In Perfect Time (2 page)

Control. Only control silenced the voice.

Sorrento, Italy

“Wake up, Coop. You’re dreaming.”

Lt. Roger Cooper opened one eye, breath chuffing. Yes, he
could breathe. He wasn’t trapped underwater in a sinking C-47, sinking because he never should have flown that day. A better pilot would have convinced his squadron commander to abort the mission.

Yes, he lay on his stomach on the beach at Sorrento. The scent of saltwater and sand filled his nostrils. His one open eye registered a sideways view of sheer white cliffs and tile-roofed homes, of the blue Bay of Naples and beyond that—Mount Vesuvius, still smoking from the eruption that brought down his plane. His cheek slipped on his crossed forearms, sweat moistening the leather sleeves of his flight jacket.

Roger kicked to the right and hit his copilot, Lt. Bill Shelby. “Come on, we take a dive in the drink, spend the night at sea, get interrogated for two days straight, finally get a day of rest, and you interrupt my beauty sleep.”

“Hey!” Shell grabbed his skinny leg where Roger had kicked him. “You sounded like my dog, twitching and whimpering.”

“What do you expect? I was chasing bunnies.”

Technical Sergeant Gene Pettas let out a low whistle. “I know what I’d like to chase.”

Roger rested his chin on his forearms and followed his radioman-navigator’s gaze down the beach. A trio of Italian girls sauntered along, skirts ruffling around shapely legs, dark eyes surveying the four American flyboys, full lips curving in appreciation.

“One for each of us.” Pettas pushed himself up to sitting. “Except old married man Shell here.”

The tallest, prettiest girl targeted Roger. His dark red hair attracted too much attention in Italy. She paused and lifted an inviting smile. A dangerous smile.

Roger prayed for strength and turned away. “Leave me out of this. They’re nothing but trouble.”

Sergeant Fulton Whitaker, the flight engineer, flicked the
back of Roger’s head. “Ah, you say that about everything in a skirt.”

He rubbed his scalp. “’Cause it’s true. Dames are trouble.”

“C’mon, Whit.” Pettas got to his feet. “Let’s go get us some trouble. No fun with these two monks anyway.”

One more flick to Roger’s head, and Whit left too.

“Man alive.” Roger winced and rubbed his head—again. “Everyone’s beating me up today.”

“Says the man who got nominated for the Distinguished Flying Cross.” Shell sat cross-legged on the blanket, and a breeze lifted his wispy pale blond hair.

“Yeah.” The word soured in his mouth. Only the US Army Air Forces gave a man a medal for getting out of a situation he never should have gotten into in the first place. He could have killed fifteen people that day. And he got a medal.

“At least I’m finally getting my own plane.”

“About time.” His best friend was an excellent pilot, better than Roger, but his small stature and quiet personality made him almost invisible in the 64th Troop Carrier Group. Getting trapped on Roger’s crew hadn’t helped either. “My new copilot will have big shoes to fill.”

Shell stretched one leg in front of him and wiggled his foot—about a size seven. “Only if he’s twelve years old.”

“You kidding? I had bigger feet than that when I was born.”

“Yep. They grow them large and stupid on the farm.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Roger grinned, then pushed himself up to sitting, naptime over. He rolled his shoulders and gazed around. The midday sun gave off no heat, and Roger kept his flight jacket zipped.

“Say, Coop, you have any candy? Gum?” Shell nodded in the direction Pettas and Whitaker had gone in search of trouble.

Four Italian boys made their way up the beach, laughing and pushing each other and picking stuff up off the sand—
shells or rocks or whatever. Any minute now they’d spot the airmen and beg them for goodies.

A smile warmed Roger’s face more than the sun did. “Can’t spare any gum, but I’ve got a Mars bar. Here, give me your book.”

“My book? No, you don’t.” Shell reached for it.

Roger grabbed it first and slipped out his drumsticks from inside his jacket. “It’s for a good cause.”

“You have no respect for the written word.”

“What do you expect from a dumb farm boy?” He set the book on the blanket in front of him and rapped out a neat set of paradiddles.

Sure enough, the boys, about six to ten years old, looked his way. Brothers or cousins most likely.

