Tracie Peterson (28 page)

“Where are you?”

“Longview, Washington.”

“Oh my!” the woman repeated. “I’m Melody’s cousin Ann. Her folks are living in Portland now. I can give you their address and new telephone number.”

Ginny felt her spirits lift. “Portland? Why, that’s hardly any distance at all. They could be here in a few hours. Well, if it weren’t for the ice,” Ginny added.

“I know they’d love to be with her. They’ve been heartsick since she left. All of us have been. Their grief was so bad and their anger at the church so great, they up and moved. Melody’s father came back once in all that time, hoping and praying that maybe Melody would find her way home. That’s why I’m here. They didn’t want to change the number or have any chance of Melody losing a single connection to them.”

“I’m so blessed to hear that,” Ginny admitted. “She’s hurting something fierce over all of this, and I know it would do her a world of good to have them here. To have their forgiveness.”

“I know you’re right,” Ann replied. “Please tell her I’m thinking of her, and if you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll get that new number for you.”

While Ginny waited, she offered up a prayer of thanks. Not only did it appear God wanted her to tell Melody’s folks about the baby, He’d even managed to move them close enough that if the weather
cleared, they could probably be here for the birth of their first grandchild.

Ann returned and Ginny quickly jotted down the number. “Thank you so very much. I know this will be the best of Christmas gifts for Melody.” She said her good-byes and went through the entire process of calling long distance once again. All the while, Ginny prayed, and when at last another female voice, this one older and less enthusiastic, sounded on the phone, Ginny hoped all would be well.

“Mrs. Meggison?” Ginny questioned.

“Yes.”

“My name is Virginia Williams. You don’t know me, but your daughter Melody is staying with me.”

The silence on the other end of the line was soon broken by the unmistakable sound of crying. “Is she all right?” the woman struggled to ask.

Ginny felt her heart nearly break for the woman’s pain. “She’s doing very well. In fact, the reason I’m calling is because she’s gone into labor. I thought you might like to know. I even thought you might like to be with her.”

“Oh, I can’t tell you what this means to me,” the woman said. “I’ve worried so much about her. We were so harsh with her—it was the shock, you know. We never meant to hurt her. Oh, we’ve been so heartbroken ever since she went away. Are you sure she’s all right? Can she come to the telephone?”

“She’s just fine,” Ginny assured, “but it would be difficult for her to come to the telephone. She’s having pretty solid contractions and she’s very miserable. I think it would comfort her a great deal if you were here. I called your old number, and Ann told me you were living in Portland. I’m just up the way in Longview, not so very far from Vancouver. I don’t know how long she’ll be laboring, but you’d be welcome here at my house anytime you choose to come.”

The woman’s tone perked up. “Tomorrow’s Christmas!” she exclaimed. “Oh, this is the best present of all. I’ll come as soon as I can. I don’t know how for sure, but I’ll find a way. Maybe I can get a seat on the bus.”

Ginny gave the woman her address and directions for getting to her place from the bus station. “We’re having trouble with ice,” Ginny told her. “We don’t usually get anything like this so early on,
but everything is shut down tight. If you can’t get here for a few days, don’t worry about it. I’m sure Melody will just be excited to know you’re coming.”

“Oh, please don’t tell her. Let it be a surprise,” Mrs. Meggison suggested.

Ginny smiled. “As you like.”

“Oh, thank you again, Mrs. Williams, and Merry Christmas. You’ve given me the only thing I really wanted—to know that my child is safe.”

Ginny smiled and bid the woman good-bye. Now, if someone could just let her know that her Johnny was safe.

After playing hide-and-seek with the German fighter, Digger was beginning to have hope that they’d eluded him. Without the proper instruments, they were asking for trouble as they dodged in and out of the clouds. Not only this, but the sun was gradually moving west and soon it would be evening.

“Pilot to Radio. Pilot to Radio. How’s Matt?”

“Radio to Pilot. He’s all clammy and pale, Deac. He wakes up now and then and tries to talk, but I can’t make it out.”

