The Wings of Morning (24 page)

Lord, have I been mistaken all along? Am I foolish to believe that somehow Jude has been wronged? But even if he were wronged, why should he take it out on others, on strangers he’s never met, on other human beings, and shoot their planes out of the sky? Why should he take brothers and sons and husbands away from their families? What if Emma is right about all this? It simply can’t be
.

She noticed two buggies coming toward her on the other side of the road. The first carried Mrs. Stoltzfus, who smiled and waved and called something Lyyndaya didn’t catch. The second carriage was driven by her father, who was holding the traces to Old Oak. They stopped opposite each other.

“Good morning, Papa.”

He smiled. “It’s almost lunch. Where have you been?”

“I was at the post office, then I went to Emma Zook’s. Where are you off to?”

“I will break bread with Jude’s father.”

“Of course.” Her father had been visiting Mr. Whetstone several times a week.

He took off his straw hat and mopped his face with a turquoise bandana from his pocket. “Like a stove, eh? But we may yet get some rain today.”

She looked at the perfect blue dome over their heads. “But Papa, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Not even on the horizon.”

“I was thinking of the clouds there in the buggy with you.”

She dropped her eyes.

“So what did Emma say to you?”

She looked at her father in surprise. “What makes you think it was Emma? I could have spoken with someone at the post office about the war.”

He tucked the bandana away. “Sure, sure, but it was Emma. What does she say to you?”

“She will not wait for Jude anymore,” she blurted. “She doesn’t think he’s coming back and even if he does, even if he confesses and repents and the shunning is lifted, Emma doesn’t believe he’s worthy to be her husband.”

Her father’s dark eyebrows slashed downward in a frown. “Why?”

“She says he’s tainted because he joined the army and is flying a plane in the war. A newspaper reporter from New York told Bishop Zook that Jude was getting a name for himself because he had shot German planes down—and killed—”

She couldn’t speak any further. Brushing her fingers against her cheeks she stared at the stained brown leather of the reins in her hands.

“All right, listen to me,” she heard her father say. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Emma may do as she wishes regarding her choice for a husband. But she may not speak as she wishes regarding another of God’s children. I thought it would be enough for me to sit down with the pastors and bishop and Mr. Whetstone. I see now it’s important I give my news to you as well.”

Lyyndaya lifted her head. “What news?”

Her father sat hunched forward with the traces to Old Oak steady in his grasp, his eyes on hers. “I’ve heard from my former colleagues in Philadelphia, in the state office. I have made inquiries about our young man. I know there have been statements about our fliers and our Aero Squadrons in the New York and Philadelphia newspapers. So here is what I know for certain from those who know for certain. When they write about Lt. Whetstone, they cannot say he is an ace—no, because he has never shot anyone down. You understand what is an ace? A pilot who has shot down five enemy planes. Jude has not shot down one.
Not one
. Are you listening?”

What he was telling her was too good to be true. Would her father make this up just so he could help her feel better? No, her father was not the sort of man who would do that, even for his children.

“I’m listening, Papa,” she said.

“So why all the fuss about this Jude Whetstone? It’s because they reckon he’s saved six or seven of his friends from death, yes, death from the guns of the German planes. How has he done this? By chasing the German aircraft away. And how does this Amish boy chase them away? He fires over their heads. He fires under their wings. Knocks the tails off the backs of their planes and forces them to run for home and a safe place to land. All this he has done and killed no one. All this he has done and saved German and American lives.” He leaned over and gripped his daughter’s arm. “Never mind what Emma Zook does. It’s important you do what is right in the eyes of God.”

He flicked the reins and moved quickly along the road, Old Oak’s hooves and the buggy wheels raising small spurts of dust.

Lyyndaya could hardly bring herself to tell Trillium to move ahead. She was crying again, but this time it was out of relief. Jude was being honored not for taking lives, but for giving them back to God to make something more out of them. Perhaps some of these men, in America or in Germany, would survive the war, marry, raise children, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren, and bless the earth. All because the man Emma had fallen out of love with had chosen to fight to save and not to destroy. Lyyndaya suddenly snapped the traces in her hands with a new determination.

Well, Emma Zook, you may have changed your mind, but I have not changed mine. I will write the letters, I will take them to the post office, I will pray for him, body and soul, I will every day thank God I have met him. For something is going on here that is greater than you or me, and I shall, by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, continue to remain a part of it—until the war is done and God’s will is done, and whatever light is supposed to shine out of the darkness gleams brighter and brighter until absolutely no one in Paradise or Pennsylvania or America can ignore the hand of God in Jude Whetstone’s life
.

There was a knock on the door and a man with a large mustache and strong body poked his head in.

“Whetstone. Guess what?”

