Songbird Under a German Moon (3 page)

As they sang yet another song, Betty glanced up and noticed Cary Grant—as she'd labeled him in her head—return from the cockpit. He smiled, grabbed a large camera case from where he'd been sitting, and took a seat nearer to her than he'd been in earlier. Then he buckled his seatbelt.

“Just a little engine trouble, nothing to be alarmed about,” the man called out. “It'll be a bumpy ride, but we'll make it fine.”

The soldiers nodded, but Betty could tell the man hadn't told the whole truth. His words sounded smooth, but his jaw remained tense. Betty watched as he lifted the camera case onto his lap. He looked far too serious as he stared out the window over his shoulder, at the patch-worked German countryside below.

Betty switched to another favorite song. “He wears a pair of silver wings—” She lifted her voice, noticing the vibration of the plane gave it a vibrato. All pilots loved this song, and she hoped that tune would catch the guy's attention and lighten his mood. It didn't work. The man wouldn't even acknowledge her song. As she sang, she stared at his profile, willing him to turn his head and meet her gaze.

C'mon, buddy. Give us a hint. Are we going to die tonight or what?

He continued to stare out the window, and as the plane descended, instead of tightening his seatbelt as the rest of the passengers did, he
took his camera from his case, unbuckled his belt, turned in his seat, and focused his lens out the window at the countryside below, draped with yellow light.

Betty's shoulders eased a bit. If he knew they were going to crash, he'd take precautions. Instead, he held up his camera, focused, and snapped a shot. From watching him, she came to the conclusion that he had to be a professional. The type of camera and his confidence gave it away. That meant either he wasn't a pilot after all or was really good at his hobby.
Maybe he was a photographer before the war—before he learned to fly planes.
Or maybe he was a combat photographer, like she'd read about in
LIFE
. Just the thought of him racing into battle with his camera instead of a machine gun caused goose bumps to rise on her arms. It sounded both exciting and dangerous.

After taking a few shots, he turned back around, put the camera away, and buckled up again. “It's pretty out there, don't you think?” he said with a grin to the watching group. “What a beautiful night to be alive.” He certainly deserved an Academy Award for his acting.

As soon as Frank had seen the pretty singer on the transport plane, he was sure he'd been set up. During his time working with the OSS, he'd learned that no one could be trusted. Everyone had his or her own secret motive and agenda. The beautiful singer on the airplane no doubt believed that she “just happened” to be on this plane with him, but Frank guessed that wasn't the case. He thought about his buddy at headquarters and wondered if Marv really was able to
find anything, for anyone, under impossible circumstances, as he'd often bragged. If that were true, Marv had done a fine job serving up Frank's dream girl.

One rained-in day at an English pub six months prior, Marv had asked Frank about his taste in women. Frank had listed a number of qualities off the top of his head, not really thinking much about it.
Petite, dark hair, nice features, a beautiful voice and smile, a warm personality—ya know, someone I could take home to Mom.
From the looks of it, the girl sitting on this airplane fit the bill. Well, at least most of it. Since he really didn't know her, he wasn't sure if she was Mama material or not. Frank shook his head in reluctant resignation, but
boy
was she pretty.

Even though she wore a limp and dirty USO uniform, and her hair had lost its style somewhere between New York and London, the singer looked as if she'd been sculpted under Michelangelo's chisel. But more than that, Frank liked the contented smile that played on her lips, as if she was never bored but looked on everything with interest. And then there was the twinkle in her eye. Or maybe it was more than a twinkle. Maybe it was her whole intelligent, intense gaze that told him if someone asked her a question, they'd get an answer—and most likely one they didn't expect.

I'm not gonna fall for it, Marv
. Frank knew other guys in the OSS who had girlfriends, but he didn't want to risk it. When he finally fell in love, he wanted to give all of his heart—not just the half of it that wasn't top secret. Being a combat photographer during the day was danger enough, but the German artillery and fighter planes were the known danger, the known enemy. If an unknown enemy
wanted to get to him, they could do it best by getting to someone he loved. Incidents like this airplane's smoking engine were proof that danger could pop up any time, any place.

Frank turned his attention back to the small window and the right engine, watching the swirling, dancing smoke. If it were only an engine problem, he wasn't overly concerned. He'd been on nearly one hundred missions, and minor engine trouble like this wasn't enough to make his heart add too many extra beats.
But what if it was sabotage. Who? Why?

The singer started in on another song, interrupting his thoughts. Even though her voice was beautiful, intriguing, he looked outside to the engine, because it was easier than looking at her. He'd managed to stick to his vow throughout the war, but this one—this girl could almost make him rethink his vow.

Keep your mind on the job ahead. Focus on that.

Frank wondered what job awaited him in Bayreuth. As a combat photographer, he'd worked hard and his photos had gotten noticed. He'd even had some front-page spots in major newspapers that he was sure his mom had clipped and added to his scrapbook. As an OSS agent, he'd also found success—and his photos had foiled more than one Nazi plot.

With success in both his jobs, he was eager to see what was ahead. An exposé on displaced persons perhaps? Or maybe photos of the rebuilding of an historic German town nearly leveled by the war? Those would be the front-page photos. Then there would be the ones
not
for the public eye. He wondered what that assignment would be about.