Roger beckoned them with a grin, breaking the language barrier.

The kids ran over, sand shooting out behind their bare feet. They’d get candy, but first they’d get a show.

Roger twirled one drumstick around his fingers, then broke into a triple stroke roll, smooth and even, building up to a frenzy and ending with a tap to Shelby’s head.

His friend cussed and scooted out of the way. “Should have known better.”

“That’s for waking me.”

The boys giggled and gathered around. The littlest patted his own head, an irresistible invitation. Roger motioned for his four new cymbals to sit in a semicircle around him, with the tallest kid to his left, his “hi-hat.”

Roger returned to his triple stroke roll, accented with light taps to hi-hat boy’s head. The other kids squealed and patted their heads, and Roger obliged them. Then he returned to the book and switched things up to a ratamacue, nice and easy.

His eyes drifted shut, and the rhythm took over, flowing
through his arms and sticks and soul. Thank goodness the Lord had given him one thing to be good at.

That’s why he practiced every single day, all forty rudiments, over and over. Not easy when he’d only managed to stuff a single tom-tom in his barracks bag. He hadn’t played on a full drum set in ages, but he wouldn’t let that stop him. If the Allies ever won this war, he’d go home and audition for the big bands. No more rinky-dink house bands for him.

His right foot worked an imaginary pedal for a bass drum, and he picked up the pace, swinging the rhythm.

The boys murmured in Italian, squirming in expectation.

Roger’s eyes popped open. He shot them a mischievous grin, then tapped out a frenzied but gentle pattern on the four little heads. The boys ducked and shrieked with delight.

He laid the sticks in parallel on the book, lowered his chin to signal the end, then stuck out his hand to the oldest boy. “Gum,
per
favore
? Gum?”

All four laughed at the role reversal.

“What do you have, Shell?” Roger dug the Mars bar from the pocket of his jacket, a bit squished from his nap, but boys didn’t care about things like that.

“A Hershey bar.” He handed it to the smallest boy and mimed breaking it in half.

“Grazie,
signore!
Grazie!”
Eyes bright, the boys divided the candy and scampered away down the beach.

“The Pied Drummer strikes again.”

Roger laughed and returned his drumsticks to his jacket, his fingers still tingling with the rhythm.

“Say, if this drumming thing doesn’t work out, you should be a teacher. You’re great with kids.”

His hand clenched around the sticks, right over his heart. It skipped a beat. His laugh came out stiff. “Why would I want to be stuck in a school all day? Hated school.”

Hated it because of dull teachers who made lessons as
tasty as chalk. He’d sit and watch and think how he’d make the lesson engaging with color and humor and flash.

Countless appointments with the principal’s paddle showed him color and humor and flash did not belong in the classroom.

But the big bands welcomed it.

2

Pomigliano Airfield, outside Naples, Italy
March 27, 1944

“Need some help?” Mellie Blake leaned in the cargo door of the C-47. “My plane’s already set up, and I have nothing to do.”

“Sure.” Kay motioned her fellow flight nurse inside. “Dabrowski isn’t here yet.”

Mellie climbed in and tucked her wavy black hair behind her ear. “Oh, you’re almost done.”

“You sound disappointed.” Kay reached into a canvas bag affixed to the ceiling, drew out a coil of web strapping, and let the end flop to the floor. “Missing Georgie?”

“Of course, but I’m sure she misses us more.” She released another coil of strapping a few feet away. “Can you imagine? They sent her to Capri as a reward for the ditching incident, but for Georgie, being alone is the worst form of punishment.”

Kay laughed and knelt to secure the strapping to a pole running along the floor. “She’s probably attracted a crowd of new friends. So how’s Tom?”

“Wonderful.” At the mention of her boyfriend, Mellie smiled, wide and bright. “His Engineer Aviation Battalion finished another airstrip in the Foggia area. He has a forty-
eight-hour leave over Easter weekend to come to Naples. I can’t wait. It’ll be nice to worship with him.” Her gaze slid to Kay, a question almost visible on her lips.

With a slight shake of her head, Kay scuttled that question. She tugged on the strap, nice and taut from floor to ceiling. That’s what she liked about Mellie. Although her friend’s faith was important to her, she never pushed.

