A Memory Between Us (8 page)

“Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.”

Jack could hardly hear the count over the throb of engines, the screech of brakes, and the roar of propwash.

“Seventeen.” Two red flares sprang from the plane to signal wounded on board.

“Oh boy.” Jack knew what that was like.

The scene before him would look like chaos to the uninitiated eye—planes taxiing to their hardstands, pilots completing postflight checks with ground crews, trucks ferrying flight crews to the briefing room, ambulances racing. But all moved with precision and purpose, a symphony, but bigger, better, and with high stakes. To be part of the production was exciting, to know how it ran heightened the thrill, but to be the conductor—the thought made the adrenaline tingle warm in Jack’s veins.

“We’d better get to the briefing room, find out how it went,” he said.

Charlie peered through his binoculars. “Still three out.”

“We’ll get the word.” Jack nudged him in the arm. “Come on. Coffee’s waiting.”

They trotted down the outside stairs, grabbed their bikes, and pedaled down the road that stuck the tower like a lollipop into the middle of the action. Jack pushed hard. Stretching the scar tissue, working the weak muscles, and pumping his heart felt good, even with prickles of pain as if slivers of shrapnel had defied the surgeon and the X-rays.

On the perimeter track, a crowd surrounded a B-17, and two olive drab ambulances parked by the rear fuselage door. Jack and Charlie stopped and planted their feet. A forest of hands lifted to help out a man with a bandaged thigh. Jack hoped it was just a flesh wound. He hated to see another man suffer amputation as Walt had. Mom’s last letter said his younger brother was ill-humored, and he had to be a real grouch for her to say that.

Jack squinted at the shot-up Fort. Dad actually took pride in Jack for supporting Walt when he got the bad news, but Dad hadn’t heard Jack fumble and waste all that mindnumbing seminary training.

A medic jumped out of the B-17, turned, and grasped a bloodied officer under the shoulders. The pilot, according to the crowd’s murmurs. Another medic followed, supporting the man’s feet.

Silence fell. Caps came off. Some of the men crossed themselves or muttered prayers. Jack’s chest tightened, and he and Charlie exchanged a look and took off their hats. The medics laid the man on a gurney and pulled up a blanket. All the way.

The nose of the plane read
Dorothy Ann
and showed a pretty brunette in a yellow bathing suit. Somewhere in the States, a Dorothy Ann would receive a telegram in the next few days. Jack sighed as a warm breeze played with his hair, oblivious to the tragedy.

On the side of the fuselage, just forward of the Army Air Force’s white star on a blue disk, gray letters read TS, the code for Jack’s squadron. Jack hadn’t even met the crew, who were probably on their first mission. This would be hard on the men. Somehow a body on a returning plane had a deeper effect than a crew of ten shot down in flames.

Both ambulances pulled away, one to Sick Quarters, where the wounded man would be stabilized and sent to the hospital, and the other to the morgue.

“We should go.” Charlie’s voice was thick.

“Yeah.” They pedaled past Hangar Number One, the workshops, and the supply stores. Jack had been unconscious when
Sunrise Serenade
put up red flares, but Charlie landed that plane and saw Jack hauled away to the hospital and poor Bill Chambers to the morgue.

He was a good man, de Groot.

When they reached the briefing room, they leaned their bikes on the stack by the door, returned the MP’s salute, and entered the building.

Coffee. The smell wafted into Jack’s nose, and he drew it in. Air crews stood in silent, fatigued groups and refueled on coffee and donuts while they waited their turn at interrogation.

Jack caught Charlie’s eye and nodded to the long line at the Red Cross counter. “Coffee?”

Charlie gave a mock salute. “Right on it, Skipper.”

“Thanks, pal.” Jack clapped him on the back and headed into the briefing room. The noise energized him as much as the promised coffee. For the morning briefing, two hundred chairs had faced the map up front. Now the chairs surrounded a dozen tables, each with a crew and an intelligence officer recording every detail from the mission.

Jack walked the length of the room and extracted snippets of information. “Me 109s as thick as flies.” “Flak? Sure, plenty.” “Some of our bombs fell in the water.” “I got him—a hundred yards. Right through the cockpit. Flipped head over tail all the way down.” “Nine-tenths clouds over Hannover. Had to find a T/O.”