His boss, Henry Miller, had told him all the info would be waiting in Bayreuth, and to have his film loaded and his lens shined. Whatever it was, it would most likely distract him from the pretty traveler with
the angelic voice, even with the extra vibrato from the plane's vibration as it shuddered through the sky.

Besides, girls like her shouldn't be here. It's too dangerous. She needs to head back—. Enemies lurk where least expected.

Yet, even as Frank thought that, having her here made him hope that one day he would be able to lower his guard and fall in love. One part of him even hoped that Marv had been involved—and that this girl had been sent on this transport plane to catch his attention.

Marv does have a way of getting you what you want even before you realize you need it—

The plane bounced as it descended, and the ground seemed to rise toward them faster than normal. The redheaded guy's grip on her hand tightened, and Betty squeezed her eyes shut.

Dear Jesus, thank You for bringing me this far—and if it's in Your plan for me to sing here, then so be it. And if not—save me a spot in that angel choir.

With a hard bump, the landing gear hit the ground. Betty opened her eyes, and the plane bounced two more times—softer than the first—and then smoothed. Cheers rose from the guys, and Betty joined in.

The airplane had barely come to a stop on the runway when all the men stood and gathered their things. All except the handsome photographer, who looked over at her and offered a relieved smile.

When it was time to disembark, the soldiers helped Betty with her bags and insisted she go first. She hurried down the boarding
ladder and scanned the crowd for—for whom, she didn't know. Someone in a gray suit and fedora, she supposed. One of those Hollywood types that her father complained about. Instead, there were only a half-dozen soldiers who set to work unloading supplies.

She paused on the tarmac and hesitantly released the handrail.

What now? What if no one shows? What will I do in a foreign country—alone?

From off in the distance, rescue vehicles approached in a single line. Betty's knees grew weak when she spotted them. No doubt their plane had been in far more danger than the handsome photographer had let on.

She followed the group of soldiers toward the small building at the edge of the airfield. As she looked around, Betty realized that this airfield was similar to the one in Santa Monica. She didn't know why that surprised her. For some reason, she still expected to see Nazi soldiers and large swastikas, despite the war here having been over for five months.

Her heeled shoes clicking on the pavement as she walked and her small satchel in hand, she couldn't help but think of all the planes that had taken off from here—bent on Allied destruction. But that was then, this was now—a time of peace—or so she'd convinced her mother and sister.

Mona had been the hardest to convince. Irish twins, their mother called them, since they were less than a year apart. When Mona had learned of Betty's upcoming trip, she'd cried and carried on for days, certain the Germans were just bluffing. Certain that they had hidden arms and men, and would rise up again as soon as the Americans
became complacent. It didn't matter that no one but Mona believed it. But the worst of it was over, Betty knew. Even the Japanese had surrendered nearly two months ago.

Betty shook those thoughts from her mind and continued forward with confident steps, even though she was far from confident, striding toward the small building.

The telegram that had awaited her in London this morning had told her to have her pipes prepped. It said that she'd be on stage tonight—and she'd assumed someone would be around to get her to that stage.

Nearing the small airport terminal, she scanned the crowd where a lot of Lookie-Lews—no doubt trying to figure out what this broad was doing here—awaited processing in or out. But no one stepped forward to whisk her away.

Up ahead she saw the man who looked like Cary Grant standing near a jeep, obviously waiting for someone. Betty's stomach tightened. He was so handsome, so mature. He was different from all the guys she knew in school. Even different from the other soldiers on the plane. She had a feeling he was important just by the way he carried himself.

“Excuse me, sir.” Betty approached the photographer. “Are you waiting for a ride to the opera house in Bayreuth?”

“I believe you're talking about Festspielhaus, ma'am. I understand that's where this jeep is headed. Let me guess, you've come to sing—to spread your vocal sunshine across the rows and rows of soldiers in a packed-out house?” His face was kind and his eyes were intense as they focused on her, as if he was trying to look deep within her.

Betty felt warmth filling her. “Yes, well, that's the idea—”

The man nodded. “Your singing was nice. I can see why the USO sent you.” He winked. “There are no artillery shells and bullets to keep the soldiers distracted, so the army's trying to keep the men's minds occupied with a pretty voice and an even prettier face.”

“Well, if I'm able to help—”

The photographer's gaze narrowed. “No offense, ma'am, but this is no place for a lady. It might feel as if Hitler's forces have dissipated into thin air, but does anyone really think that five months ago the people who were giving their lives for the Fuehrer are now good Germans who embrace the Americans occupying their homes?”

The warm feelings Betty had a moment before instantly cooled. She could see concern in his gaze, and she didn't know whether to be flattered or annoyed. Didn't he know she'd considered the danger and had still come? Besides, it didn't matter what he said. It's not like she was going to get back on that plane and head home. Her temper flared.

“Listen, mister.” Her voice shook. “I didn't come here because I thought it would be a nice vacation. I haven't spent nearly one full week on trains and planes just so I can write a postcard back home to Santa Monica saying I've traveled the world. I'm not a man, so I couldn't sign up to fight. I can't do much, but I can sing. And if, by whiskers, that's what my country's asking me to do, then I'm going to do it. I've been waiting to sing from the first moment I heard about the bombing of Pearl Harbor as I washed my daddy's car—getting it ready for church—that Sunday morning, ages ago. So, if you'll excuse me, I think this is my ride. It was nice meeting you—”