His Very Own Girl (2 page)

Joe slipped off his helmet, enjoying the chilly winter breeze as it blew across his sweaty hair. He tugged a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his tunic’s breast pocket and lit up. His brain felt stuffy and too full, but a deep drag eased his nerves. Medical details were all so repulsive—more familiar now, but unwelcome. How he remembered it all was a mystery, let alone how he would eventually withstand combat.

Lay a bazooka on his shoulder and he’d take out a target. Shove him out of a C-47 with a parachute on his back and he’d pass muster. But stick a hypodermic needle and a bottle of plasma in his hands and Joe’s confidence scampered off double-time. None of it came naturally. He’d trade a few toes to be a regular rifleman, anyone who carried an M1 instead of an aid bag.

Beautiful country, though. He finished his cigarette and breathed in, enjoying the bracing cool of a quiet afternoon. Maybe he’d expected craters and ruined buildings, like newsreel footage of London and Portsmouth that always made him wince—and then get angry. This part of the Midlands, however, was nearly unmolested by Stuka bombers and Germany’s new V-1 rockets. The early dawn snowfall had layered it in a white that was almost too clean, too pretty to look at.

“That’s it, gentlemen,” Capt. Crowly shouted. “Pack your gear! The deuce-and-a-halfs’ll be here in twenty to haul your tails back to Rothley. Hubba hubba!”

The men of the 512th, the newest regiment in the 82nd Airborne, began the long trudge out of the woods and back toward the Wymeswold hangar. Joe smiled at the luxury of trucks to transport them back to barracks after a long day. In basic training they would’ve marched home.

“Hey, Web, wait up.” Pvt. Peter Smithson was the medic for Baker’s second platoon. His aid bag smacked against his thigh as he jogged to catch up with Joe. “So what’d ya think?”

“About what?”

“About the maneuver,” Smitty said, pulling out a pack of smokes. “Odds are on France today.”

Like just about every other paratrooper in the 512th, he was obsessed with the where and when of their inaugural combat drop. He collected news reports and shreds of gossip like some men collected pinup pictures.

Joe shrugged. “What does it matter? France, Egypt, the North Pole? Not like we have a choice.”

“Then again, maybe they’ll send the whole 82nd back to Italy,” Smitty continued, undaunted by Joe’s usual disinterest. “Henry Norton—you know him, corporal from second platoon?—he said the 45th Infantry just hit the beaches at Anzio. Those dumb doggies could use the assistance of a fine outfit like ours.”

Joe decided to use Smitty’s other favorite subject to derail this particular train of thought. “You got plans tonight?”

“It’s Friday night and I have a weekend pass, right?”

“That’s right,” Joe said with a grin.

“Then yes, I have plans.”

“Care to share?”

Smitty laughed and slapped Joe on the back. “Get the hell into town.”

“Leicester again? Or up to Nottingham?”

“Nottingham was too far. By the time we got there, all the clubs were full up. Wasn’t worth it. Besides, too many of those flak-happy RAF boys. Puffed up prigs.” Smitty smoothed a hand along his manically orange hair. “Not that I have any trouble with the English broads.”

“No trouble running them off, you mean. They see your carrot top coming and hightail it the other way.”

“Hell, Web, not everybody’s born with the looks of an A-number-one wiseacre like you.”

“I thank my daddy every day,” Joe said. “Oh, blast, forgot my helmet. Be right back.” He took off at a quick jog, back toward the fringes of the woods where they’d trained.

Smitty shouted after him, “Better hustle or you’ll footslog it back to Rothley!”

Not gonna happen.

Joe slid to a sloppy stop and scooped up his helmet, then pulled up short. At the hangar every lingering man had tipped his face to the west. More airfield personnel were joining them by the second, shielding their eyes and watching the sky.

Silhouetted ahead of the setting sun, a Hurricane bearing Royal Air Force insignia roared toward the airfield.

“No landing gear,” Joe whispered to himself. “Holy Christ.”

