A Distant Melody (25 page)

“Pardon?”

“We fly as a crew, sir. That’s what I tell the men when they try to get out of a practice mission. I can’t go back on my word now.”

Armstrong’s forehead furrowed. “I can’t make you a squadron commander with a copilot like that. He couldn’t be relied on if something happened to you.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I admire your loyalty, but it’s misplaced.”

Walt dug his fingernails into his palms. He couldn’t believe he had to say this. “I’ve never respected the man, but he was invaluable over Romilly.”

“Romilly. A Fortress exploded near you that day.”

Like sandpaper on an open wound, but Walt didn’t let his face show anything. “Yes, sir. The Distinguished Flying Cross I received—it belongs just as much to Lieutenant Huntington. He had to—had to take over for a while. He fulfilled his duties.”

Armstrong glanced at the file. “The chaplain noted the pilot of the other plane, Lieutenant Kilpatrick, was your best friend.”

“Yes, sir. He left a wife and four children.”

“And you? Your file says you’re single. Do you have a girlfriend back home?”

Walt stopped breathing. Although he wanted to maintain consistency, lying to his CO would be just plain stupid. “No one who affects my performance, sir. I’m in love with a girl, but we aren’t committed.”

That was the truth, wasn’t it?

Walt tramped back to the living site under a lumpy gray sky. He’d never been in love before, but he’d never felt this way about a woman before, either. When he said it out loud, said he loved her, it felt right, not a lie at all.

Swell. Wasn’t that swell? What a sorry excuse for a man. Sure, he might make captain, but he’d fallen in love with a woman who was spoken for.

Walt banged open the door of the Nissen hut, and a dozen men startled.

Earl Butterfield poked around inside the coal stove to coax out some heat. “Preach just met with Armstrong.”

The other men murmured their understanding.

“How’d it go?” Louis Fontaine asked. “Get whipped like Butterfield?”

“No, it went okay.” Walt unbuttoned his uniform jacket and hung it on the rack that ran the length of the hut over the cots. “I think he’ll make some good changes.”

Louis snorted. “Yeah, you would think so.”

Something soft hit Walt’s back. He looked down to see a balled-up sock.

The door opened, and a sergeant brought in a burst of cold air. “Mail call. Fontaine . . . Granger . . . Jansen . . . Novak.”

Walt took the letter from his brother Jack and sat on the end of his cot, as close to the feeble stove as he could. Jack had transferred to the 94th Bomb Group in Texas, not far from Ray, and the two brothers were able to visit each other. Jealousy and homesickness slapped Walt. He hadn’t seen Jack for over a year, and Ray for nine months. Jack’s group was in the final stages of training and expected to go overseas soon. Jack hoped for England so he could meet up with Walt. Knowing Jack, he also wanted to meet up with some English girls.

Walt sighed and folded the letter. Jack wouldn’t come. The Twelfth Air Force in North Africa siphoned off the new bomb groups—and all other resources as well. The Eighth Air Force still had only four B-17 groups, two B-24 groups, and not nearly enough replacement crews, aircraft, or spare parts.

“Novak.” The sergeant held up a package.

Even from across the hut, he recognized Allie’s handwriting, and his heart skipped like a bad landing. When he opened the box, he found ginger cookies. No wonder he’d fallen in love. If only she weren’t so sweet, so kind, and such a good cook.

Her note was dated December 13:

It happened again yesterday. I’m no longer
surprised when I read of a mission the following
day in the paper. Do you suppose my dreams
are an intelligence breach? You said you were
honored, but I’m much more honored that God
chose me for such service. If my prayers offer
any strength or peace, I’ll gladly sacrifice some
sleep.

I’m also honored to include Frank in my
prayers. The censors blacked out the reason for
his distress, but the Lord knows his needs. At
least I can fulfill his request for cookies.

Walt dropped his head in his hand. Every day, just when he thought he was over his grief, something came along and punched him in the gut again. “Say, Preach, don’t tell me you got a Dear John letter.” Louis inspected a brand-new bottle of that hot Tabasco sauce he liked.

Guilt compounded his grief. Louis, Abe, and J.P. had all become good friends, and they all believed his lie. “Allie sent cookies—for Frank.”

Louis winced. “Oh, boy.”

“Here. Have one.” Walt reached across the aisle and handed him a cookie, took one himself, and bumped them together like a toast. “To Frank.”

“To Frank. A good man.”

The hut was silent. Walt stood and passed out gingersnaps. Felt like communion. Maybe that was a sacrilege, but it seemed fitting. He took communion to remember Christ’s sacrifice, and today he remembered Frank’s.

The tightness in Walt’s throat rose to his face and threatened his tear ducts, so he lifted his chin and his cookie high. “To Frank Kilpatrick—a devoted husband and father, one fine pilot, and my best friend.”

“To Kilpatrick,” the men said, their voices throaty and raw.

Louis raised his cookie. His jaw worked back and forth a few times. “To John Petrovich, master of the practical joke.”

“To Petrovich.”

“To Bob Robertson,” Earl Butterfield said in a fierce, loud voice. “A good friend and a talented artist, whose work inspired us all.”

“Hear, hear!”

“To Robertson.”

So it went, around the room, as the men remembered their fallen friends. Some memories were solemn, some stirred up rusty laughter. How long had it been since they’d laughed together?

