna be in a man’s world, you do things a man’s way.” He threw in profanities to make his point. “Look how far behind you are. On the double.”
“Yes, sir.” The ladies jogged to catch up. The jeep passed and splattered mud on their fatigues.
Ruth waited until he was out of earshot. “This ain’t glamorous. You think this is glamorous?”
May stifled a giggle. “Quit your yakking.”
By the time they returned to position, the nurses had reached the day’s campsite. One hundred women from the four squadrons at Bowman were on their own in the Kentucky wilderness. Before they could sit down to K rations for lunch, they had to dig “sanitary installations” and slit trenches. The night before, fireworks had simulated an enemy attack, sent the nurses into the trenches, and then forced a retreat.
Dottie screwed a shovel head onto a handle. “I don’t care what Sergeant Sadistic says. Good thing I was a Girl Scout. I’m used to hard work in the out-of-doors.”
Ruth set her foot on the top of her shovel head and pushed it into the earth. “Good thing I grew up in a slum. I’m used to filth and stench.”
“Good thing I’m an orphan. I’m used to being unloved and unappreciated.” May gave a big, fake sniff, which made Ruth laugh.
Dottie sank her shovel into the dirt. “I don’t see why we can’t bivouac with the technicians. I sure wouldn’t mind some strong male muscles right now.”
May smiled. “So you’ve seen Rosenberg’s merits?”
“Rosie?” Dottie rolled her eyes. “I’d never cast him in my play.”
“Oh, but he’s sweet,” Ruth said. “And you’re the fastest team in the squadron.”
“I’d rather be with Burnsey. Who can blame you for going so slowly? I’d make the most of every minute with him.”
“Believe me, that’s not the problem.” Ruth set her teeth. They were the slowest team in the flight, because the tech interfered with Ruth’s duties and neglected his own. It was easier to work with a man who hated taking orders from a woman than one who used chivalry to mask condescension. When she complained to Lieutenant Shepard, the chief nurse wrinkled her sharp nose and said, “If you performed your duties in a timely manner, he wouldn’t have to help.” In all her years as a nurse, Ruth had never had difficulty performing her duties in a timely manner.
“I can’t see why you don’t like him. He’s awful cute.”
“Dottie, we’ve been over this,” May said.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Professional distance.” She adjusted her helmet and added a handprint to the smudges. “We’ve got to get you two on some dates.”
“Absolutely no dates.” Ruth tossed a shovelful of dirt behind her.
“Why not? Did you leave boyfriends back in England?”
Ruth sent her an anxious look and a shake of her head to tell her to drop the subject.
It didn’t work. “How about you, May? Do you have a fellow?”
May kept digging, her forehead wrinkled under the dirt. “My boyfriend was a bombardier. He was killed when his B-17 was shot down over Schweinfurt.”
Ruth felt as if someone whacked her in the chest with her own shovel. Since Jack’s letter arrived, May hadn’t mentioned Charlie. Not one word, not one teardrop, not even a change in mood.
“Oh no.” Dottie’s face turned as white as May’s. “I’m sorry. That’s the day they call ‘Black Thursday,’ isn’t it?”
Ruth nodded. Black indeed.
“You too?” Dottie asked Ruth in a small voice.
“No.” She frowned and chucked a rock from the trench. Did Jack still live, or had he been killed the day after he wrote that letter? Had he finished his tour and gotten his promotion? Was he still wracked by grief and guilt for Charlie’s death?
“So … ?” Dottie asked.
Ruth wanted to give the stock answer she’d given several physicians and C-47 crewmen in the past month, that she didn’t date, but it felt incomplete, almost dishonest. She hadn’t dated Jack, but they’d had something precious. “We had an argument, a horrible one.”
“Mm.” Dottie heaved out more dirt. “Whose fault?”
“Mine,” Ruth said as May said, “His.”
“What?” Ruth stared at her friend. “I’m the one who did wrong.”
“No.” May snapped up her gaze. “God forgave you. Why can’t Jack? Does he think he’s better than God?”
Ruth’s jaw dropped open.
“I think he does. He’s proud, that Jack Novak. He always held himself above Charlie, thought he was better, but who could be better than Charlie—sweet, kind, thoughtful Charlie?” Her voice broke.
The shovel fell from Ruth’s hand. Never had she seen May in such a state.
Her eyes were silver daggers. “Then Jack thought he’d found a girl worthy of him but—oh no!—you didn’t meet his lofty standards, so he yelled at you and insulted you and abandoned you.”
Ruth’s head shook from side to side. No, his anger was justified.
“He didn’t even ask about you. Did you notice? In his letter? Not one word about you. He doesn’t even care how you are, after he left you broken. Did you notice?”
Ruth nodded, and her eyes watered.
“And you defend him?” Tears cut pink trails over May’s dirty cheeks.
“I—I understand why—”
May let out an exasperated cry. “Of course you understand why he can’t forgive you, because you can’t forgive yourself. You don’t even believe God forgave you.”
“Yes, I—”
“No, you don’t.” May hurled down her shovel. “If you did, you’d shove off that shame. Jesus forgave you. Why can’t you? Why can’t Jack?”
