A Distant Melody (37 page)

“Allie, I thought you were volunteering today.”

She looked up from her desk to see Mother in the doorway. “I am but—”

“Goodness, you’re not even dressed. You’d better hurry. What’ll they say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She squeezed her eyes shut, exhausted from hours of prayer.

“It always matters what people say.”

Allie turned back to the desk. “I’ll be down shortly.” She frowned at her own rudeness, but the urgency and sweetness of her prayer time lured her back into the Lord’s presence.

A sting on his face.

“Come on, Preach, don’t you dare leave us.”

Walt struggled to open his eyes.

“Come on.” Pete shook Walt’s shoulders. “You see the coast? We’re gonna make it, but you’ve got to stay awake.”

“Can’t.” His eyelids dropped like window shades.

“You have to.” J.P. kicked him in the leg. “Louis found an RAF airfield, Bill’s contacted them, but you need to land this plane.”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “What’ll they tell Emily if you don’t make it?”

“Allie.” Walt forced his eyes open. If he died, Betty would tell Allie. She took Frank and Jim’s deaths hard, and she barely knew them. How would she take Walt’s death? And what about Mom and Dad? And Jack would be the first to know, would have to break the news.

He shook his head hard enough to make his cheeks flap. “What’s our heading?”

“Can you see it?” J.P. said. “There’s the control tower.”

That tower perked him up better than a cup of coffee. Engine number four gave off smoke. “Come on, girl. Not much farther.”

The fuel gauges stood on empty. No time to circle the field. No time to wait for clearance. Bill Perkins fired two red flares out the radio room roof hatch to indicate wounded men on board.

Down came the landing gear. White sparkles appeared before Walt’s eyes. His approach was too fast, too low, and
Flossie
bounced hard.

The runway was short, built for fighters, trees at the end— and darkening. He groped for the brakes, but his foot wouldn’t move. Darker and darker.

Lord God, help us.

40

Riverside

Allie’s eyelids flickered along with the newsreel images until a warm drop trailed down her cheek.

She rose and fled the theater. In the ladies’ room she splashed water on her face in a vain attempt to stanch the tears. She was too drained from the previous night’s ordeal and a long day at March Field to control her emotions.

Daisy swung the door open. “Allie? Goodness. Figured something was wrong if you left in the middle of a newsreel. What’s the matter?”

She pulled herself together. “Nothing, really. Walt told me he has a girlfriend. I shouldn’t be upset. I should be pleased for him.”

“No! Allie, no.” Daisy clasped her in a tight hug. “What are you going to do?”

Daisy’s despair startled Allie into composure. She drew back and offered a smile. “I’ll be fine in time. I’m not the first woman with a broken heart.”

Daisy harrumphed and crossed her arms. “Isn’t that just like a man?”

Allie sighed. She didn’t want to make Walt out to be a villain. “I’ll be fine. But now I—I’m worried about him.” She hesitated. She’d never mentioned her dreams to anyone but Walt. “I—well, I have dreams when he flies missions, and yesterday’s was a nightmare.”

Daisy raised half a smile. “Honey, you watch too many newsreels. Don’t worry about that man ever again.”

Allie coaxed out a smile. “Let’s go watch the movie.”

How could she help but worry? How would she ever know if Walt was all right? He wasn’t writing anymore, and she couldn’t ask Betty without breaking her promise to Walt.

She led the way back into the theater.
Lord, please let me
know how he is. Please keep him safe in your arms.

The man’s voice was familiar. Deep and low. Dad? No, not Dad.

Walt tried to open his eyes. Nothing happened.

“Walt?” The man squeezed Walt’s left hand. “Nurse, I think he’s waking up. Walt? Come on, rise and shine. You’ve been in bed too long, lazybones.”

Lazybones? That’s what Mom called the boys in the morning. The voice—Ray? Jack? Yeah, Jack.

He tried every one of his facial muscles until he found the ones that operated his eyelids. Light stabbed his eyeballs. He cringed, then opened his eyes again. A face came into focus with black hair and a big grin under a mustache.

“Lazybones?” Walt croaked out. “You’re the one too lazy to shave.”

Jack’s laugh tumbled out. “You’re okay. Thank God, you’re okay.”

He was okay? Why wouldn’t he be okay? His eyelids flopped shut, and he forced them up again. Why was he so tired? So numb?

“You had me worried. Sweating out the mission at the control tower, counting the planes as they came in. No
Flossie
. Sure was relieved when we got the call that you landed at that RAF field. When I got down there and saw your plane—wow. That was some fine flying you did. I don’t know how you got that Fort back.”

Oh yeah, the mission to Bremen. The nose, Louis, Abe, Cracker, the engines, the wounds, the guns, the German, J.P. “I didn’t do it. God did.”

“That’s the truth.” Jack’s voice choked.

Walt looked around. His eyes took moments to adjust to each sight. White walls. A blonde in a white uniform at the foot of his bed. “Where am I?”

“The hospital in Oxford. You’ve been out for two days. It’s Monday the nineteenth.”

“Oxford?”

“They—they brought you here for surgery.”

Surgery. Oh yeah, his arm. They’d have to get the bullets out. No, they’d gone through. His gaze drifted to his right arm.

Jack’s hand clapped on Walt’s cheek and turned his face. “Walt, look at me. I want you to look at me.”

He blinked at the intensity in Jack’s gray blue eyes.

“You’re alive. That’s the important thing. You’re alive.”

He became aware of dull pain the whole length of his arm. “Yeah. Alive.”

Jack’s face twisted, and he gripped Walt’s jaw. “You lost a lot of blood. A lot. They told me you might not make it. But you did. That’s what matters.”