Besides, if Kay walked into the air base church, the building would burst into flames and the chaplain would have a coronary.

Mellie tested her strap too. “I’m glad we’re getting more planes with this new system. It’s much better than the old aluminum brackets we had when we first came to North Africa.”

“Sure is.” Kay stood and slipped her hand in one of the loops that would hold a litter pole when the patients were loaded later that morning. “That’s the last one.”

A smile flickered on Mellie’s face. “I’m glad I could be of such great help.”

“Mellie? Ah, there you are.” The chief nurse, Lt. Cora Lambert, poked her head inside the cargo door. “Your patients are ready to be loaded.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Mellie left the plane. “Bye, Kay.”

“Bye, Mellie-bird.” Kay glanced around the cabin. All looked fine. “How about my patients?”

“Not yet. Maybe half an hour.” Lambert pulled back, ready to leave.

“Wait.” A moment alone with the chief couldn’t be wasted.

“Yes?”

Kay hopped to the ground and scanned the airfield. Yes, she had privacy. “A few weeks ago you said replacement nurses were coming at the end of the month. Do you still need volunteers to go home?”

“I need one more. Why? Did you change your mind? I thought you loved flight nursing.” Her brown eyes widened, and she stared at Kay’s abdomen.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. She thought Kay was stupid enough to get pregnant. Kay tossed on a smile. “I do love flight nursing. So much that I’d like to go to the chief nurses’ school.”

“The . . . chief . . .”

Kay’s heart twisted at the sight of her dream out in the open for the first time. She gazed away, toward the bulk of Vesuvius to the south. “I’ve been thinking about it since October when we were back at the School of Air Evacuation in Kentucky.”

“You have?”

“Yes. It’s perfect. I love nursing, but I’m also excellent at administration and organization. I’d be a good chief nurse. We all know this war will be over soon. Come spring, we’ll go on the offensive again here in Italy, and all those troops gathering in England will invade France, and it’ll be over before you know it.”

“Most likely . . .” Lambert sounded wary.

Kay stroked the olive drab aluminum of the fuselage. “Ma’am, we both know flight nurses won’t be needed after the war. I could go back to being a stewardess, but I’m twenty-eight, and they’ll let me go when I turn thirty. That’s just how it is. I could work as a ward nurse, but after the independence of flight nursing, how could I go back to kowtowing to physicians? But I could be a chief. I’m good with details—”

“Kay.” Lambert raised her hand. Her expression oozed compassion but held the force of a red traffic light.

“Yes, ma’am?” Her smile twitched, and she hated it.

Lambert glanced away to the tents of the 58th Station Hospital by the flight line. “I don’t know what to say. It never occurred to me that you’d be interested.”

“I am. This is what I want.”

She smoothed back her brown hair, and her mouth puckered. “If the decision were based on your skills alone, I’d send you. You’re one of the best nurses in the squadron—levelheaded, clever, and warm but not sentimental.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” She winced at the word
however
hanging in the air.

“However . . . your reputation. Why, I can’t keep track of all the men you date. I’m surprised you can.”

Kay stiffened. “Nothing illegal or immor—”

“Maybe not, but it’s the appearance.” Her frown deepened. “I haven’t said anything because you stay away from the married men, I haven’t heard anything scandalous, and you keep curfew.”

Kay fingered the side seam of her gray-blue trousers. “As I said, nothing illegal or immoral.”

“But there are so many. The other girls don’t take you seriously.”

A slight shrug. “It’s just for fun.”

Lieutenant Lambert crossed her arms. “There’s more to being a chief than nursing and administrative skills. The girls look up to you, and you have to present an image to strive for.”

“But I’m a good leader.”

“Are you?” She waved an elegant hand toward quarters. “Your flight of six nurses has given me the greatest headaches from the start. Things have improved, but still, after a year abroad, yours is the least unified of the four flights in the 802nd Medical Air Evacuation Transport Squadron.”

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “They don’t like each other much.”

“I’m sorry, Kay.” Lambert headed down to the next C-47.

All the wind whooshed out of Kay’s lungs. Her father was right. The wicked didn’t prosper.