Across a War-Tossed Sea (9 page)

Quail-lee.

Wesley frowned. That call was really close. And funny-sounding. Wispy, not sharp and clean like the birds'. More like…like a human imitation.

Before Wesley could realize the danger he was in, he heard a rushing through the grasses and, in a flurry of panicked flapping, two dozen quail surged into the air right in front of him.

KABLAM! KABLAM!

Dead birds showered down around him.

Terrified, Wesley stumbled backward. He clutched his left arm where he felt a sudden horrendous burning. He tripped and landed on his back, whacking his head, hard. He reached up to hold his throbbing skull, and Wesley realized his fingertips were bloody.

“Good God,” he cried, as a whirling sickness overcame him. “I've been shot!”

Then he felt nothing.

“H
ere,” said a commanding voice. “Drink this.”

Wesley felt a cold tin cup pressed to his mouth, then a metallic-tasting liquid stung his tongue and throat. He coughed, his eyes popping open.

“That's better.”

“Where am I?” Wesley tried to focus. He was laid out on a blanket near a low campfire, thick with embers. An old man knelt beside him, holding the cup and a bottle of something golden.

“In my hunting camp.”

Wesley sat up and looked around. There were Flynn and Buster, happily chewing on bones, lying beside another dog. On a lean-to shed hung a dozen shot quail. He could hear water gently lapping against shoreline nearby. The sun was now bright and warm against his face. And whatever that liquid was had burned his insides warm, too.

“What happened?”

“You stepped into my line of fire. The sun was rising and in my eyes. I didn't see you.”

“What?” Wesley was so confused. Then he noticed another burning sensation and reached for his left arm. It was bandaged tightly above his elbow.

“Some birdshot winged you,” the man explained. “Just scratches. I've cleaned them. You are lucky it wasn't more.”

“Wait a minute,” said Wesley, beginning to remember. “You shot me?”

“Yes,” the man answered, sitting back on his heels.

Wesley stared, for the first time noticing how different the man looked. He was deeply tanned, with high, pronounced cheekbones and a large, long nose. His graying hair was black and straight, cut blunt, hanging just below his ears. His eyes were large, a black-brown, and almond shaped. It was a rugged, slightly exotic face.

Wesley gasped with a thought. Recently the navy had displayed a captured Japanese submarine in Norfolk, and the Ratcliffs had gone to see it. This man looked a tiny bit like the photographs of Japanese officers displayed on the wharf near the sub.

“Are you…” Wesley lowered his voice to a nervous whisper. “Are you a Japanese sailor on the run?”

The man burst out laughing. “No.”

Befuddled, Wesley murmured, “But you're not Negro like Freddy.”

“No.”

Wesley kept searching his mind for the image that matched this man. “Wait!” He gasped again. “Are you—oh my!—are you an Indian?”

The man smiled. “I am Chickahominy.”

Wesley couldn't believe it. He was actually, finally, in the presence of a real live Indian! He sat up and raised his hand in salute. “How!”

“How what?”

“That's what Indians say, isn't it?”

The man laughed again. “Only in Hollywood. I should introduce myself. My name is Paul Johns.” He bowed his head. “And I must apologize for shooting you.”

“Oh, that's all right.” Birdshot was a small price to pay to meet a real live Indian! “Do you live near here?”

“Not far.”

“In a tepee?”

“No,” the man answered with a patient smile. “In a regular house, like yours, with a vegetable garden and flowerbeds. Besides, my people never lived in tepees. We lived in long houses, made from trees and bark.”

“Oh, I would have loved to have seen one.”

“Me too,” said the man. “Where are you from, son, that you ask all these questions?”

“From England.”

“Ah.” The man nodded. “That's the accent. Then you are one of them.”

“Them?”

“Them that began our ruin. Thanksgiving is coming, right? Well, we have a different perspective on the holiday. My people taught you about corn and tobacco. You English brought disease and stole our lands.”