“Let me know if anything changes.”

“Wilco.”

“Tail Gunner to Pilot. Tail Gunner to Pilot.”

“Pilot here.”

“The boogeyman’s back at seven o’clock!” the excited voice announced.

“Keep him away from us,” Deacon replied, looking to Digger. “Guess we’re not out of this yet.”

“He’s turning into our six—here he comes! I’m on him!” the tail gunner exclaimed.

Pilot and co-pilot exchanged a worried glance. They could only hope that the tail’s twin .50s could take care of their little problem.

“He’s breaking low! He’s going under us! Ball Turret, get him! Get him!” The tail gunner’s excited cry sounded more like the encouragement he might call to a baseball teammate during a close game than the deadly reality of their situation.

“I’m on him, he’s mine!” the ball turret gunner, also known as the “Two Gun Kid,” exclaimed.

The ball turret’s guns fired in short, measured bursts that shook the plane in a staccato pulse.

“Ah, shoot! I missed. Not even tail feathers! My pappy would
chew me out for that one for sure.” The Kid’s laconic Kentucky twang filled the intercom.

“Can the chatter,” Deacon interrupted in his command voice. “Pilot to Crew, did we take any hits?”

“Negative” came the reply from several stations.

The 109 was going twice the speed of the crippled B-17, but Digger knew Deacon wasn’t about to admit defeat.

“He might come back for a head-on pass,” Deacon announced. They all knew the probability of just such an attack was likely, given that this was one of the Luftwaffe’s favorite tactics.

“Pilot to Top Gunner. Davis, are you back in your turret?”

“Roger.”

“Keep your eyes peeled forward. That 109 may well make a head-on pass at us.”

“Roger, Deac.”

They were dependent upon Davis’s twin .50s should the 109 make a gunnery run at the nose. In fact, Davis’s guns were the only forward guns able to bear on the target, since the bombardier was busy keeping the navigator from bleeding to death.

Digger licked his dry lips. His mouth tasted like the inside of an old boot, compliments of the oxygen mask he’d finally been able to discard. Smitty kept oranges just for such occasions, but there just wasn’t time for such luxuries.

“Pilot to Radio.”

“Radio here, sir.”

“Smitty, have you got Matt stabilized enough that you can get back to the radio compartment?”

“You need to watch the evasive action, sir. Tex is holding his artery closed with his bare hand. He’s as stable as we can get him, sir.”

“Then get me a fix and a bearing home.”

“Wilco.”

Knowing Smitty to have the most military professionalism of anyone on the plane, Digger had faith the young man would have the problem resolved in a flash. But before he could voice this to Deacon, something attracted his attention straight ahead.

“Deac, bandit, twelve o’clock high and closing!” Digger called. The tiny black speck continued to grow as it rapidly approached the B-17.

“Get him, Davis!” Deacon ordered as the 109 became clearly visible.

Tracer rounds passed over the cockpit, making a sound that resembled hail on a tin roof as it hit the aircraft. Davis returned fire at the same time, the sound of the guns and the odor of burnt cordite filling the cockpit.

“Davis, did you get him?” Deacon called.

“I got pieces, Deac,” the top gunner answered. “And I have a problem.”

Deacon held his breath. They didn’t need any more problems.

“Some of the 109’s shells hit the turret. The turret’s jammed facing nine o’clock. Can’t get it to move.”

“Are you okay, Davis?”

“Just some scratches on my face—nothing I can’t handle.”

Digger couldn’t help but wonder what they would do if the 109 decided to make another forward attack without the top turret operating properly. The thought was apparently on his pilot’s mind as well.

Deacon exchanged a glance with Digger. “Roger that, Davis, can you fix the turret?” he questioned.

“Negative, but I’ll keep trying,” Davis called back, frustration replacing his usual cocky tone.

“Right Waist to Pilot. Right Waist to Pilot.”

“Go ahead, Walt.”

“Deac, I saw pieces as the 109 flew by, but no smoke.”