“That’s what I prayed for.” And for the others to make it. He frowned. “The others?”

“It was—it was a bad mission. Worst yet by far. Sixteen Forts went down.”

“Sixteen?”

Jack let his hand drop. “Yeah, and well—you’ve got to know the 306th took the worst of it. Ten—you folks lost ten B-17s.”

“No. Ten? Can’t be. That means—no—only sixteen made it back?” Walt slammed his eyes shut, slammed his mind shut. Ten Forts, a hundred men from Thurleigh.

“Afraid so. I’m sorry. And a lot were hit as hard as
Flossie
. You should have gone down too. You know that, don’t you?”

Walt’s head swam with the losses. “My crew?”

“They’ll be okay, thanks to the Lord’s grace and your piloting. Abe’s got a big bump on his head and the doctors’ embroidery all over his torso. Louis? He’ll get lots of girls to sign his casts. They’ll be back to duty before you know it, but ground jobs. They’ve done their share.”

“Cracker?”

Jack’s cheek twitched. “They shipped him home today for more surgery. The doctors say he may never see again.”

“Oh no.”

“The good news is he’s going home. So are you.”

“Me? Why? Broken bones, stitches. I can fly.”

Jack’s hand clamped on Walt’s cheek again, and his gaze bore down. “You’re alive, remember? That’s what matters.”

Walt strained against his brother’s hand. He was alive, but . . .

“There was a lot of damage. A lot. Bones missing from your hand. Your elbow was shattered. Too much time without blood flow. The tourniquet saved your life but . . .”

“But what, Jack?” he said through clenched teeth. “Tell me or let me look.”

“Walt, they had to take your arm.”

“My arm? Take it where?”

Jack sighed and lowered his hand. “They had to amputate above the elbow.”

“Amputate?” No. Impossible. His elbow hurt, his forearm, his hand. He could feel his fingers. His stomach churned, and he looked to his arm. Where was it? “No. Dear God, no.”

“You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

His entire insides recoiled. His arm lay on top of the blanket, but it ended. Stopped. Masses of white bandages formed a knob where his elbow should have been. No, he could feel it, feel his elbow.

“I’m so sorry, Walt, but you’re alive.”

A stump. He had a stump. Like a tree, chopped down, sawed in half. A stump. Like the Great War vets, like the old-timers from the Spanish-American War, like crotchety Old Man Horton, who lived alone in a run-down shed outside town. Children feared him, teenagers harassed him, women pitied him, and men ignored him.

Vile sickness wrenched his stomach.

“Nurse?” Jack said.

A hand on his shoulder rolled him to his side just in time for him to retch into an enameled pan. A stump. A stump.

“I’m like—” He spat out the last of the bile. “I’m like— like Old Man Horton.”

“Don’t say that. You won’t be. You know what Grandpa always said. Horton was an angry, unhappy man before he went to Cuba. Yeah, his injury made him bitter, but he was halfway there beforehand.”

The nurse wiped Walt’s face. A stump. His right hand— gone.

He closed his eyes and pressed his head back on the pillow. This had to be a dream, a nightmare, and when he woke up he’d be whole again.

“I don’t know what to say, Walt. I wish this hadn’t happened. I wish I could take your place. I sure wish Dad or Ray were here instead of me. I’m the one who almost flunked out of seminary. They’d know what to say.”

“Would they?” He opened his eyes to see Jack’s face warped with concern. The nurse pressed a pill between his lips and handed him a glass. The water scorched its way down his throat. “What could they say? I—I lost my arm. My arm, Jack. My right arm. It’s gone. My
right
arm. I can’t—I can’t write. Oh no, I can’t fly. I can’t fly, can’t push the throttles.”

His chest heaved. No—no, he wasn’t going to cry like a stupid baby.

“You’re an engineer. Thank the Lord for that. You can still use a slide rule, can’t you? You’ll be fine. Really, you’ll be fine.” Jack brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. No, he wasn’t crying too, was he?

“Yeah? Who’ll hire a cripple?” He screwed his eyes shut, hating the dampness, hating the huskiness in his voice. Twice in one year he’d cried. War was supposed to make him a man, not a blubbering baby.

“You’re not a cripple. You’re a war hero. You wouldn’t believe the reporters beating down the doors, waiting for you to wake up. And your crew too. You saved their lives.”

“I’m no hero.” Walt lifted his hand to wipe his eyes. No—no hand. He had to use his left hand, felt clumsy.

“Sure, you are. I bet you’ll have twenty job offers before you get home and at least that many marriage proposals.”

Marriage. Walt stared at the clump of bandages. Any self-respecting woman would be repulsed. Allie would be. Good thing she had a whole man to marry.

41

Riverside
May 6, 1943

Allie checked the list in her hand: florist, photographer, bakery, printer, Mission Inn, St. Timothy’s. Only the dress shop remained. It had been a long day, and her feet and head ached.

She caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window. At least she still looked fresh in her peach linen suit. To make the old outfit more fashionable, she had added four box pleats to the skirt and epaulettes to the shoulders.

She paused outside the door, took a deep breath, and plunged into the shop.

Miss Montclair knelt in front of a dress form in the back of the store. She wore a slim dress with broad, vertical black and white stripes. Few women could wear such a bold dress, much less dominate it as Agatha Montclair did.

“Excuse me?” Allie said.

Miss Montclair’s eyes widened. She rose and set aside the tape measure. “Dearest Allie, I must say I’m astonished to see you.”

“Oh? Mother made an appointment for me.”

“Yes, but you haven’t kept an appointment for months.”