The High Calling (28 page)

“Oh, Parker, that’s terrible!”

“He lost something when Bernie went down. Of course, these things happen, but most men are able to shake it off. I was surprised when Brodie wasn’t able to.”

“He’s always been a very single-minded person. If he’s got revenge on his mind, it’s going to be hard for him to think about anything else.”

The two spent several minutes trying to think of ways to help him, and finally Kat said, “You look so tired, Parker.”

“Well, I am a bit weary. The Jerries are really stepping up their attacks.”

“Is there never going to be any end to this?”

Parker’s answer was cut off when his phone rang. “Excuse me.” Picking up the receiver, he said, “Braden here.” He listened for a moment and then said, “Thank you. I’ll be right there.” He replaced the phone, shock written on his face. “There’s been a bombing in London.”

“In London? But they haven’t been bombing the city.”

“Well, they have this time, and the bombs fell right in the area where Veronica was going for rehearsal today.” He seemed stunned, then shook his head. “I’ve got to go.”

Seeing the strain on Parker’s face, Kat said, “Let me go with you.”

He appeared not to have heard her, but he did not protest. She followed him out to the car, and he did not say a word as they got in. They were well on their way when they looked up and saw a group of planes flying high overhead.

“Those are Germans,” he said. “I believe Hitler has changed his strategy. He’s never bombed London before.”

Almost at once they began hearing bombs detonating and the sky filling with aircraft fire. Parker glanced out his window and said, “Those are our boys going to stop them.”

He spoke no more, but as they approached the section of town where the theater was located, they were stopped by a police officer. Parker stuck his head out the window. “I’ve got to get through, Officer. My wife’s in there.”

“You can’t take your car in, sir. I’m sorry. We have to keep the way clear for ambulances and fire trucks. You’ll have to park it and walk.”

Parker did not argue. He found a place to park, and when he got out of the car, his face was pale. He looked ahead at the smoke that was boiling up and muttered, “Katherine, they’ve hit it hard.”

“I pray she’s all right,” Kat murmured.

Parker began running toward the area. It was all Kat could do to keep up with him. As they got closer, they couldn’t deny that the damage was extensive. “I’m afraid it’s bad,” Parker said over the wailing fire engines. “Look, there’s where she was going.”

The building he pointed to was almost completely destroyed. Fire blazed out of the windows, and a steady stream of wounded and dead were being carried out by firefighters and ambulance workers who had already arrived.

Parker ran toward the building and was grabbed at once by a burly firefighter. “Sir, you can’t go in there. It’s too dangerous.”

“My wife’s in there.”

“She was in this building?”

“I think so,” he said.

“Go over there, sir. She might have already been brought out.”

Parker and Kat went to find the officer in charge. Stretchers lined the street, some with blankets covering the faces of the victims. Parker quickly moved down the line, looking at each face. He turned back and said, “She’s not here, thank God.”

“Let’s wait over here,” Kat said. “We can watch for Veronica as they bring out the injured.”

Parker and Kat stood and watched as workers went through the rubble. It was not going to be a quick job, and for the next two hours they watched as body after body was brought out. Parker said almost nothing, and Kat could not think of a remark that would give a great deal of comfort.

Two men were coming out carrying a stretcher with a blanket over the victim. Parker moved forward and said, “Hold it a minute.” Kat watched him pull the corner of the blanket back. When his face froze, Kat stepped over beside him. Veronica Braden lay on the stretcher. There was one smear of dirt on her right cheek. Otherwise, she seemed to be simply sleeping.

Parker stared down on the face of his dead wife. He finally lowered the blanket and said to the stretcher bearer, “This is my wife.”

“Yes, sir. Will you come with us, then?”

Parker seemed incapable of making a decision, so it was Kat who spoke. “Yes. We’ll go with you.” The two men immediately started off, and Kat said, “Come, Parker. We’ll have to go see that she’s taken care of.”

Parker nodded, but his feet seemed bonded to the cement. Kat took his arm and urged him on. He began to move, and the two followed the emergency workers and the stretcher containing the body of Veronica Braden.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“No Time-Outs in a War”

Kat did not know most of the hymns that the congregation sang at Veronica Braden’s funeral. At funerals back home in Georgia, it seemed to Kat that most of the hymns were chosen to make the family and other mourners feel even sadder than they already did. The success of a Georgia funeral was judged by how many tears were shed and how many women collapsed beside the coffin. Kat was very glad that the Braden funeral was a more dignified affair.

As she looked around the chapel, she saw that most of the squadron had managed to get to the funeral. She studied their faces and especially Brodie’s.
I wonder what he thinks of all this? Probably doesn’t like it any better than I do.

Although she was seated halfway back in the chapel, she had a clear view of Parker’s profile. His face was set, as it had been since the death of his wife. A slanting beam of light from one of the high windows seemed to throw a spotlight on him, and he was so very still that there was something almost frightening about it. Kat had dutifully visited at Benleigh, but she was doubtful about whether her presence had meant anything. The family had been grateful and thanked her for coming, but afterward, she’d had the odd feeling that something was very wrong.

Kat noticed the musty odor in the ancient stone church in the little village near Benleigh, where the funeral was being held. As were so many churches in England, this one was centuries old. The hand-hewn wooden beams that crisscrossed
overhead were dark with age, and the marble aisles were worn by the feet of countless worshipers. The stained-glass windows were beautiful, expertly crafted, but somehow Kat felt uncomfortable with them. She studied the one that portrayed the baptism of Jesus. John the Baptist was bringing Jesus out of the water. The faces of both figures were looking straight ahead with wide-open eyes. The two figures were so stiff and artificial that Kat wondered what it must have been like to be there when Jesus was baptized and the Spirit of God came down like a dove. Her vivid imagination picked up the details, and she was only called back to reality when the minister’s voice broke through to her.