From back at the hangar came shouts for an ambulance. Joe jerked free of his stupor and judged the fighter’s direction. He was the man closest to where it would push down—or crash, more likely. At that velocity the fighter was going to dig a ditch when it hit, a ready-made grave for the unlucky pilot.

Joe secured his helmet and took off at a dead run. The jump boots he’d worked so hard to earn by qualifying as a paratrooper thumped against the ground, providing traction. The Hurricane’s engines blared as it cleared his head by no more than fifty feet. He flinched, running and watching the tail of the doomed aircraft. Hanging heavily in the air, its wings pitched and wobbled as the pilot stuck it out. The nose fought with gravity and pulled parallel with the ground.

Only then did Joe believe the pilot had a chance.
Do it,
he thought, his scorched lungs pumping air.
Do it.

He was still running when the Hurricane finally flopped down. The rudder fishtailed. The trio of propeller blades on the nose, still spinning at full speed, cut into the ground and sprayed snow and turf in wide circles. With a hideous wrenching noise one propeller snapped loose and flew skyward. It stuck into the ground a hundred yards to Joe’s right. The nose dipped and the tail lifted, threatening to flip the plane. But the belly flop and the gouging propellers killed any forward momentum.

Except for the popped propeller, the Hurricane was still in one piece when it lurched to a stop.

With his throat stripped raw after the flat-out run, Joe reached the downed aircraft where it had plunked half buried in the snowy airstrip. Smoke and steam licked out of the engine, which clicked with the pulse of cooling metal. An ambulance siren blared in the distance.

Joe didn’t wait. He climbed onto the wing and reached the cockpit just as the pilot uncorked the canopy.

A
woman
pilot.

She ripped off her headgear and flight goggles. “Useless, balmy, good-for-nothing dawdler!”

Quelling his surprise, Joe took her arm. “Ma’am? Ma’am, look at me.”

Big brown eyes stared out from an ashen face framed by dark, sweat-drenched hair and a blue kerchief. “Oh! Yes?”

“Out now, ma’am. C’mon. Can you move?”

“Yes,” she said, dazed. “Yes, of course.”

The hand she offered was cold and shaking. Although she let Joe guide her up and out of the cockpit, she continued her colorful tirade against the downed Hurricane. “Beetle-headed laggard.
Useless
. An absolutely grotesque piece of machinery. Not enough petrol left to combust,” she said, almost to herself. “The propeller can be repaired, wouldn’t you say? I’ll—”

Only when her feet crunched onto the icy turf did she sag. Joe caught her under the arms and guided her a safe distance. Fuel or not, he wanted to get her away from the crash, especially since she could still walk.

He urged her to lie on a slick patch of grass. “Are you injured at all? Ma’am?”

“No,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Well, I don’t know. I . . . I don’t feel—”

She jackknifed into a sitting position and retched. Joe put his arms around her shoulders, steadying her against his body. “Shock,” he said.

“I should bloody well think so! That was unthinkably daft.”

“You can say that again.”

“Sorry I buzzed you.” She wiped her mouth and looked him full in the face. Again Joe was struck by her eyes—wide, brown, a little crazed. “That was you, yes? Running to meet me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then my apology stands.”

Checking for injuries, Joe noticed where blood oozed from a nasty gash on her knee. He took hold of the zipper at the neck of her flight suit. “We should get you out of this, check on your knee.”

The woman flicked her gaze toward the wound and put her hands on his. Her fingers weren’t as cold now. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Her bright red lips curled as if accepting a dare. “Because this morning in High Ercall, I spilled engine oil on my uniform trousers. They’re in my overnight bag.”

Joe stilled. Their faces were so close that the little puffs of their breath mingled. She wore the stench of gasoline and sweat, as well as some sweet lavender scent. The jarring combination of masculine and feminine crossed his mental wires. “You mean, you’re not wearing . . . ?”

“Well, I couldn’t very well fly in my skirt!” Her laughter lilted through the chilly air, so out of place. Those chocolaty brown eyes teased him. “It bunches terribly inside my flight suit.”