Jude smiled up from his bed where he was writing Lyyndaya a letter on the flat top of a book. The wooden model of the
Flyer
—“Kitty Hawk” his father had carved was resting on a nearby table. “What, Zed?”

“The new commanding officer’s been here—” he glanced at his watch. “Not even two hours? And he wants to see you.”

Jude made a face. “I heard his speech in the mess.”

“Yeah. Pretty speech. Wonder how pretty the one he’s got for you will be?”

“So you’re not joking? He wants to see me?”

“I’m not the joker in this squadron. If Flapjack was standing here instead of me then you could have your doubts.”

“When does the old man want to see me?”

“Five minutes ago.”

Jude groaned and set his book and pen down.

“What’s the matter? Writing your girl?” asked Zed.

“The fog is a foot off the ground, they won’t let us go up, so I thought I could—”

“When are we ever going to see a picture of this gal of yours?”

“Just a friend, Zed.”

“This friend. Where do you hide her pictures?”

Jude began walking with him down the hall. “There is no picture.”

“Come on.”

“No, really, there is no picture. She is—I am—the Amish don’t believe in having their pictures taken.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a verse in the Bible, one of the Ten Commandments, that says not to make graven images. The Amish feel a photograph is a graven image.”

The squadron was billeted in a large French farmhouse built before the Revolution. Zed stopped when they reached the tiled foyer just by the front doors and the commanding officer’s room. The ceiling was high over their heads. He put one hand on Jude’s shoulder and began to reel off a long quotation that seemed to echo in the cavernous space.

“
Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth: Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God
.”

Jude was astonished, and his face reflected that astonishment until Zed laughed. “What? You think only the Amish know the Bible? I was in Sunday school until I was fourteen.”

“I’m sorry, Zed, it’s just that since I left Lancaster County I’ve only heard the Bible quoted out loud by the padre at church parade.”

Zed put his arm around Jude’s slender shoulders. “My granddaddy that got wounded at Gettysburg? He was a preacher. I got it all drilled into me from the time I was no bigger’n a wood tick. But this is what I don’t understand, Whetstone. The way I read it, this verse is about making idols, you know, to bow down and worship, like wooden gods with buggy eyes or devils carved out of rock with ugly grins. I’m sure your girlfriend looks as sweet as sunshine, but do you pray to her? Bow down and worship her? Think she’s good God Almighty?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you probably wouldn’t do any of that with a picture of her either. Do yourself a favor. Do the whole squadron a favor. Ask for a photograph. Get one of your non-Amish friends to sneak in and take one and mail it to you.” He smiled and shoved Jude toward the commanding officer’s door. “Don’t worry. I catch you burning candles to it or kneeling in front of it, I’ll give you such a clout on the ear you’ll wake up in Yuma, Arizona. And speaking of Arizona, you’re late.”

Jude knocked twice and entered when he heard a “Come in.”

Major Jackson was standing behind his desk, his uniform buttoned from top to bottom. Jude saluted. Jackson saluted back. He left Jude standing at attention.

The officer was still lean, still had his tan that never seemed to fade regardless of the wet weather. There were a number of papers on his desk. He picked one up at random, it seemed to Jude, and read from it silently.

“Do you speak any French, Whetstone?” Jackson asked.

“Enough to ask directions, sir, or give instructions to waiters.”

“I have a letter here saying the government of France wants to give you some sort of medal.”

Jude had heard about this from the squadron leader, Frank Sharples, but he said nothing.

“Not the Croix de Guerre, but still,” said Jackson, half to himself. He looked over his tabletop and selected a newspaper clipping. “Look at this. An article about the American Aero Squadrons. You’re in it along with Billy Skipp. You brought down two Pfalzes by shooting away their rudders. Both pilots taken prisoner.”

“Yes, sir, I—”

But Jackson wasn’t listening. He had another clipping in his hand. “This one’s from London. You forced down a Fokker. Doesn’t say how. Doughboys picked the pilot up at gunpoint. Some Baron Ritter, they use two different spellings for his name. This Hun refers to you as a knight-errant. Do you know what a knight-errant is?”

“I have an idea, sir.”

“How about
hosti acie nominati
? Do you know what that means? Named by the enemy.” Jackson scanned the sheets on his desk. He began to read out loud: “‘One of the knights of the air. Embodies the true spirit of the winged warrior. Gallant. Chivalrous. Respected and honored on both sides of the battle line. Clad in shining armor he jousts in the skies of France and Lorraine. Unhorsing his foe he graciously permits him to live as a prisoner of war. The angel with the sword of steel and the heart of Christ.’ Can you believe this?” He glared up at Jude as if daring him to believe it.

“I am not comfortable being compared to Christ, sir—”

“I should hope not!” Jackson barked.

“Nor do I think of myself as a knight of the skies.”