The sermon was brief and not particularly comforting to Kat. The elderly minister had a voice that was as dry and brittle as his body appeared to be. He read several lengthy Scripture passages, but there was no excitement or life in his voice. It was as unemotional as if he were reading names out of a telephone book. His delivery was at the opposite end of the spectrum from some of the preachers at the country churches she had attended who ranted and raved and wept.
I don’t know which is worse,
Kat thought,
too much emotionalism or not enough.

Finally it was over. She decided it would not be a good time to express her sympathy to Parker. He was standing frozen in place, his face wooden, no light in his eyes. He was a man carrying out a duty, and when people came by and whispered some meaningless words of comfort, he gave a signal of assent that was equally meaningless. What could be said at such a time, and how would one be able to respond?

Kat joined the crowd that was heading out the door and caught up with Brodie. Touching his arm, she whispered, “Parker looks terrible, doesn’t he, Brodie?”

“Sure does, but I reckon it’s always that way.”

She shook her head. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if funerals could be more of a triumph than a defeat?”

“I don’t know how that could be.”

“Well, for Christians, dying isn’t the end. It’s really just the beginning.”

“I guess so. I never thought of it like that.”

“I want my funeral to be something like when celebrities leave to go on a long voyage. You know, a big crowd shows up at the dock to see them off. There’s shouting and singing, and after the celebrity gets on board, he laughs and waves to the crowd. Then pretty soon the ship leaves the dock and sails away out of sight. I’d like my funeral to be something like that.”

Brodie was strangely moved by her words. He turned to study her face, and although she had a curtain of reserve, there was a spirit in her eyes he had always admired. She had the soft depth of a woman, but at the same time, she had a strength that went beyond that of most women.

“I suppose that’s foolish, but then I guess I’m just a foolish woman.”

“Not so foolish,” he said. “That’s a better taking-off than most of us have.” He dropped his eyes. “Not everybody has faith in God like you do.”

“I wish you did, Brodie. I don’t mean to preach to you, but I think about you so much, and I pray for you too.”

He smiled at her. “I guess your prayers have kept me going, Kat. I’ve always known that you were praying for me. You made it pretty plain.”

The two watched as people got into cars and left. “Not like the funerals back home,” Brodie remarked. “Remember? After the service we’d all go out to the cemetery, and there’d be a little tent up over the grave, and the preacher would preach some more.”

“It’s different here.” She noticed that his face was drawn, and she thought,
He’s wearing himself out, but so are all of the pilots.
“Come along,” she said brightly. “I’ll let you buy me some lunch.”

“That sounds like a winner to me.”

****

As the raids on London grew more intense, more homes were destroyed, which meant people had no place to live. Some of them had relatives who could take them in temporarily, but the mission was making an all-out effort to help those who had nowhere else to go. Kat and Meredith worked long hours at the mission every day for the two weeks following Veronica Braden’s funeral.

On a blustery Wednesday afternoon, Kat stopped at an abandoned factory building to see if any of the families staying there needed any help. She had been talking with Edna Smith, who had a month-old baby, as well as five other children from age two to ten. Her husband was in the navy somewhere in the North Atlantic, and she had not heard from him for weeks. Her face showed the strain that came from caring for six children on her own.

Suddenly the alarm blasted out an urgent warning.

“Come on,” Kat said. “We need to get to the Underground.”

“Yes, come on, Mum,” the oldest boy said, a ten-year-old with bright blue eyes and a shock of yellow hair. “It’s fun down there.”

Two girls came running over from a corner where they had been playing with dolls, fear in their eyes. “Mark, you take your sisters’ hands,” Edna directed.

“Here, let me carry Helen, Mrs. Smith,” Kat said.

“Okay. If you want to take her, I’ll carry Mark and the bag.”

Edna picked up a huge canvas bag that she had at the ready for these situations and pulled two-year-old Mark onto her hip.

Kat led the party, helping to herd the children as they made their way to the Underground, where they joined a host of other families that were already settling in. Many of the weary citizens were stretched out on blankets, even though it was not time for bed. Most of them had learned quickly to take food, blanket rolls, and books to make it through the night.
Two women were passing out sandwiches and hot tea, and a priest wearing an air-raid helmet was helping everyone find a space.

“Let’s sit down over here, children, and I’ll tell you a story,” Kat said.

“Can’t we have something to eat, Miss Katherine?”

“It’s rather crowded right now. Let’s wait until things quiet down a bit.”

“Tell the story about the porcupine,” Evelyn piped up. She was an adorable child with the same blond hair and blue eyes as the rest of the children. Her cheeks were rosy, and since she was only five, she did not grasp the seriousness of the situation.

“No, I’ll tell you a brand-new one,” Kat said quickly. She had already forgotten the story about the porcupine she had made up, but her fertile imagination began to work, and soon all the children were gathered around her listening to the stories of a raccoon named Henry.

She was well into her story when they heard the muffled booms of bombs going off. The children were beginning to look frightened, so Kat picked up the tempo of the story. “Henry knew that he had to get the giant to leave his castle so he could get in and take the treasure back home. . . .” She spoke quickly, gesturing with her hands, and was reassured to see the children’s eyes were on her again.

The bombing seemed to go on for a long time but finally it mitigated, and Kat wrapped up her story. “Now let’s go get a sandwich and some tea.”

Eating occupied the children for a time, and as Kat nibbled on a sandwich, she tried to comfort the weary mother.