Tracie Peterson (30 page)

“Ginny,” Melody managed to say, “please pray for me. Pray for my baby.”

Ginny saw the girl’s desperation. “I already have,” she told her, reaching up to give her hand a squeeze. “You might try saying a prayer yourself.”

Melody nodded. “I am, Ginny. I am. I just hope God is listening.”

“He is, darling. I promise you, He is.”

Just then Melody let out a cry and reached desperately to the head rail. Her scream filled the air as the contraction ripped through her body. Ginny saw that the time had come. The baby was nearly out. “Melody, listen to me. You need to push with all your might and keep pushing no matter what. Do you hear me?”

“Yes!” she gasped against the pain.

Ginny took up a towel and prepared to help the infant into the world. “Now, Melody. Push and keep pushing.”

The girl gave it her all, and Ginny was proud of her for her efforts. She knew it couldn’t be easy given the circumstance, but it was the only way that Ginny knew to give the baby an edge in delivery.

Reaching up, Ginny gently pulled at the baby’s midsection as the shoulders began to slide forward.
Please, God
, she said as she continued to guide the infant out,
please let this baby be all right
.

But then things seemed to come to a halt. The baby seemed stuck and Ginny was hard-pressed to know what to do. Melody was no longer pushing with as much force and her body was tiring of the delivery.

“Push, Melody! Push hard,” Ginny instructed, feeling the sense of urgency mount. There wasn’t much time.

She saw Melody bear down, knowing that the girl was probably giving her last bit of strength to this supreme effort. Ginny pulled, worrying that she was pulling too hard but certain that if she did nothing, the baby would remain stuck in place.

Then, as if by a miracle, the baby slid free from the birth canal
and into Ginny’s hands. A tiny, blue-skinned baby boy lay still and unmoving. Ginny looked up to see if Melody had noticed and found that the girl had passed out. Maybe it was better this way.

Ginny quickly tied off the cord and cut it, but still the baby showed no sign of life. She remembered a time when her father had helped a ewe with a twin delivery. One of the lambs wasn’t breathing when it was born, and after clearing its breathing passages, her father had taken a warm towel and rubbed the lamb vigorously.

Gently, Ginny cleared the baby’s face and nose, then ran a finger in its mouth to make sure there was nothing blocking the airway. Next, she rubbed the baby’s chest and backside as roughly as she dared.

“Please, little one, you must live,” she whispered, trying to coax the baby boy back to life.

At first, it was just a flutter, and then the tiny chest began to move. Ginny saw this first sign of life as the most marvelous of miracles. She continued rubbing the baby and praying.

“Please, God, help this little one. Help Melody and her son!”

A cry rang out. It was the most beautiful and awe-inspiring sound Ginny had ever heard. It started as a tiny whimper and then as oxygen filled the baby’s lungs, it grew louder—more sure. Soon the baby was squalling like any normal, healthy child.

“Oh, thank you, Father!” Ginny declared, hurrying to clean the baby so that she could get him wrapped in warm blankets.

She had little time to pay attention to Melody but glanced over to see that the girl was still unconscious. Ginny had paid so much attention to the baby that she hadn’t even noticed the great amount of blood coming from the young mother.

“Oh no,” she cried, realizing they were far from out of the woods.

“Bombardier to Pilot.”

“Pilot here. What’s up, Tex?”

“I don’t think Matt’s going to make it. My hand’s half frozen from holding his neck, but there’s still bleeding.”

“Just keep trying, Tex,” Deacon said, catching Digger’s doubtful expression. “We can’t give up.”

“He was awake a minute ago but he’s out again.”

“Just do what you can. Smitty will be coming back to help you.” Deacon fought to hold the yoke while the plane shook violently as they turned and descended. Digger did what he could to help, but Deacon knew his co-pilot didn’t agree with his decision.

“Radio to Pilot. Radio to Pilot.”