Joe averted his eyes as if he’d actually glimpsed what she described. Then he got to work. He yanked open the sliced fabric around her knee. After dousing the area in antiseptic sulfa powder, he unwrapped a sterile dressing. He pressed the white pad on her wound and tied the gauze bandage threads to keep it in place.

That done, the woman started to stand.

Joe’s hands jumped to her shoulders as if they belonged there, keeping her stationary. The last thing he needed was for her to aggravate her knee or an unseen injury, or to wind up downwind of an exploding aircraft.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “My things are in the gun panel beneath the port wing. Silly cockpit’s too small for a Cadbury’s, let alone an overnight bag.”

“There’s nothing we can do to fetch it.” Her scattered thoughts, perhaps still afflicted by shock, had him talking to her as if she were a child. “Maybe maintenance can salvage it. But
later.
Understand?”

“Of course. You’re right, of course.” She eyed the downed Hurricane and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yes, yes, it should be fine. They’ll repair the propeller and the blimmin’ undercarriage lever and it’ll fly again. There was nothing I could do! Bother, but I hope the Accidents Committee sees it that way. I mean to say, they should—don’t you think?”

“I think you’re lucky to be alive.”

She stilled. The look in her eyes said she was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. Dark eyebrows that reminded him of Rita Hayworth lifted slightly. The daredevil smile was gone, replaced by a much more tentative one. “I’ll owe the undertaker a quid,” she said.

Before Joe could ask what that meant, the ambulance tore through the snow as it pulled alongside. Col. Shames jumped out, followed by two RAF medics and two litter bearers.

“Private! Report?” the colonel said.

The woman pilot was already standing. Joe took her elbow, steadying her whether she thought she needed it or not. But rather than resist, she settled her weight against Joe’s side while he guided her to the ambulance.

“Gash on her left knee, sir,” Joe said to the colonel. “Mild shock.”

Shames shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Colonel,” she said, sounding suddenly exhausted, “I do hope your people can return me to the ATA ferry pool at Mersley this evening. No sense being so near to home and not sleeping in one’s own bed.”

The expression on Shames’s grizzled face said he was as baffled by her sex and the miracle of her survival as Joe was. “I’ll see what we can do, ma’am.”

Once she settled, the woman spared a quick glance back—first to the downed Hurricane, then to Joe. She offered him a solemn nod.

“Private?” the colonel said as he climbed in beside her.

Joe stood at attention. “Sir?”

“Good work. Go find your platoon.”

Shames hauled the rear door shut and the ambulance sped away. Joe watched its journey back to the hangar. Already a maintenance crew in a tow truck was on its way to the crash site. His heart rate slowed and his respiration was returning to normal, but Joe couldn’t shake the clinging sensation of just having watched a human being defy death. Whether by luck or by skill—probably both, he had to admit—she’d limped away from disaster.

He didn’t even know her name.

He went to stow the medical supplies back in his aid bag but found that he held only trash: an empty sulfa envelope and a cellophane bandage wrapper. That had been no simulation. Little wonder his knees felt like undercooked oatmeal.

He’d just had his first real taste of what it was to be a combat medic.

chapter two

Lulu stepped off the motor bus and followed two of her flatmates toward the Henley Club, where loud swing music hopped into the streets. Allied servicemen lined the sidewalks. A trio of Canadian Land Forces crossing the street avoided a rather flash MG coupe, the headlights of which were obscured by blackout paper. Girls of every shape and size made time with the partner—or partners—of their choice.

Cinching the ties of her woolen greatcoat, Lulu avoided muddy puddles and slippery cobblestones. Her knee ached as she tried to keep up.

“There he is! There’s Harry!” Paulie Travers waved like a featherbrain toward where a foursome of Yanks mingled outside the Henley. A man wearing a first lieutenant’s silver bar on his collar smiled and motioned them over. “Oh, isn’t he
handsome
?” Paulie said with a sigh.