Now Wesley frowned. He hadn't ever thought of that, just about Captain Smith's dashing explorations and the romance between Pocahontas and John Rolfe. He changed the subject. “What's that?” He pointed to a large ivory-colored disk hanging around the man's throat. It was the size of a teacup saucer, and its center was pinched, making it look like a dragon's scale.

“This?” the man reached for his necklace. “It's a boney plate from the back of a sturgeon, the giant ocean fish that swims up the James to spawn. This came from one that was eight feet long.”

“For real? I've never seen one,” Wesley said.

“Come spring you may see one leap out of the water and shake itself in the air, before landing with a crash. They say long ago our young warriors proved their manhood by setting nets and then wrestling the sturgeon until they wore out.”

Wesley's eyes grew round. “Did you do that?”

Once more the man laughed. “No. But I've caught a few sturgeons in my life. Would you like a boney plate for your own?”

“Yes, please!” said Wesley.

The man walked toward the water's edge. Wesley followed and spotted a duck blind and a canoe tied up in a labyrinth of marsh grasses. “Oh, oh, oh! Is that canoe yours?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?”

Wesley blushed and stopped himself from asking why it was an ordinary-looking canvas boat and not a dug-out log like he'd seen in books.

“Let me ask you a few,” countered the man. “What are you doing out alone with hunting dogs but no gun, flushing a covey of quail?”

Wesley explained.

Suddenly, the man seemed uneasy. “You need to go back. They'll be worried about you.” He sifted through a large pile of empty oyster shells and fished out a sturgeon plate to hand Wesley. It was thick and hard, like a piece of a knight's armor.

“Blimey! Thanks, Mr. Johns. I can't wait to show my brother.”

“Since you are so interested in my people,” the man said, “let's pretend we are making a peace pact—like Powhatan and Captain Smith. Instead of smoking a peace pipe like in the movies, I'll give you this sturgeon bone and some of the quail you flushed out.”

“Oh yes, please. Thank you ever so much.”

The man walked back to his campfire and put six quail in a bag. He held the bag just out of Wesley's reach as he said, “And you won't call the sheriff, will you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Not everyone around here feels as you do about native peoples. Some folks might take a Chickahominy winging a white child in a hunting accident as proof that we, as a people, are careless and dangerous. Do you understand?”

Wesley didn't, but he said, “I won't tell. I promise. My arm feels fine.”

“Then we have our peace pact,” the man said with a smile. “Come back this spring with your brother. I will take you two out in my canoe to see the sturgeon.”

Later that day, when the Ratcliffs came out of the woods, carrying five large turkeys, Wesley explained that he'd been walking the dogs and accidentally flushed out quail that a hunter shot and then shared with him. He didn't mention getting peppered himself. The sun was setting, and in the gloom no one noticed the tear in his jacket. Plus the Ratcliffs were tired and ready to go home, perfectly happy to accept a bag full of quail already provided. They didn't ask questions.

Only to Charles did Wesley show the sturgeon plate. Excitedly, he explained that Paul Johns was Chickahominy and had promised to take them out in his canoe to look for sturgeon. “He's a real live Indian,” Wesley whispered excitedly. “But you can't snitch, Charles. I promised him.”

“I won't,” Charles answered stoutly. “Did you say a canoe?”

Charles listened carefully as Wesley described the canoe and how Paul Johns had tied it up in the marsh. “I've never seen a canoe myself,” he commented thoughtfully. “Did it look seaworthy?”

“Oh my goodness, rather,” answered Wesley. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, because.…” Charles rubbed his chin. “What would I tell our father if I let you go out on some rickety canoe that got in trouble?”

“No worries there, Charles! It was tip-top!”

“Hmmmm,” Charles murmured, then abruptly changed the subject. “Want to hear 'bout the turkey shoot?

“Oh yes!” Wesley answered.

Charles described it in such gory detail, Wesley was sorry he asked.

“W
esley,” Patsy called up the stairs, “can you come help crack these walnuts, please?”

Reluctantly, Wesley closed his book. He'd been completely absorbed reading about Sitting Bull and the Sioux.

