A Memory Between Us (7 page)

May slung her purse over her shoulder. “Jack, I warned you. She’ll make an excuse.”

“You wouldn’t make an excuse, would you?” Major Novak dropped a wink.

Under the force of that wink, Ruth’s knees crumpled, and so did her excuses. “No.”

“Oh, good,” May said. “You shouldn’t be alone on Independence Day.”

Ruth’s grip on her Bible tightened. What was wrong with being alone?

“And I warned you, May.” The major pointed at Ruth. “Look at her jaw. She’s getting defensive.”

She forced her jaw to soften. “I am not.”

“Good,” he said. “Let me explain. You took care of me for a month and a half. I’d like to thank you, take the two of you on a picnic.”

The two of you? Ruth relaxed only to realize she couldn’t get out now. “A picnic?”

“Yep. I got some ham and cheese in town. Swapped my cigarette ration. Amazing what people will do for a couple smokes.”

“Ham? And cheese? Wow.” British rationing was much stricter than American.

“Yep.” He nodded in his usual way, without breaking his gaze. “You’ll go?”

Without an excuse, she could only accept or be rude, and after all his kindness, she couldn’t bear to be rude to him. She mustered a smile. “What’s more patriotic than a Fourth of July picnic?”

Once outside, May mounted a bicycle with a bundle strapped to the back. “I’m serving as pack mule since our dear major can’t ride yet. I thought we’d go to that spot we like by the lake, Ruth.”

We like?
May made it sound as if they were the coziest of friends who whispered and giggled together. Once. They’d had one good talk.

“Can’t do much of anything yet.” Major Novak frowned at the scattered clouds as they walked down the path. “My squadron’s on a mission. Should be over the target about now.”

Ruth studied his face. “Nothing sadder than a bird with clipped wings.”

He raised half a smile. “This old bird’s only temporarily grounded, and light duty isn’t as bad as I thought. Get to watch the new CO at work, see how he runs things.”

“How do you like him?”

He shrugged. “Castle’s not a man you like. Too formal. But I respect him greatly. Hardest worker I’ve ever seen. Turns out he flew a bunch of missions before he came to the 94th to see what it’s like. Never told the men, didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Impressive. The men grouse, but he’s whipping them into shape.”

“You too?”

“Nah. Either he likes my work or he took pity on my torn-up backside.”

“Must be pity, Major. I’ve seen that backside.”

May’s laughter rolled backward from the bicycle. “It’s healed now. We’ll send a report and clear you for whipping.”

Major Novak glared at Ruth, upper lip curled. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” She felt lighter in her step, the nursepatient relationship restored.

When they reached the lake, May leaned the bicycle against a tree. The ladies spread a brown Army blanket on the grass under the tree and sat down while the major stretched on his side.

“Ice.” He set a bucket before him. “The men had a practice mission yesterday, so I put a bucket of water in the waist compartment. Gets mighty cold at twenty thousand feet.”

May traced a squiggle in the condensation on the bucket. “What a clever idea.”

“That’s how the men get ice for parties.” He opened a brown paper bundle, pulled out a pocketknife, and sliced off a golden curl of cheese. He held it out to Ruth with a mischievous grin. “You can have some if I can call you by your first name.”

She gaped at him. “You know how I feel about military decorum.”

“I also know how you feel about cheese. And there’s ham if you call me Jack.”

She rose to her knees. “Fine. I’ll eat at the mess.”

“Why? Real English cheddar and ham. And I’ve got biscuits and red currant jam, not orange marmalade.”

“Red currant?” Ruth sat back on her heels. She was so tired of orange marmalade. And cheese? He knew a poor girl would do anything for food, didn’t he?

“All right …” Her tongue stumbled. “Jack.”

“That’s better.” A smile crept up his face. “Ruth.”

Only a name, one short syllable, yet in his voice a caress. He knew it. She saw it in his eyes when he handed her the cheese. Ruth let it dissolve over her tongue, savory and sharp.

“Oh dear,” May said. “There goes our sunshine.”

Ruth looked up as a bank of clouds snuffed out the last sliver of sun. “It’s so gray in England.”

Major Novak—Jack—sawed his knife through the chunk of ham. “Down here it is, but not up there. You get high enough, and it’s always blue.”

“I wish I could see that.” She tried to imagine soaring above the gray.

