A Distant Melody (34 page)

I had a flash of insight tonight. Jack has a
way about him that draws people, and he’s never
had to work at it. Late tonight I watched him
talk with Cracker. I realized I envied Cracker’s
charisma as I envied Jack’s, and I was just
as much to blame as Cracker for the friction
between us.

Wow, I shouldn’t write so late at night.
Another crazy look into the head of Walter
Novak. My flashlight battery is dying. Earl
Butterfield just threw something at me—you
don’t want to know what—and said my pen
scratches make his head throb. More likely it’s
the whiskey.

We don’t fly tomorrow, so I can get some
sleep. You can too. Sleep well, Miss Miller.

“I will.” Allie laid a kiss on his signature. How wonderful that Jack was in England. What a comfort his brother must be.

Jack set a hand on Walt’s shoulder. “Now, when you push the wheel forward, the plane goes down. Pull it back, you go up. Forward—down, backward—up. Got it?”

Walt glared at his brother, seated next to him to observe the briefing, but Jack’s grin made him laugh. He would never live down his first flying lesson with Grandpa. On takeoff, ten-year-old Walt had pushed the stick forward. Why didn’t the plane go forward? Ray and Jack had rolled in the pasture grass, howling with laughter.

“I’ll try to remember,” Walt said.

“Good. I like having my kid brother around.” Jack sat back and crossed his arms.

For once, Walt didn’t mind being the kid brother. Jack had come with Walt’s crew on a week’s liberty to London early in the month when
Flossie
was in for an engine overhaul, and it was great getting to know his brother again as a grown man and fellow soldier.

Everything was looking up. Even though the 306th lost four planes over Antwerp on April 5, the worst was behind them. Four new bomb groups gearing up for battle, adequate replacement aircraft and crews, nose-mounted .50s in the B-17s, and three fighter groups with P-47s—Hitler didn’t stand a chance.

Allie opened the second letter, and it was far too short. She hoped Walt wouldn’t be so busy with Jack that he wouldn’t have time for her. A selfish thought, but she cherished his letters as she cherished him. What a joy to love him, to admit it and savor it.

Every day her excitement grew. Walt would be home soon, and then . . .

Allie’s heart went into a brief palpitation. It was one thing to make fantasy plans and another to put them into action. Events tended to turn out different than expected.

Walt struggled with the controls. The new formation would have been difficult anyway, but too many rookies made it downright tough.

Bomber Command kept tweaking the combat box to minimize losses. The lead squadron usually flew the low position, with the other squadrons in a diagonal line echeloned up and toward the sun. The lead bore the brunt of the Luftwaffe attack, earning the nickname “Purple Heart Corner.”

Today they flew a “vertical wedge,” like an arrowhead tilted to a forty-five degree angle. The 91st Group flew the tip of the arrow, the 306th behind at the lower corner, and the upper corner contained planes from both groups. The 303rd and 305th flew a similar wedge behind them. Any Germans foolish enough to attack the leaders would be demolished by the guns of the lower group on the way out.
Flossie’s Fort
flew in the middle of the low group with rookies on either side.

“Tourists at three o’clock level,” Pete called from the right waist.

Walt let out a low whistle. They were over the Frisian Islands in the North Sea, still an hour from the target at the Focke-Wulf factory in Bremen.

Behind Walt, J.P. swiveled his top turret around. “They’re early, as if they knew we were coming.”

“Thirty, forty Fw 190s,” Pete said. “Just watching us.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got 115 Forts,” Mario said from the tail. “That’s eleven hundred guns, Jerry. Eleven hundred. And I’ve got two of them.”

Cracker turned to Walt. Above the oxygen mask, his cheeks lifted. “Tagger’s going to add a few more swastikas to
Flossie
’s nose today.”

“I’ll beat him,” Al said from down in the ball turret, “if the cowards come closer and let me take a shot.”

Walt let
Flossie
drift a bit north to avoid the rookie to his right, who was trying to hide from the schoolyard bully. Unlike his gunners, Walt was in no hurry for a fight. Let the Fw 190s track them for a while, burn off fuel, and lose nerve at the sight of the largest force ever dispatched by the Eighth Air Force.

The attack was inevitable. No need to rush it.

Dear Allie,

I have mixed feelings about writing this
letter, and you may have mixed feelings about
receiving it.

First the good news. Remember those talks
we had about how hopeless I was with women?
You’ll be glad to know those days are over. I
didn’t mention Emily earlier, because I didn’t
want to get your hopes up—or mine. Emily’s
a local Red Cross girl who serves coffee and
doughnuts after missions. Her best friend,
Margaret, is Cracker’s girlfriend, and Cracker
said Emily had a crush on me. After I got over
my shock, I asked her out. She’s a real nice girl,
and—hard as it is to believe—she’s crazy about
me.

Now the bad news. I’m afraid Emily’s a
bit jealous of my friendship with you. She
appreciates how you listen to me, but she feels
that should be her role now, and I agree. I can’t
tell you how much I’ll miss our correspondence,
or how much your friendship has meant to me.
But soon you’ll be busy with your husband
and your new home, and you won’t have time to
write scruffy pilots anyway.

I’ll always remember what a special woman
you are, and how your letters, packages, and
most of all your prayers encouraged me. I’ll
still pray for you, especially for God to bless
your marriage.

     
Your friend always, Walter Novak

Good news? Allie clapped her hand over her mouth. No, it was all bad news. Her stomach churned, and she pressed her hand more firmly over her mouth so she wouldn’t become sick.

Walt had a girlfriend. No romantic meeting at the train station, no sweet kiss by the orange tree, no . . . no . . .

His handwriting blurred, danced, taunted her with what would never be. Some pretty English girl enjoyed his smile, his embrace, and his kiss. Allie never would.

Tears slithered down her cheeks. She curled up on her bed, one hand clutching her stomach, the other her mouth. No more letters, no more of Walt’s humor and openness and understanding. Far worse than the loss of a silly and unfounded fantasy was the loss of a real and precious friendship.

A yawning chasm opened before her—life without Walt.

A trickle ran down the side of Walt’s oxygen mask. He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, but the leather glove only smeared the sweat.

“One o’clock level,” J.P. called. “Heading for the rookie in front of us.”

Walt blinked instinctively when he flew through a black cloud from a spent shell. Flak was “so thick you could walk on it,” as the men said. The Germans had masses of antiaircraft guns in Bremen to protect the port and the aircraft plant.