Charles looked up from his chemistry notes. He knew he should stay put, but downstairs there was a warm fireplace and company and plenty of ways to avoid molecular formulas. “I'm coming too,” he announced. “It's almost time for the CBS news roundup.”

They stormed the stairs together.

On the first floor, the house was filled with the scent of buttery biscuit dough rising in a bowl atop a radiator for the next morning. Mrs. Ratcliff hummed in the kitchen, cleaning up dinner dishes. Mr. Ratcliff sat in his wingback armchair by the fireplace reading the
Richmond News-Leader
. At his feet, the twins played war, grabbing cards back and forth from each other.

“Looks like Santa Claus will be coming to Miller and Rhodes this year after all, boys,” he said to them as he turned a page.

“Goody!”

“What are you hoping Father Christmas will bring you?” Wesley asked as he flopped down on the couch beside Patsy. Balanced on her lap was a huge bowl of walnuts the boys had gathered from the yard for Mrs. Ratcliff to use in the apple-walnut bread she baked for Christmas presents. Patsy threw her hands over it to keep Wesley's flop from sending the walnuts flying.

“That new board game Chutes and Ladders.” “No, Uncle Wiggily.” The boys bickered.

Charles had seen Patsy sitting on the sofa's flowery chintz slipcovers a thousand times and never thought much about her appearance. But something about that night drew him up short, the glow of the firelight on her face maybe. She looks like a human blossom, he mused, sitting on a cloth garden.
Oh for pity's
sake!
Charles gagged on his icky-sweet simile.
What a besotted
dope!

Patsy noticed him staring at her. She frowned, glanced down at the bowl, then at her dress and collar, as if checking to make sure she hadn't spilled dinner all over herself or something, which would explain Charles's looking at her that way.

She'd caught him! Charles cleared his throat and stretched, then pretended to check for lint on the back of the couch.

Patsy cocked her head quizzically as she asked, “Don't you need to study for that test you were telling me about, Chuck?”

“Naw. It's in the bag, no sweat.”

“Really? I wouldn't have passed chemistry without Henry tutoring me.”

Charles knew Patsy didn't care for science. Her favorite classes were English and art. In fact, she was an amazing sketch artist. She kept a notebook full of her own drawings—of songbirds, wildflowers, her mother ironing, the twins paying hide-and-seek. He'd seen her slam it shut when her brothers came near. Curious, he'd snuck a look. She was really talented. But he never said anything, since she seemed shy about them.

Charles started to admit that he, too, wasn't that good at science, that his strengths were sports and political history. But he knew Americans seemed to expect boys to love math and science and want to be engineers or builders of some kind. He didn't want to seem like he didn't fit the proper male mold.

So he changed the subject instead. “May I turn on the news, Mr. Ratcliff?”

“Sure thing, Chuck.” Mr. Ratcliff checked his watch. “I'm glad you kept track of the hour. I would have missed it reading up on Christmas happenings.” Mr. Ratcliff closed his newspaper and picked up his pipe, stuffing it with loose tobacco before lighting it. “About time you two went to bed,” he said to the twins.

“No, Daddy! We want to hear the radio too!” they chimed as Charles turned the radio's knob on with a loud
click
.

From the wooden, Cathedral-arched box a crackly voice announced: “CBS World News now brings you a special broadcast from London. Columbia's correspondent, Edward R. Murrow, was on one of the RAF bombing planes that smashed at Berlin last night, in one of the heaviest attacks of the war. Forty-one bombers were lost in the raid and three out of the five correspondents who flew with the raiders failed to return.”

With that, worries over bedtime stopped. Patsy froze, nutcracker in hand. Everyone shushed one another to listen.

Charles crowded onto the sofa beside Patsy and Wesley, and leaned forward to concentrate on the report.

“This is London,” Murrow began, in a deep voice that resonated over the static and feedback whistle of a transatlantic broadcast. “Last night, some of the young gentlemen of the RAF took me to Berlin.”

“As far as Berlin—think of that,” said Mr. Ratcliff, puffing, smoke swirling around him.

“All I can think about, Daddy,” Patsy countered, “is that forty-one planes didn't make it back. Forty-one. That's four hundred and ten boys, isn't it?”