Jack turned. The last statement came from Lt. Col. Louis Thorup, the executive officer, who had led the group on the mission. Which target of opportunity had they selected?

Exactly what the intelligence officer asked. “Wilhelmshaven” was the reply.

Jack spotted Joe Winchell’s crew from his squadron. He set his hand on Winchell’s shoulder and leaned over. “Hiya, Winch. Hi, boys. How’d it go?”

“Great.” A tired smile crossed Winchell’s square face. “Hit those U-boat yards right on the button. Finnegan got himself an Fw 190 and an Me 109.”

“Say, good job, Finn. Keep it up.”

Captain Taylor, the intelligence officer, wore a snippy expression, so Jack gave him a nod. “I’ll let you get back to work, Captain.”

The snippy look dissolved. “Thanks, Major.”

Jack went his way. All a matter of knowing each man, how to play up his strengths and play down his weaknesses. Let the clown joke, then make him get to business. Let the facts and figures man do his work, but get him to look up and smile once in a while.

At the front of the room, Colonel Castle stood talking to Maj. Jefferson Babcock Jr., temporary commander of Jack’s squadron. What a work, Babcock. Cussingest man in the outfit until clean-mouthed Castle came along.

Jack approached Castle. “Sir, what’s the word on the mission?” He knew better than to waste time on small talk with the hardworking, no-nonsense colonel.

“We have to wait for the final analysis, but the preliminary results look good.” The CO stood shorter than Jack, with every feature, every gesture strong, neat, and sharp.

“We had two losses before the target.” Babcock’s soft tone echoed Castle’s. “And one ditched 125 miles off Cromer.”

A cold shudder ripped through Jack’s bones. The day before, a crew from the 94th had ditched at sea, but both life rafts were spotted in the morning, and all ten men were rescued. “Another ditching?” Jack asked, his face composed. He couldn’t let Castle know a ditching bothered him more than two lost aircraft and a man killed in action.

“They radioed coordinates,” Castle said. “RAF Air-Sea Rescue is on the way.”

“Thank goodness.”

“You have a physical on Friday,” Castle said. “Do you think you’ll be cleared for active duty?”

“Yes, sir.” Jack focused on his CO and tried not to smile at how Babcock adopted Castle’s posture, hands clasped behind his back. To be different, Jack sank his hands in his trouser pockets. “I’ve been doubling up on calisthenics and passing up jeep rides. I’m more than ready.”

“Good. As you know, we need another squadron commander, and I’d like to put Babcock in the spot as soon as possible.”

“Congratulations.” Jack shook Babcock’s hand. The man smiled too much for someone who had advanced because a good man was either dead or imprisoned.

The colonel stepped to the side. “Well, Novak, I look forward to seeing you back in action.”

“So do I, sir.”

The CO left Jack with Babcock, whose smile dug deep grooves in his cheeks.

Jack put his hands back in his pockets. “Looking forward to your own squadron?”

“You bet.” Babcock’s voice rose to its usual level, and he ran his hand over his thick black hair, still ruffled from the flight helmet. “The job’s a great stepping-stone.”

“Stepping-stone?” The man hadn’t even started as squadron commander, and he was already looking to the next promotion?

Babcock leaned forward, his dark eyes serious, as if explaining something to a child. “As a pastor, an advancement wouldn’t do you much good, right?”

His laugh curdled Jack’s stomach.

“But in a political career, promotions impress voters, and the more brass I work with, the more influence I’ll have on Capitol Hill. My dad made a name for himself in the First World War, and you can see what it did for him.” Babcock nodded, his lesson complete.

Jack tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “I may be a simple country preacher, but seems to me we should focus on this job, not the next. As for promotions, we’ll leave that to Castle.”

Babcock’s mouth remained in a smiling position, but the grooves in his cheeks flattened. The politician saw he had a rival, and Jack held his gaze firm until Babcock saw the rivalry was serious.

“Hiya, Skipper. Here’s your coffee.”