“Great,” Deacon muttered. “We may have hit him, but that doesn’t mean he’s out of commission.”

“Captain,” Smitty radioed uncharacteristically informal, “we’ve got another problem.”

“I don’t want another problem,” Deacon said, shaking his head.

Digger rolled his gaze skyward. “I can see those prayers of yours are really doing the job, Deac.”

Deacon ignored his co-pilot’s sarcasm. “God’s doing His job, make sure you do yours. What’s the problem, Smitty?”

“Looks like a twenty-millimeter cannon round exploded in the radio compartment. The intercom is obviously working, but the radio is out.”

“Can you fix it?” Deacon questioned.

“Negative, sir. Marconi couldn’t fix this set. It’s in pieces.”

“Maybe God could fix it,” Digger suggested. “How about a special radio prayer. Do they have one of those?” He knew he wasn’t being fair to Deacon, but his fears were rapidly dissolving any positive thoughts.

Deacon’s face flushed red in anger, but he said nothing.

This only made Digger feel worse. He’d been a burr under Deacon’s saddle ever since Melody’s parents, the only other religious people Digger knew, had rejected their daughter. Deacon had tried to explain the difference between being religious and being spiritual, but Digger figured the two were identical and both were a pain.

While Deacon seemed to collect his thoughts and most likely pray, Digger looked out from the window. They needed to figure out what to do next. Because of their evasive action in and out of the clouds, Digger had no idea where England was. And without a radio or a navigator to get them a bearing, they could wander around until they ran out of gas and never come anywhere near their base.

Normally, they could have counted somewhat on visual reference and compass bearing, but looking below he found nothing but cloud cover. Were they over France? Over the Channel? He had no way of knowing, and without a radio fix they could well believe they were headed to England when in fact they were headed back to France.

“Send an angel to guide us, Lord,” Deac prayed aloud.

“Amen, Deac” came the voice of the right waist gunner.

Digger had long ago learned of Walt’s shared faith in Jesus. Deacon said it gave him great comfort to know that someone else was praying. “
Where two or more are gathered in my name
. . .” The old verse came to Digger’s mind from childhood. He pushed it aside, but in doing so he felt even more weary. He was tired. Tired of battling the vibrating plane. Tired of hearing the announcement of one crisis after another. Just plain tired. It was Christmas Eve. He should be home listening to carols on the radio. Home with his beautiful wife.

“Angels, huh?” Digger finally said, refusing to give in to his exhaustion. “Why not just ask for winged Pegasus as well?”

Deacon took a deep breath and looked around him as if trying to make a decision. “Digger, I’m thinking we’ve been heading more or less in a northerly direction since we dropped formation. Even given the jinking and evasive action, we’re probably north of the Pas de Calais—”

“Wait a minute, Deac. We don’t know that for sure. Since we were hiding in the clouds, it’s hard telling what kind of drift or turning we did. We were doing well just to keep ourselves right side up,” Digger interrupted. “I’m thinking with the bum engine we’ve probably been pulled to the northeast. That would put us running parallel to the French coast and heading east.”

“If we turn ninety degrees from our present heading,” Deac said, appearing to do the calculations in his head, “and if we’re traveling at a hundred and twenty knots per hour . . . .” He fell silent for a moment. “We’ll know within ten minutes whether we’re over England or France.”

“Wait a minute, we could be over Germany for all we know. We don’t know where we are. That’s the point.”

“Well, we have to do something,” Deacon said. “And since I’m in charge, we’re going to turn ninety degrees from our present heading and see what happens.”

“And what are we going to do if that 109 comes back? Pray? Throw Bibles at it? We have no top gun. If that 109 makes another head-on run at us, we’re in trouble.”

“By my calculations, Digger, we’re already in trouble. What difference will it make?”

“Well, I’d just kind of like to make it back home in one piece,” Digger said.

“I think we’d all like that, Digger. I could take a vote,” Deacon said, his patience obviously wearing thin, “but I’m pretty sure everyone would give me an affirmative on that one.”