A Distant Melody (23 page)

“Sure am.” Walt winced at the draft, like icicles carving up his face.

Another round of flak lifted the right wing, then the left. Too close.

“Pete’s got Tagger,” Harry called on the interphone from the waist. “He’s unconscious. Pete’s got him on a portable oxygen bottle, says he’ll come around.”

“Good. Stay with him.” The lead squadron dropped their bombs and peeled away. “Ruben, you got the target yet?”

“No. The bombsight—couple dials damaged in that flak burst. Can’t—”

Boom!

Something kicked
Flossie
in the tail. A string of explosions rocked the plane, hurled her down and to the right. Walt’s seatbelt cut into his thighs, blood rose to his head. Clunks pounded the left side of the Fort. Walt pulled back on the wheel. Had to stop her, she was going into a spin. “Gotta get the nose up.”

“Harder,” Cracker said.

The two men braced their feet and pulled the controls, muscles straining. Harder than it should be. Elevators must have been hit on the tail. Rudder too—she slipped to the inside of the turn. Walt eyed the flight indicator on the instrument panel until it was level again. Sweat made his oxygen mask even clammier.

“Navigator? Bombardier?” Cracker ran through the stations again. All okay.

Walt scanned his ship. Still had two wings and four engines, and the gauges looked okay, but the damaged elevators and rudder would make the return home a challenge. Considering the destruction in the tail section, Mario would be glad he’d blacked out. That iced-up oxygen mask saved his life.

Walt guided
Flossie
up into formation. He felt his pulse against his earphones. “What was that?” he asked.

“A—a Fort,” Al said from the ball, his voice smaller than his turret. “A Fort. Took a flak burst—in the bomb bay.”

Walt and Cracker looked at each other and shook their heads. That explained the series of explosions. The plane still had a full bomb load. There would be nothing left.

His face grew cold, even colder. A B-17. Close. To his left. Behind him.

Frank.

“Who is it?”

Silence.

“Who—is—it?” he asked, voice hard.

“Preach,” Harry said. “It’s—it’s
My Eileen
.”

Whacked him in the chest, knocked all the air out. “Chutes! How many chutes?”

“Preach, there—there aren’t any.”

Walt pounded the wheel, made
Flossie
bounce. “Count the chutes!”

“Preach . . .”

“Keep watching. That’s an order.”

“Walt!” Harry said.

He sat up straighter. Harry Tuttle never called him Walt.

“Walt, there’s nothing—there’s no way anyone could have survived.”

His breath came fast and shallow. Couldn’t be. Frank. Blown to—no! Not Frank. Not Frank!

“Novak.” Cracker suddenly looked alert and controlled. “The bombs. Our squadron’s bombing.”

He blinked over and over. Holes in the windshield. The strap for his throat mike—the strap was too tight. Not Frank.

“Ruben? Can you get a fix?” Cracker asked.

“Nope. Just have to follow the others. Bombs away.”

The plane rose with the loss of weight. From behind, J.P. put his hand on Walt’s shoulder. “Walt, you okay?”

He filled his chest with air, took charge, and turned
Flossie
away with the squadron. “I’ll get us home.”

He wouldn’t think. He’d do his job—hands firm on the wheel, mind fixed on the instruments, the formation, the adjustments he had to make due to the damage. He’d learned to fly before he could drive. It was automatic.

He bounced over the flak, didn’t flinch when the fighters attacked, kept
Flossie
in formation, crossed the Channel, made a complicated but flawless landing, filled out forms, and logged damage. He answered questions during debriefing, listened to the description of
My Eileen
’s demise, stayed detached and professional.

But now what? Back to quarters, then what? He could feel his men watch him on the truck ride back to the living site. Louis held open the door at the end of the Nissen hut, looked with concern at Walt, then over Walt’s shoulder to Abe and Cracker.

Walt took in the scene before him and stopped. Half a dozen men he didn’t recognize stood around Frank’s cot and the cots of the three ops officers who had just taken over as replacements on Frank’s crew. The strangers tossed things to each other.

“What’s going on here?” Walt asked.

One of the men shrugged, a husky man who wore a ground crew cap with the earflaps flipped up. “Just cleaning up. This fellow went down.”

They weren’t cleaning—they were looting. “Those aren’t your things.”