“Please don’t make a scene,” said Betsy Rosen. “At times you can act positively low.”

“She’s well reserved compared to you American girls,” Lulu said.

Betsy flashed the USA patch sewn on the right shoulder of her ATA tunic. “Being raised on milk and honey makes us naturally loud.”

“But Betts is right,” Lulu said to Paulie. “There are far more of them than there are of us. Wouldn’t want to look desperate, would we?”

Paulie’s full-lipped pout, the one she’d perfected above all other females in Britain, was wasted on Lulu. “Don’t be unkind. Harry is different.”

“You say that about all of them,” Lulu said.

“I do not ever!”

“Bobby and Eugene and Curtis—that’s been since Christmas.” Betsy ticked off the names on her fingers. “Further back than that and I’ll have to check my diary.”

Paulie sniffed as if offended. “But I mean it every time. At least I’m not keeping tabs on another woman’s romances.”

Betsy adjusted her black tie, which matched the thick hair trailing down to the middle of her back. “I need something to do when waiting for Howie’s letters. Your exploits, my dear Miss Travers, are more entertaining than
Reader’s Digest
. And cheaper.”

Paulie put away her pout and had a good laugh. Lulu couldn’t help but smile, too. That’s what she enjoyed so much about her friend: Paulie was just self-aware enough to keep Lulu from throttling her on a twice-weekly basis. When Paulie readied to make a bad decision, she knew it in advance. And when she acted like a prize idiot, she was the first to take the shine out—unless Betsy beat her to it.

Lulu tapped her toes to the tolerable rendition of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” But her knee still hurt too much for dancing. That left only conversation in a club that, by comparison, made a B-17 bomber seem quiet. “Oh, a fig for it,” she said. “This is going to be dreadfully dull.”

“They’ll be happy as the day is long just to sit with you,” Paulie replied.

“I was hardly thinking about them, love.” Lulu indulged in a sour face. “A night at the club simply isn’t the same without dancing.”

“Sorry, goosey, but your duty this evening is to look grand and smile a lot.” The picture of innocence, Paulie lifted her neatly plucked blonde brows. “And I would appreciate it if you both refrained from arguing with the men about a woman’s place. It’s difficult enough to dispel the notion we’re unnatural Amazons.”

Betsy scowled. “Oh, Paulie, we’re flying
planes,
for goodness’ sake. You can be so old-fashioned!”

“That’s rich,
Mrs.
Rosen. I could say any old thing I pleased if I’d married a reform-minded RAF fellow like you. I haven’t. The boys like us better when we don’t make a fuss.”

How many times over two years had they forged on with this dispute? Betsy always came down on the side of advancement. The unique opportunity provided by the ATA had lured her across the Atlantic. Paulie, however, even against her best interests, often sided with those who hated seeing women at the throttle of an aircraft. She’d say whatever a bloke needed to hear, as long as it meant dancing the night away.

Lulu’s resolve when she climbed into a plane outstripped even Betsy’s aims. One part ambition. One part retribution. The war had taken loved ones from her. She had long since promised to take back just as much. More, even. The freedom and purpose she’d found in the ATA made that possible.

But when it came to arguments between her dearest friends, she was always left with the unpalatable task of playing referee.

“Very well, I promise,” Betsy said at last. “No fighting with the boys.”

“And you, Lulu?”

Grinning, Lulu matched Paulie’s artificial innocence. “Me, too. Absolutely no guff about the right His Majesty gave me, a mere female, to fly airplanes.”

“Oh, I’m glad.” Apparently taking Lulu’s sarcasm seriously, Paulie ran a hand along the back of her expertly rolled blonde hair. She smoothed strands made frizzy by the evening fog. “Now, how do I look?”

“Quit fussing,” Betsy said. “You look perfect.”

Lulu followed the pair to the club. As she drew nearer, she assessed Paulie’s new lieutenant and his companions. Each chap wore the golden wings of a paratrooper and the AA arm patch of the 82nd Airborne.