Charles nodded.

Murrow set the stage—telling that his pilot's name was Jock, that he was the squadron leader, and that the big, black, four-motored Lancaster plane he flew was named
D for Dog
. Right before takeoff, Murrow added, a small station wagon delivered a thermos of coffee, chewing gum, an orange, and a bit of chocolate to each crew member.

Pulled in by Murrow's voice, Mrs. Ratcliff entered from the kitchen. “Poor lambs,” she murmured. “Only that to eat during a whole night of flying?”

“Shhhhhhh.”

Bobby drifted into the room now too, a trigonometry textbook in hand, as Murrow described the takeoff. The Lancaster planes—“Lancs,” Murrow called them—climbed “for the place where men must burn oxygen to live.”

Patsy put down the nutcracker. Charles noticed her hands had started to tremble.

“Soon we were out over the North Sea,” Murrow continued. “Buzz, the bomb aimer, crackled through…‘There's a battle going on the starboard beam.' We couldn't see the aircraft, but we could see the jets of red tracer being exchanged.”

“Why couldn't they see the aircraft?” whispered Johnny.

“You Yanks fly daylight missions, but we Brits follow up at night. Mr. Murrow is describing a British flight,” answered Charles. “So it's dark except for the explosions.”

“Shhhhhhh.”

Ron stood in the doorway now, leaning against the frame.

Murrow's voice went on describing one dangerous moment after another on the hard-fought journey to the bomb target: “There was a burst of yellow flame and Jock remarked, ‘That's a fighter going down.'…Suddenly those dirty gray clouds turned white and we were over the outer searchlight defenses…
D-Dog
seemed like a black bug on a white sheet. The flak began coming up.…

“By this time we were about thirty miles from our target area in Berlin.” Murrow paused for emphasis. “That thirty miles was the longest flight I have ever made.”

“I bet,” Charles muttered.

“Flares were sprouting all over the sky,” Murrow continued, “reds and greens and yellows, and we were flying straight for the center of the fireworks.…Off to the starboard a Lanc was caught by at least fourteen searchlight beams. We could see him twist and turn and finally break out.”

The cadence of Murrow's voice sped up as he described the Nazi searchlights finding and holding individual planes in conelike beams so the Luftwaffe fighters could see and home in on them. “Another Lanc was coned on our starboard beam.…The German fighters were at him.

“And then, with no warning at all,
D-Dog
was filled with an unhealthy white light.…Jock's quiet Scots voice beat into my ears, ‘Steady, lads, we've been coned.'”

Patsy gasped.

“Jock's slender body lifted half out of the seat as he jammed the control column forward and to the left. We were going down. Jock was wearing woolen gloves with the fingers cut off. I could see his fingernails turn white as he gripped the wheel. And then I was on my knees, flat on the deck, for he had whipped the
Dog
back into a climbing turn.”

“It's okay,” Charles reached out and patted Patsy's hand. “They fly evasively like that to get out of the searchlights.” The pain in Patsy's eyes hurt him.

“
D-Dog
was corkscrewing. As we rolled down on the other side, I began to see what was happening to Berlin.…The bombers' small incendiaries were going down like a fistful of white rice…glowing white and then turning red. The cookies, the four-thousand-pound high explosives, were bursting below like great sunflowers gone mad. And then, as we started down again, still held in the lights, I remembered that the
Dog
still had one of those cookies and a whole basket of incendiaries in his belly.

“And the lights still held us.” Murrow paused, then added, “And I was very frightened.”

Charles looked down with surprise as Johnny scooched across the floor to lean up against his and Wesley's legs, like a puppy seeking comfort.

“Finally,” Murrow continued, “we were out of the cone, flying level.”

“Thank the Lord,” murmured Mrs. Ratcliff.

“Shhhhhhhhh,”
everyone shushed her.

“I looked down,” announced Murrow, “and the white fires had turned red. They were beginning to merge and spread, just like butter does on a hot plate.…The bomb doors were opened.…There was a gentle, confident upward thrust under my feet…The incendiaries went, and
D-Dog
seemed lighter and easier to handle.”