Ruth’s thoughts whipped into a tornado. She kept asking God to forgive her over and over, as if once weren’t enough. Why? Did she think her sins were too big for God? A single drop of Christ’s blood was enough to wipe out the sins of all mankind, she knew that. Yet she believed it wasn’t enough for her.
She pressed her filthy hands over her face.
I’m sorry, Lord. I do—I do believe you’ve forgiven me. I believe you’ve taken away my sin. Please take away my shame. Please help me trust you.
“May! Ruth!” Dottie whispered fiercely. “Sergeant Sadistic.”
Ruth groped for her shovel, thrust it into the trench, and pitched out mounds of earth. After the jeep rumbled past, she ventured a glance up.
May’s face stretched long. “I—I’m sorry, Ruthie. I don’t know what came over me.”
She considered the great shaking and settling in her soul. “I think—I think it might have been the Holy Spirit.”
May’s eyebrows disappeared under the rim of her helmet, and Ruth had to laugh. May joined her in strange, elated laughter.
“Quit your giggling,” Sergeant Sanderson yelled. “This ain’t a beauty parlor. You think this is a beauty parlor?”
“No, sir!”
Ruth clamped her lips between her teeth, but May looked so funny with her red face streaked with mud and tears, that Ruth gave in to great, joyous, forgiven rolls of laughter, worth any number of push-ups.
“You’re right.” Dottie shoveled hard, her eyes gigantic. “Absolutely no dates for you.”
Antioch
Saturday, December 25, 1943
“
Christian Behaviour
by C. S. Lewis.” Ray flipped through the slim book. “You can’t get this in America yet. Thanks, Jack.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled at the delight on his brother’s and his father’s faces.
“Two years in a row,” Dad said. “Walt sent us
Broadcast Talks
last year.”
“Yep.” Jack still hadn’t read it. He glanced around the parlor. Walt pored over the pictorial book of England and tried to get Allie’s attention to show her sights he had seen, but Allie and Mom were busy unwrapping English china from old
Stars and Stripes
newspapers.
“Have you heard his BBC broadcasts?” Ray asked.
Whose broadcasts? Oh, C. S. Lewis’s. Jack adjusted his service jacket. “Can’t say I have. The Germans keep me awful busy.”
“Of course.” Ray’s smile flickered. “Still, what I wouldn’t give to hear him.”
Jack looked away, as if fascinated with how Mom folded the wrapping paper to use next year. Ray would never take his place, not even to hear the noted theologian. All his life, Ray had talked his way out of fights. He was the last man Jack could imagine facing the Luftwaffe.
Jack tried to ignore the sting of Ray’s statement, unintentional, but it still stung. Any pastor worth his salt would catch those broadcasts and read those books, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
“Here you go, Jack. From your mother and me. Merry Christmas.” Dad handed him two gifts in red paper creased from many years’ use. Books. Thick theological tomes to gather dust on his bookshelf upstairs.
Jack unwrapped them. Luther in German and Augustine in Latin. “Thanks,” he said, although memories throbbed in his head of trying to comprehend Augustine, falling asleep over Luther, and sneaking peeks at English translations in the library so he wouldn’t have to struggle with foreign languages and deep thoughts simultaneously.
“I searched through the books in your room to get ideas. I’m surprised how few you have. I know you had these in seminary.”
“Oh yeah.”
Ray leaned to the floor to straighten his pile of gifts. “Dad, I told you he sold his books to save money.”
“Yep.” Sold them and murdered them, yet here they were back from the dead.
Dad chuckled. “The shortsighted actions of youth. You’ll need these as a pastor.”
“Unless I’m not going to be a pastor.” Jack sucked in his breath. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Silence hummed. Mom’s forehead furrowed as she flattened paper. A grin climbed Walt’s face, and Ray gave him a slight nod. Jack would consider that later.
Dad eyed him, and Jack returned his look steadily, respectfully, and carefully. He shared so much with his father, not only his name, but his personality and talents.
Dad let out a laugh. “Not be a pastor? What else would you do?”
Jack shrugged. “I’m a good pilot, a good commander. I could stay in the military.”
“The military?” Dad smiled around the room, but everyone ducked his gaze. “Always the family joker. You’d waste three years of seminary education?”
A jab in the chest. Dad and Mom skimped and saved to put three boys through the University of California, then two of them through seminary, all during the Depression when the tithe often came in as a bushel of tomatoes or asparagus.
“I didn’t say I’d do it. I’m just thinking about it.”
“Thinking about it?” Dad leaned forward on his knees and fixed Jack with the strong stare he used with such effect in the pulpit. “You’d better do more than think about it, son. You’d better pray about it.”
“I do.”
“Good. The Lord will show you the error of your thinking. Isn’t that right, Edie?”
Mom looked up from the wrapping paper. “Oh, John, please. It’s Christmas.”
Dad huffed, sat back in his chair, and waved toward the piano. “Fine. It’s Christmas. So let’s have Christmas music. How about it, Allie? Walt says you’re a fine player.”
The girl’s eyes grew as big as the china plate in her hands.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Walt said. “Let’s do that number we practiced.”
“Do—do you think now is a good time?”
“Now is the perfect time.” Walt grabbed his fiancée’s hand and led her to the piano. “This is a new song called ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas.’”