Jack broke his gaze only to take the coffee cup. “Thanks, buddy.”

“You’re welcome. Hi, Jeff. How was the mission?”

“My squadron did great.” Babcock patted Jack’s shoulder. “See you, Novak.”

“See you.” His squadron? What a jerk.

“Talking to your twin?”

Jack whipped around to face Charlie. “My twin?”

“Black hair, too handsome for your own good.” Charlie held out a donut.

Jack took it, bit into it. “At least the similarities end with the looks.”

“No, they don’t.” Charlie smiled as if he were amusing instead of annoying. “You’re both ‘juniors’ following in your fathers’ footsteps. You’re both natural leaders, outgoing, ambitious.”

Jack chewed the donut so hard he almost bit his tongue. “Ambitious? You can’t compare my ambition and his.”

“You both want the executive officer position, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I just want it. He—he’s angling for it.” He gestured in Babcock’s direction and sent a spray of donut crumbs to the concrete floor. “Look at him mimicking Castle, glad-handing, and kissing babies. Next thing you know, he’ll put up campaign posters.”

“Want me to make posters too?” Charlie’s face lit up, and he spread his hands wide toward the wall. “I’ve got it. How about ‘No flak with Novak’? Say, that’s not bad.”

“Clever. Real clever.” Jack let out a low grumble. “But I’m a commander, not a politician. Let him play his games. I’ll just do my job.”

“May the best man win?”

Jack glanced over at Babcock, who clapped Winchell on the back and ruffled Finnegan’s hair. Castle would see through the baloney. Yeah, Jack would win.

9

12th Evacuation Hospital

Saturday, July 31, 1943

“I love this smell, don’t you?” May said.

“Bichloride of mercury?” Ruth laughed and shook water from a pair of gloves. “Only a nurse would like this smell.”

May rolled syringes in a pan of the blue green disinfectant. “In the orphanage I had no control over my life, but with soapy water and a stiff brush, I could scrub away the smells and pretend I lived in a castle.”

Ruth draped the brown latex gloves over a clothesline to dry before being sterilized. “Cleanliness may not be next to godliness, but it beats back the demons of poverty.”

“That it does.”

Ruth inspected another glove for holes in need of patching. “Thank you for coming in early. It’s so busy.”

“Isn’t it? If they keep flying such big missions, we won’t have any beds left.”

And the Eighth Air Force wouldn’t have any men left. Ruth scrubbed at a stain on a glove. Jack wasn’t in combat yet, was he? She didn’t need that worry, nor did she like the fact that she would indeed worry.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” May said. “I don’t suppose Jack and Charlie will come. They’ve sent up missions every day.”

“I suppose not.” Ruth kept her voice light although her heart felt heavy. Why was she still disappointed Jack hadn’t come the previous Sunday to visit his men and worship in the chapel?

“I suppose I shouldn’t pray for bad weather. The more they fly, the sooner this war will be over.”

“I suppose so.” Yet that morning, Ruth looked up and hoped for clouds. With Jack, she could almost be a normal woman. His looks and personality she could ignore, but not his character, his chivalry, his safety—a potent and lethal combination.

“We’re doing a lot of supposing, aren’t we?”

Ruth caught a rosy tint in May’s cheeks. “Should I be supposing something?”

May snapped up her gaze. “Goodness, no. I don’t want romance, and I just met Charlie. One picnic isn’t enough to base any supposition on.”

“But …”

May laughed. “But nothing. Sure, I trust Jack’s judgment, but that doesn’t mean Charlie’s right for me, and that doesn’t mean I’m ready, and that certainly doesn’t make his job less dangerous.”

“You won’t get an argument from me. You know where I stand.” So did Jack, yet the picnics smelled like a ruse, like a prelude to dating. All the more reason to get out of England and soon.

“Oh, Ruth, you’d better take your lunch. Are you going today?” May asked, eyes bright.

“Yes.” Ruth rinsed her hands. She had an hour to ease her growling stomach and keep her appointment.

“I’ll pray for you.”

Ruth blinked at the strange sight of someone to talk to, someone who understood. “Thank you,” she said to her roommate and—dare she say—her friend?