“You will.” He pointed a slice of ham at her. “You’ll make flight nurse. I know it.”

Ruth took the ham and relaxed. If he wanted romance, he wouldn’t want her to leave. Instead he encouraged her goal and made her feel as if she could be selected. She sandwiched the ham in a biscuit. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could fly above the gray days?”

“We can in prayer.” Then May laughed. “Okay, I know it’s trite, but it’s true, isn’t it? No matter how gray life seems, prayer takes you above it all, to clear blue hope.”

The biscuit turned dry in Ruth’s mouth. Hope? Her only hope was to push on and meet her goals. Nothing clear or blue about it.

Jack smeared jam on a biscuit. “Well, May, you sure know about gray days.”

What did content, placid May Jensen know about gray days? But as May lowered her reddening face, Ruth realized she knew nothing about the woman except she came from Minneapolis.

“You ever hear her story, Ruth?” Jack asked.

A pang of embarrassment. “Well, no.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” May made great work of layering ham and cheese in a biscuit.

“Sure, there is,” Jack said. “You have a lot in common. You’re both orphans.”

Ruth stared at her. Come to think of it, May never mentioned family, but May didn’t talk about herself. She asked questions and listened, and Ruth had never asked. “You—you lost your parents too?”

May squirmed. “My mother died in childbirth, and my father died in the flu epidemic when I was a baby.”

At least Ruth had the privilege of knowing her parents. “Your family raised you?”

“No. It’s a long story.” May’s cheek twitched, a flicker of hurt, and suddenly Ruth understood why May still pursued friendship with her.

“Who … who … ?”

May met her gaze. “I was raised in an orphanage.”

“An orphanage?” Cold fear gripped her heart as it had when Ma died, the fear of her brothers and sisters in the loathsome place. “Was it—was it awful?”

“I never knew otherwise.” May lifted one shoulder. “We were always cold and hungry, but wasn’t everyone in those days? And … well, I wasn’t the type to be adopted, but it helped to know Jesus was rejected. I think he has a special place in his heart for those of us who are alone, don’t you?”

Ruth nodded because it was expected, but she hadn’t thought about it. Jesus had friends—but his friends betrayed him, denied him, and fled. Ruth’s throat constricted. Could he understand?

“It wasn’t all bad.” May leaned forward, her eyebrows tented. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I was blessed. The couple who ran the home had deep faith in God and taught me likewise, and I loved the children who came and went. I was able to comfort them. Even as a little girl, I had a ministry, and that led me to nursing and to Thomas.” Then she clamped her lips together.

Ruth sensed May’s reluctance, but for some reason she pressed on. “Thomas?”

“He was—he was a seminary student who volunteered at the home. We shared a heart for orphans. We were engaged.”

Were? Ruth’s question stuck under her tongue.

“Go on,” Jack said softly. “Tell her.”

May raised a fluttery smile. “We joined the service together, our patriotic duty. He was a Navy chaplain. He was at Pearl Harbor. On the
Arizona
.”

“Oh no.” Ruth’s voice tumbled out. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right. He’s with Jesus, and I’ve had a year and a half to heal. I’m fine.”

“You
are
fine.” Jack rolled onto his stomach, propped up on his elbows. “Which is why you should let me introduce you to Charlie de Groot. He’s a strong Christian and he’d like to meet you.”

Tiny May could pack a lot of power in those colorless eyes. “I told you. I don’t want to meet anyone.”

“Come on. I’ll bring him on our next picnic two weeks from now.” He turned to Ruth. “Isn’t that fair? We made you suffer today. Next time shouldn’t it be May’s turn?”

“Sounds fair to me.” Oh no, he’d tricked her into another picnic.

Surprise registered in his eyes and his smile. “Next time then.”

She scowled at him. “When’s it your turn to suffer?”

Jack rested his chin on his forearms. “Let’s see. I got shot up, spent over six weeks in the hospital, and I’m fraternizing with two lovely officers who’ve seen my bare bum, as they say around here. I think I’ve suffered plenty.”

May laughed, but Ruth saw opportunity in the white specks in his black mustache. “You have crumbs in your mustache, Major.”

“Jack.” He laughed and wiped his lip. “Call me Jack. And I’m not your patient.”

“Once a patient, always a patient.” She gave her most comforting nurse smile.