“Just helping.”

Abe stepped beside Walt. “Just helping yourselves, you mean.”

“Not as if they need this stuff anymore.” He snorted and lifted a brass picture frame—Eileen, three little boys, and a tiny baby girl.

Something lurched deep inside Walt. He charged forward, yanked away the picture, and planted his fist in the man’s face. “Get out!”

The thief screamed, grabbed his mouth.

“Get out!” Walt swung again, right into the man’s meaty stomach. Felt good.

The man doubled over and spat drops of blood on the floor.

“Hey, back off! We’re leaving, we’re leaving,” another fellow said.

Walt coiled for an upper cut, but someone grabbed his arm.

Abe. “Preach! It’s okay. They’re leaving. If they don’t, we’ll bring up charges.”

The thief stumbled to the door. “He’s crazy. Crazy.”

“Kilpatrick was his best friend.” Cracker called them every filthy name in his considerable vocabulary.

Walt panted, shrugged off Abe. His right hand smarted, and he inspected it—tooth marks. He was bleeding. His left hand—the picture frame—cold in his clutch. Eileen, so pretty, a wash of freckles over her cheeks. Frank Jr. looked like his mom. Sean and Michael were the spitting image of their dad. And Kathleen Mary Rose—too soon to tell—just a little blob.

Dear God in heaven, no!

“Here, I’ve got an empty box,” Abe said. “Anyone else have boxes?”

“Yeah, a few,” Cracker said.

Louis set his arm around Walt’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get his stuff packed up for his wife. The other men’s stuff too.”

Walt nodded, his neck stiff, his gaze on Eileen and the kids. What would happen to them?

Walt felt his mouth hanging open, his lips drying out.

“Sit down.” Louis guided him to his cot. “Whoa, watch out for your mail.”

He sat. Mail? Yeah, a letter, a package.

“You’re getting Christmas presents already.”

Christmas? Yeah, five days. Oh no, Frank’s family. When would they get that telegram?

“You know what?” Louis had the whitest teeth Walt had ever seen. He pried the picture from Walt’s hand and gave it to Abe. “A present is just what you need.”

A present? Walt’s gaze drifted to the box. How could he open a present now?

“Come on. If you don’t, I will. It’s from your girlfriend. She sends food.” Louis set the box on Walt’s lap.

His hands were heavy and thick, but he opened the box. He had to. If he sat still, he’d think. He unwrapped tissue paper and found a brown leather satchel—casual and masculine.

“Anything inside?” Louis asked.

Walt opened the flap. Sheet music—loads of it. New stuff— “When the Lights Go on Again,” “Serenade in Blue,” “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition,” “White Christmas.” And a note:

Merry Christmas, Walt. I hope this will
remedy the shortage of sheet music. With the
damp and rainy weather, I thought the bag
might be useful to carry papers, as well as
music. Perhaps the bag will blend in with your
flight jacket so Flossie won’t be upset by yet
more leather.

“Swell bag,” Louis said.

“Swell girl.”

“Might as well open the letter. News from home will do you good.”

Dad wrote this one, on the typewriter as always, the same Smith-Corona he wrote his sermons on, lowercase
a
filled in, uppercase
T
set too high. Walt could almost hear the clatters and dings, smell the walnut desk in Dad’s office, see Dad chew a pencil as he typed. He used a typewriter. Why the pencil?

Walt’s throat swelled shut. Sure would be nice to be home, hear Dad’s voice, taste Mom’s cooking. Mom always knew what he needed, let him stew, then listened when it all gushed out. Who would listen today?

Dad’s note rambled. Dad never rambled. Then Walt hit the last paragraph:

There’s no good way to relay bad news. I wish
I could tell you in person, but obviously, these
aren’t ordinary circumstances. I’m afraid Jim
Carlisle was killed in action off Guadalcanal.
You can imagine the impact on his wife and
parents, as well as your group of friends. Now
the grief has crossed the ocean to you. I wish
I could be with you, son. Now more than ever,
you’re in my prayers.

Whacked in the chest—again. “No. No. Not Jim.”

“Huh?” Abe glanced up from the box he was packing.