Deacon couldn’t afford to take his hands from the yoke, so he had to delay on his reply until he could master the turn. Finally they evened out. “Pilot to Radio. What’s up, Smitty?”

“Matt’s awake again. He’s asking for you. Keeps saying something else. We’re trying to understand him. He says ‘Deac’ clear as a bell, but I’m not sure what else.”

“Try to keep him quiet. It can’t be good for him to be talking,” Deacon replied. He wished he could go to the man, but there was no way. Even if he could leave the responsibility of the plane to Digger, the nose was overcrowded with the three men already in position there.

This isn’t how I figured to spend Christmas Eve, Lord
. Deac knew the only comfort he had was in praying. He figured this would be a quick hop and then he’d be back at the base enjoying turkey and all the trimmings. The meal they’d been promised would have dispelled any belief in the fact that rations were hard to come by in England. Deacon had always eaten well, especially on flight days when they were
given the best of everything. Real eggs and butter, bacon—even if it was that funny round English-style stuff. His stomach growled and he realized he was getting pretty hungry. This short hop was rapidly turning into a lengthy journey, and soon they were going to have the problem of whether or not they had enough gas to even make it back to base.

“Radio to Pilot!” The voice was animated, excited.

“Go ahead, Smitty,” Deacon replied.

“He’s saying pray, Deac. Matt’s askin’ you to pray.”

“Repeat that, Radio,” Deacon said, uncertain he’d understood.

“Matt wants you to pray for him. He said it as clear as a bell, then he passed out again.”

Deacon smiled, and even Digger had no smart-aleck reply. “Of course I’ll pray,” Deacon said, touching his throat mic. “Father in heaven, I’m asking you to help us. We’re in a bad way. We can’t see to find our way home and we have no radio communication. Added to that, our friend Matt Lawrence is gravely wounded. He asked me to pray, so I figure that means he’d talk to you himself if he could.

“God, we know you have a plan for each man’s life. We know this because the Bible tells us so. You have a plan for Matt, as well as each of the rest of us. We’re trusting you for that plan. Your Word says that all we have to do to accept Jesus is to confess our sins and turn from evil. It also says that Jesus is the only way to have eternal life, so that even if our planned days here on earth are finished, we know we can go on forever in heaven with you. You know our hearts. Please hear us today and please bring us home.”

“Amen” came assuring replies from all over the plane.

Deacon felt his heart fill with hope, and even though Digger remained silent, he seemed to be thoughtfully considering Deacon’s words.

They flew in silence for several minutes and for the first time since they’d taken the hit, Deacon felt himself relaxing. He just knew things were going to be all right. He knew God would guide them home.

“Radio to Pilot,” Smitty’s voice sounded once again.

“Pilot here, go ahead, Smitty.”

“Deac, I’ve got cloud break, but I don’t think you’re going to like what I see.”

“What is it, Smitty?” Deacon exchanged a hesitant glance with
Digger, who in turn tried hard to see beyond the front of the plane.

“We’re over water, Deac. Not just a little water either. I don’t see anything but water.”

Deacon felt his heart sink. They shouldn’t be over water. They should be over land—over England. What was he going to do now? He’d taken a gamble with the turn, but there wasn’t enough fuel to keep making those kinds of risks.

He looked at Digger and realized that his co-pilot had probably been right in assessing their position. “Well, Dig, looks like you had a better feel for it than I did,” Deacon admitted. “What do you suggest we do to fix things?”

Digger seemed surprised at the apology. For a moment he sat there looking rather stunned. Finally he said, “We’d better make another ninety-degree left. If I’m right, we’re over the North Sea and England is that way,” he said, pointing across Deacon’s field of vision.

“All right,” Deacon said, realizing they were running out of time and gas. “Pilot to Crew, it looks like we’re off course over the North Sea. We’re going to make another turn ninety degrees to port and also bring it down under the clouds. We can’t count on the skies remaining broken and we’ll be better off if we need to ditch.”

He looked to Digger and smiled. “Well, ready to go again?”