“Just as I suspected.” He pushed himself up to sit crosslegged, leaned forward over his knees, and looked Ruth in the eye. “Validates my pastoral theory on why Lt. Ruth Doherty doesn’t date.”

Her breath mired in dread. “What’s that?”

“You like your men helpless—horizontal, bandaged, and sedated.”

Ruth managed to join May’s laughter, but the truth of his insight put a painful dent in the iron shell around her heart.

8

Bury St. Edmunds Airfield

Monday, July 26, 1943

Jack drummed his fingers on the railing of the control tower balcony.

“Can’t stand it, can you?” Charlie rocked his cigarette up and down in his mouth.

“What? The biggest air operation of the war? Blitz Week—a whole week of good weather forecast over Germany, a whole week of maximum effort missions, and I’m missing it? Of course, I can’t stand it.” He scanned the haze to the east for the bombers.

Dispatching a mission in overcast still seemed strange. Before this week, it had been impossible, but with the new “Splasher” radio beacons to guide group assembly over England, the local weather mattered less, and the Eighth Air Force could fly more missions.

Charlie’s glowing embers bobbed to Jack’s right. “Fifteen bomb groups now; 303 Forts dispatched today.”

“Should be 304.” Jack picked up the rhythm with his fingers. Five minutes until the estimated time of arrival.

Charlie whacked Jack’s hand. “Stop it.”

“You stop it.” Jack laughed and flicked the wagging cigarette to the ground.

Charlie reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of Lucky Strikes. Despite the overcast it was shirtsleeve warm. “Might have to stop it permanently. Did you see how May wrinkled her nose when I lit up?”

“One thing about you, de Groot, you know how to make a first impression.”

“Other than that, we got along great.”

“Yeah.” Jack crossed his arms on the railing. He’d spent most of the picnic focused on Ruth—how could he not?—but Charlie and May seemed to hit it off, in lively laughter one moment, in deep conversation another.

“She’s a swell girl. Might be the one I’ve been waiting for. She seems fragile on the outside, but on the inside—wow, she’s a powerhouse.”

“Yep.” On the other hand, Ruth had a tough exterior, but the more time he spent with her, the more vulnerability he glimpsed. In those moments when she let him see her weakness, he knew his plan was on target.

A new cigarette bobbed. “As for May’s grief, well, at least I know what I’m up against. You, however, have no idea what you’re up against.”

“I’ll figure it out.” And he’d have fun doing so. Jack gazed across the runway to the field beyond, where a tractor cut a swath in tall golden wheat. Below him, in front of the control tower, the ground personnel tossed baseballs, shot craps, anything to take their minds off the incoming planes. Sweating out a mission could fray more nerves than flying one.

“It’s got to be big,” Charlie said.

“Huh?”

“With Ruth. Something about her makes me think she’s been hurt and badly.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Watch that pride.”

“It’s not pride. Really.” Jack rolled his shoulders. “I have a strong feeling God led me to her. He wants me to teach her to love, to trust, something. And if he wants it, it’ll happen.”

Charlie’s head turned to the east. Jack heard it too—the deep throaty pulse of Wright-Cyclone engines. “Remember that, Jack. God will make it happen. He doesn’t need your mission plans.”

Jack straightened up and squinted at the clouds. “Nothing wrong with plans. God doesn’t want us to bumble around. Besides, when have my plans ever failed?”

Charlie chuckled. “Never. That’s why I put up with you even when you do arrogant things like flying a B-17 under the Golden Gate Bridge.”

Jack grinned. “That was swell.”

“There they are,” someone on the balcony cried. “One, two, three.”

Jack lifted his binoculars. “Four, five, six.” The flight passed on the downwind leg of the approach, parallel to the runway. They’d taken damage. One Fort had a hole blasted through the vertical stabilizer.

“Hey, they shot up our ‘square
A
,’” Charlie said. Earlier that month, letters were painted on the tail fins as group identification, and the 94th sported a blue
A
on a white square. It boosted unit pride and helped distract the men from the loss of twenty-four planes, half the original crews, and several replacement crews.

“Seven, eight, nine.”

The first flight completed the base leg and the final approach, and landed at spaced intervals.

“Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.”

Jack frowned at the holes in the formation. Twenty Flying Fortresses had left Bury St. Edmunds at dawn to bomb a synthetic rubber factory in Hannover. How many had they lost?