Walt looked up to the corrugated steel arching over his cot, to the snapshots tucked in the grooves. There it was—Jim with that dumb sailor cap over his crew cut, his arm around Helen’s shoulder, her light hair blowing behind her, baby Jay-Jay cradled in her arms, Jim’s hand holding one tiny, bootie-covered foot.

“Jim. Friend—from home. Guadalcanal. Ki-killed.”

“Oh no,” Abe said. Louis sighed. Cracker cussed.

Walt’s head shook from side to side. He couldn’t stop it.

“The Swan?” Louis said.

“No, too crowded,” Cracker said. “I know a pub in town. Locals only.”

“Come on.” Louis took Walt’s elbow and pulled him to standing. “It’s time you became a man. We’re getting you drunk.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Yes, we are.” Abe slid a box under his cot. “We’re paying. No arguing.”

“Uh-uh.”

“You heard the man. No arguing,” Cracker said. “You need this tonight.”

“What about tomorrow?”

Cracker stared at him with eyes as blue as the sky that had swallowed Frank, the sea that had swallowed Jim.

“What about tomorrow? Am I supposed to get drunk tomorrow and the day after and the day after? Will that bring Frank back? Or Jim?”

“Of course not.” Louis came in front of Walt and set his hands on Walt’s shoulders. “But you’re in shock. We’ve just gotta get you through tonight.”

“Thanks. Thanks.” Walt turned to his cot and dumped the music out of the bag from Allie. “But that’s not how I want to get through tonight.”

“Walt . . .”

“No.” He grabbed his stationery, his Bible, letters, whatever he could reach, and stuffed them in the bag. “I gotta go.”

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t know.” He tipped them a salute, slung the bag across his chest, and strode out the door. He got on the first bike he saw and rode south, away from the base, around the village. The pedals pumped, the chain squeaked, and memories invaded.

Jim and Art, tagging after Walt and George in grade school. Pests—until they realized Jim had great ideas and Art had access to hardware. Jim at twelve, chasing Helen Jamison on his bike until she fell and twisted her ankle. Jim at eighteen, chasing Helen Jamison until she fell for him. Frank, setting Allie on the grand piano, smoothing a prickly situation. Frank, tossing a carbon dioxide canister into the stove in the Nissen hut—the explosion, the coal dust everywhere. Frank, always laughing, talking, moving.

Dead! How could they be dead?

He rode harder. The road blurred. Moisture ran across his cheeks and into his ears.

No. He wasn’t crying, was he? He hit the brakes and wiped his face. It had to be from the wind. He lifted the bike over a hedge, climbed over, and barged into the trees.

“No!” He whapped a branch aside. “No, Lord! Why Frank? Why Jim? They’re husbands, dads, for crying out loud. You should’ve taken me. Not them. Me! Why? I’m not good enough for you?”

It wasn’t the wind. Honest to goodness crybaby tears. He kicked a tree, sank to the ground, and swiped away the tears.

It would all gush out now. He opened the satchel and pulled out stationery. Couldn’t write Mom with what he had to say. She’d fret. Couldn’t write the fellows. Had to be tough.

No, he’d write Allie. She understood him. She had that gift of praying for him when he needed it. Besides, he’d never see her again. If she thought he was crazy, so what?

He wrote so hard he ripped the paper a few times with his pen. He didn’t stop to think about censorship. He didn’t stop to catch the stupid teardrops. He didn’t stop when he heard his own choked sobs. He didn’t stop until evening blended ink and paper into gray.

Then Walt prayed. He raged and questioned and mourned. Eventually he found peace—not peace like some still pond, but peace like a river, jostling over rocks, hurtling over falls, whirling in eddies.

Authentic, rugged peace.

26

Riverside
December 25, 1942

The formality of Allie’s deep green velvet gown required gemstone jewelry, and the emerald pendant was the best choice, but she still felt wrong taking off the cross from Walt. She stretched the necklace flat on the mirrored tray on her dresser. Mother wore a cross to church and stashed it in her jewelry box the rest of the week, but Allie had resolved never to keep her faith—or her cross—in a drawer.

The smell of Christmas met her at the top of the staircase— cool pine, roasting turkey, and tangy mincemeat pie. Plenty of vegetables would make up for the small turkey, but there would be no butter to spread on them. Butter was scarce, but she’d scraped together half a batch of cookies a week before to send to Walt and Frank. If only she had sent them in time to arrive before Christmas.