Digger nodded. “We’re shaking pretty bad, but I think that shaft will hold. We have to give it a try.” His words were rather rattled and broken as they hit a bit of turbulence.

Deacon nodded. “Let’s do it, then.”

The B-17 acted sluggish as they banked to the left and broke through the clouds. Below them the shadowy gray waters appeared ominous and foreboding. Deacon definitely didn’t want to put down in the water—not if there was any way to avoid it. Matt would be certain to die if they did less than make it back to base, and given the cold weather and the fact that no one knew where they were, they were all certain to die from exposure if they had to take to a life raft. Worse still, Deacon was sure every man on board knew this as well as he did.

In the back of his mind, Deacon worried about the ME-109. If the fighter came back upon them, they were doomed. They could shoot from behind or the sides, but that was it. If the pilot made for
another forward attack, there would be nothing they could do.

For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways
.The verse from the psalms came to mind as Deacon leveled the vibrating plane and prayed for direction once again.
At least the wisemen had a star
, he mused.
I’d take a star, a shoreline—just about anything would do, Lord
.

Deacon thought of his mother back home in Washington. He couldn’t bear the idea of her getting news that he’d died while on a mission. She’d not even recovered from the death of his father when John had gone off for training. How would she ever endure losing her only son? Then he thought of Melody and the baby. If the plane went down, Digger would die as well, and Melody would be widowed and the baby left fatherless. It just couldn’t happen that way. Deacon couldn’t let it happen that way.

“Top Turret to Pilot! Bandit at twelve o’clock high!”

“No,” Deacon muttered. They couldn’t deal with any more trouble. The speck loomed over them like an executioner preparing for the kill.

“Well, looks like we’re in for it,” Digger said.

Deacon tried to be optimistic. “He won’t dive at us. We’re too close to the water.”

“We don’t stand a chance.” Digger looked at Deacon and shook his head. “Guess my choice wasn’t any better than yours. I’m sorry.”

“We aren’t done yet. Don’t you go quitting on me.” The plane was closing fast and Deacon knew that their only hope was for a miracle.

“Pilot to Crew, keep alert. Let’s not let him think we’re sleeping.”

“Radio to Pilot, sir, I don’t think that’s a 109,” Smitty said in hopeful voice.

Deacon squinted his eyes and strained to make out the identity of the plane. The B-17’s constant shaking was causing the muscles in his arms to ache painfully and his head throbbed from the noise and stress, but his eyes were in perfect working condition. So perfect, in fact, that before Smitty could confirm, the approaching aircraft broke to the left, revealing to Deac the graceful silhouette of a British Spitfire. The Little Friend was making a show of breaking away rather than approaching in a manner that could be perceived as a gunnery pass.

“Radio to Pilot, it’s a Spitfire!”

“I see that, Radio.”

Comments and exclamations of relief were offered up by the crew members, and Deacon didn’t even bother to quiet them. The Spitfire shot past them, then made a wide banking turn to circle back.

“Tail to Pilot. She’s coming back around.”

Deacon breathed a sigh of relief. No doubt they were trying to raise the B-17 on the radio. Now they would know there was no chance of communication and hopefully Deacon could relay the need for an escort to their base.

The Spitfire closed and slowed, almost to what Deac knew would be its stalling speed. He signaled to the pilot that the radio was out and saw the man nod. Then the British pilot motioned forward using his hand to symbolize landing a plane.

Deacon nodded, patted the console, then pointed down. “Take us home,” he said without bothering to touch the mic.

The Spitfire pilot seemed to fully understand and pushed ahead, picking up just enough speed to keep a reasonable distance between the two planes.

“We’re going home, boys!” Deacon said over the intercom. “We’ve got our own personal escort back to England.”

He smiled confidently and offered a silent prayer of thanks to God. They were safe now, Deac just knew it. He no longer even worried about the windmilling prop. They had outrun the boogeyman and they were going home. Home for Christmas.