Relieved, the Ratcliffs shifted in their seats.

But Murrow's mission was far from over: “I began to breathe…when there was a tremendous
whoomph
, an unintelligible shout from the tail gunner, and
D-Dog
shivered and lost altitude. I looked to the port side and there was a Lancaster that seemed close enough to touch. He had whipped straight under us—missed us by twenty-five, fifty feet.…”

“What an idiot that pilot must be,” Ron sniped.

“Shut up, Ron,” Bobby spoke before Charles could. “Do you know how hard it must be for them to not crash into one another, flying in such tight formations, in the dark, and trying to dodge flak and fighters?”

“Shhhhhhh!”

Murrow was still talking. “Jock was doing what I had heard him tell his pilots to do so often—flying dead on course. He flew straight into a huge green searchlight and, as he rammed the throttles home, remarked, ‘We'll have a little trouble getting away from this one.'…The flak began coming up at us…winking off both wings.…A great orange blob of flak smacked up straight in front of us, and Jock…began to throw
D for Dog
up, around, and about again. When we were clear of the barrage, I asked him how close the bursts were and he said, ‘Not very close. When they're really near, you can smell 'em.'”

Murrow paused again to admit, “That proved nothing, for I'd been holding my breath.”

The Ratcliffs let out their own breaths in unison.

Murrow told more about the homeward flight and then concluded about the raid: “Berlin was a kind of orchestrated hell—a terrible symphony of light and flame.…Men die in the sky while others are roasted alive in their cellars.…Right now the mechanics are probably working on
D-Dog
, getting him ready to fly”—Murrow paused one last time to drive home the point—“again.”

Riveted by Murrow's grisly poetry, his depiction of the dangers the aircrew faced, they all remained absolutely still for several moments.

Finally, Charles dared to look at Patsy. Tears were sliding down her face, but her expression was defiant. “That settles it,” she said, breaking the silence. “That could be Henry up there in
D for Dog
. That's what he has to endure. I'm not about to sit around and not do anything to help our fight.”

She stood. “Daddy, I ran into Mr. Ewell at the library the other day. He's been volunteering as a plane spotter for the Aircraft Warning Service, but he's been called up by the army. He asked me to replace him. He gave me the handbook and the flashcards so I can memorize the planes I'll need to know. All I'll be doing is standing on the tower and watching the sky. Then I telephone the civilian defense office to report any aircraft I spot and which direction it's flying. It won't keep me from finishing my homework.”

“Now hold on, girl. Wasn't Ewell doing that at night?”

“Just from four to nine o'clock, Daddy.”

“It'll be dark when you have to walk home along the road.” Mr. Ratcliff shook his head. “No.”

Charles stood up too. “I'll go with her, Mr. Ratcliff. I wouldn't mind memorizing those planes myself. Could come in handy when I return to London. Frankly, sir, some older lads from my school are now RAF pilots. They might have been flying in that very raid Mr. Murrow described. I've got to start doing something myself.”

Mr. Ratcliff frowned. “It's December. You'll freeze.”

Now Mrs. Ratcliff stood. She smiled at her husband. “I'll send them off with extra coats and a thermos of hot chocolate, just like those boys in those planes. It'll be all right, Andy. They need to do this.” She nodded her head toward Patsy and Charles and added gently. “Take a look, honey.”

Mr. Ratcliff opened his mouth to argue some other point. But just as he did, Bing Crosby's newest song lilted out of the radio:
“I'll be home for Christmas
.…
”

Charles caught his breath, furious at how the bittersweet song made his throat close up and his eyes burn. He put his hand on Wesley's shoulder and tightened his grip a bit, knowing Wesley would be feeling the same pangs he was. He willed himself to seem manly in front of the Ratcliffs.

For a moment Charles and Mr. Ratcliff gazed at each other as Crosby crooned on about making it home to family for Christmas.

“If only in my dreams.”
Crosby's voice trailed off.

Wesley sniffed.

“All right, Chuck.” Mr. Ratcliff relented.