So they weren’t any old Yanks. They were the All-Americans. A more boisterous, arrogant lot couldn’t be found in the U.S. Army. Billeted in and around Leicestershire, they split their time between war maneuvers and seeking out—in no particular order—women, liquor, food, music, and trouble. They were heaps of fun.

But standing in a loose knot of well-pressed olive drab, they were nearly interchangeable. All sported easygoing grins. New recruits, then. While well-trained, muscular and confident, they didn’t appear weary enough to have returned from combat in Italy or North Africa.

Lulu’s dark memories of a beloved face threatened to drown out the trumpets, trombones, and happy chatter. Robbie had been equally fresh-faced before shipping out to France. So long ago. She still found it impossible to reconcile the sunny, charming, carefree boy she’d loved with the toughened man he’d become.

Inhaling cool, foggy air, she pushed those memories down, down deeper, where they liked to lie in wait. The sick noise in her ears vanished. The music returned. Soon she stood face-to-face with the four Americans. She’d laugh at their silly jokes and sillier accents, and if anyone wanted a peck on the cheek after the last song . . . well, she never made promises.

Except to herself.
One evening only.

She could laugh and chat away the hours, and fully expected to. But any more than that meant heartache.

“Doll, come here so I can look at you.” The lieutenant took Paulie’s hand and spun her under his arm—once, twice—in perfect time to the music. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sight of women in uniform, but you fill it out nicely.”

Upon twirling to a stop, Paulie steadied herself with both hands on the lieutenant’s biceps. “Just don’t tell my ferry pool captain I left my forage cap at home.”

The lieutenant tipped her chin with the crook of his finger, all shades of Clark Gable, right down to his pencil-thin mustache and dark hair slicked with Brylcreem. “Paulie,” he drawled, “if they make you hide your beautiful blonde hair, I’ll demand pistols at dawn!”

His cohorts laughed along like a USO audience, but their attention wasn’t reserved for the flirtatious couple. Lulu felt three pairs of eyes watching her, sizing her up, and even Betsy’s wedding ring did little to stave off the soldiers’ interest.

With her knee beginning to throb, Lulu nudged Paulie. “Won’t you introduce us, dear?”

“Oh, Lulu! Sorry! This is Lt. Harry Dixon. Harry, boys, meet my flatmates, Lulu Davies and Betsy Rosen. They’re both ATA pilots like me.”

“Women flying planes,” said one of Harry’s friends, a blond man with fair skin and deep dimples. “Don’t know what’s worse—the Germans thinking they run the place, or the broads!”

Harry and the boys snickered. No sound in the world had more power to pet Lulu’s fur backward than condescending male laughter.

“But hands off Betsy, boys,” Paulie said, giggling along. “She’s married.”

“That leaves you, honey.” The dimpled blond looked Lulu up and down. His expression was one of frank approval. “Care to give me the first dance?”

Lulu envied Paulie’s ability to mask every feeling behind pearly whites and a coat of red lipstick. That wasn’t Lulu’s forte. Flying was. And she was bloody well proud of that.

But twelve hours in the air would begin soon enough, at nine in the morning. No more dark thoughts, and no more of Paulie’s and Betsy’s opposed politics. The evening was about enjoying herself, with whomever she could find.

She stepped nearly nose to nose with the blond American, then trailed a lacquered fingernail down his lapel. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Dawson. Lt. Oliver Dawson,” he said with a grin. “307th Airborne Engineer Battalion.”

“Well, Dawson, here’s the rub.” Her voice was sugar sweet, curious about his reaction. “See, I pancake landed my Hurricane last week and bashed my knee something wretched. I’d love to dance with you tonight, but that won’t be possible. Just conversation and a few drinks. And only if you behave.”

She led the dumbfounded paratrooper into the club by his khaki tie.

After two slow dances, Lulu was in dire need of a rest. She found a chair against the wall while Dawson slipped away to buy drinks. She smiled to herself, wondering if he realized his folly. Drinks were far easier to acquire than partners, and a lady waiting for a soldier’s return was never alone for long.