Walt ran his thumb along the edge of the cookie. Allie had no idea what her simple gift had done, how much she helped them remember, mourn, and heal.

Walt settled in the upholstered armchair in the Officers’ Club and read the story in
Time
again. Eddie Rickenbacker, World War One flying ace and Walt’s childhood hero, had been in a Flying Fortress that crash-landed in the Pacific in October. While adrift in a raft for twenty-four days, the crew held twice-daily prayer meetings. Once, after praying for food, a seagull landed on Rickenbacker’s head. The men ate it raw.

Walt smiled. God made the front page.

“Hi, Preach.”

Walt looked up. Cracker stood in front of him with two Coke bottles. He held one out to Walt.

“Thanks.” He didn’t know what surprised him most— Cracker taking a seat next to him, Cracker buying him a Coke, or Cracker drinking a Coke. “Cutting back?”

“Yeah.” He set elbows on knees and stared at the glass bottle. “You’re right. Doesn’t help.”

“Hmm.” Walt tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. Cracker’s tan had faded, and his hair had dulled in the English overcast. Didn’t look so much like a movie star.

Cracker scanned the club. “Quiet tonight.”

The crews that had survived the mission on January 3 had put down at St. Eval in Cornwall with damage and were stranded there by the weather. The rest of the men were licking the wounds Armstrong had inflicted.

“Yep. Quiet.” Walt sipped and let bubbles fizz in his mouth.

“You were right about a lot of things.”

Walt almost spat out the soda.

“Armstrong lit into me today, called me arrogant, incompetent. Seems I’ve heard those words before.” He pointed his bottle at Walt. “He says I owe you—a lot more than a Coke. He told me what you did. I don’t know why you’d give up squadron command for me.”

“Neither do I.” Walt lifted his drink to Cracker.

He chuckled and clinked bottles together. “Listen, I may be arrogant, and I may be incompetent, but I’m not stupid. I know a second chance when I see one. I want to be the crackerjack pilot I claim to be, and I’m determined to get you that squadron commander position.”

Walt stared into Cracker’s eyes. The man was serious. Walt had done it. He’d earned the respect of every crewmember. “We have to work together. We’ve been competing since that first day at Wendover.”

“The better man won.” Cracker took a swig and made a face, as if disgusted to find Coke and not beer.

Walt couldn’t gloat over his victory. His crew was demoralized, and there was no end to the war in sight. He crossed his ankle over his knee. “I think God put us on the same crew for a reason. You have skills with people that I lack.”

“Maybe. But you’ve got the crew’s respect. I lost it.”

“So we work together as we did over Romilly. That alone will help morale. You could do some other stuff with the men, as you did stateside.”

“Yeah.” Cracker tapped his thumbnail on the glass bottle. “Like a baseball game against another crew, football maybe.”

“With this weather, maybe water polo.”

Cracker laughed, then nodded to the table. “We could at least share cookies.”

Walt grinned and offered him the box. “Have one. From my—” His lie stuck in his craw. “From Allie.”

“Thanks. You know, that’s another thing you did right— found a good woman and stuck with her. That’s what I should do.”

Walt popped a gingersnap in his mouth, his lying mouth. Frank knew the truth. Frank winked at the story and made it feel like a joke. But with Frank gone, Walt’s lies ate at him, and his readings in Proverbs didn’t help. This morning he read, “Lying lips are abomination to the Lord: but they that deal truly are his delight.”

How could a little white lie get so complicated?

28

Riverside
January 14, 1943

“Really, Allie, you mustn’t cover your ring. People will think you’re ashamed of your engagement.” Mother tapped Allie’s right hand, clasped over her left.

“Sorry, it’s a habit.” She offered her mother a smile as flimsy as her excuse. The habit was born of many stares at a ring too glamorous for hospital wards and Groveside Bible Church.

She reversed her hands and glanced out the bus window at the Parent Navel Orange Tree, brought to Riverside in 1873, the source of the local citrus industry, ensconced in a park on the corner of Magnolia and Arlington.

If only fresh oranges could survive the trip to Walt in England. But they wouldn’t make a dent in his mountain of grief. Three days had passed since she’d received his letter, handwriting slanted hard, content blackened by the censor’s pen, paper ripped and pocked by rain or—could it be tears?

Frank Kilpatrick was dead. Despite censorship, that much could be deduced. Allie couldn’t decide if it was cruel or kind that Walt learned of Jim Carlisle’s death on the same day. All she knew was her grief for a man she’d met once but memorably, for his widow and children, and for Walt.

Poor, dear Walt, crushed by guilt for surviving while Frank had perished, guilt for wishing such a fate on his own crew, even guilt for writing Allie such an emotional letter.

The bus crossed Fourteenth Street, Magnolia Avenue changed to Market Street, and Allie gazed at Riverside’s beloved architecture. How could she comfort a man thousands of miles away? Her condolences seemed empty and impotent, as did her reassurances that she respected his transparency and was honored that he chose to unburden to her.

“Allie, Eighth Street.” Mother’s tone said she was repeating herself.

She rose and followed her mother off the bus and under the Spanish-style arcade along Eighth. Mother opened the door to Miss Montclair’s dress shop.

“Dearest Mary, how are you?” Miss Montclair glided over, kissed Mother on the cheek, and took both Allie’s hands. “Oh, what a charming bride you’ll be. How have you been, dear? We’ve truly missed you at St. Timothy’s.”