Her Blue-Eyed Lieutenant (Soldiers 0f Swing Book 3)

by Linda Ellen

  Mr. Harriman smiled. “Call me Bill, young man.”

  Gary smiled in return, “Then, please call me Gary.” Bill nodded in assent.

  Julie was still scanning the article and continued aloud, “According to an eyewitness, the three planes had been circling and engaging in dog-fight tactics over the Bowman Field area. He said the plane appeared to go out of control. He lost sight of it and then heard it crash, so he ran to the house on Cannons Lane and when he got there, there were no flames and very little smoke.”

  She looked up at Gary. “Why would that be? I would think it would’ve exploded or something.”

  He shook his head. “No, the gas tanks on those planes are small, and he’d been in the air for a while. Explosions usually happen because of the fuel.”

  “You saw it, right?” Bill asked and Gary nodded.

  “I happened to have gone out to the field and was in the commander’s office when it happened. We got to the house a few minutes later…the plane flew straight into the front, crashing through the living room windows. Lieutenant Vincent…died on impact.”

  The others watched Gary’s face and he seemed to be holding something back. Finally, Julie asked, “What is it, Gary?”

  He pressed his lips together before huffing out a breath, and Julie recognized a bit of disgust in his expression. Finally, he said, “The officer in charge of his training…a captain…was recently deemed mentally unfit to stand combat, so he was assigned to Bowman as a trainer pilot—but what he wants to do is fly fighter planes over Germany…for personal revenge. You see…his brother was a fighter pilot. The Luftwaffe shot him down over Germany three months ago and he’s now a prisoner of war.”

  Gary glanced around at the deeply enthralled faces and added, “The captain’s a hothead with a chip on his shoulder and an axe to grind. He should never have been given the responsibility of training beginner pilots. The student wasn’t ready to fly dogfight maneuvers—he had barely passed his basics, plus it was only the second time he’d soloed. He…he didn’t even realize he was out of fuel until it was too late.”

  Gary paused with a heavy sigh and shook his head at the senseless waste. “A good man died simply for the lack of thorough, good quality training.”

  After that harrowing incident, the rest of Gary’s furlough went by as smooth as the underbelly of a B-17. He spent as much time as he could with his brothers—one full day with Gene at Fort Knox, and another visiting Steve at the Charlestown plant. On his fourth day home, upon his father and Charise’s return from their honeymoon, Gary went down to the plant to spend time with his dad and was given a hero’s welcome by the employees. The kitchen workers even baked a cake with “Congratulations 2nd Lieut. Gareth Tucker” in the center, and he was thoroughly embarrassed when his father gathered all of the employees on one floor and gave a speech praising Gary’s accomplishments and his standing among his classmates. The only thing that made that bearable was the twinkle of pride and joy in Julie’s eyes as she clapped and sang For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow along with the rest.

  He spent that evening dining with the newlyweds and, truthfully, his new stepmother was quickly earning a place in his heart with her obvious care and devotion for his father, as well as her affection for him.

  After that, however, he spent most evenings with Julie, much to his dad’s chagrin. Several times, he and Angelo were waiting when she exited the plant, and they whisked her home where they waited for her to get ready, and then Angelo drove them to a restaurant followed by a trip to the picture show. Those were the times Gary enjoyed the most—just being alone with the girl who never strayed far from his mind.

  Although neither Julie nor Gary actually said words of affection, longing looks abounded from both parties when each thought the other wasn’t watching—and after their splendid kiss in the enchanting tunnel of love, Gary had begun to give her short, but warm goodnight kisses at her door. He made sure he was always the consummate gentleman.

  One night as Angelo drove Gary back to the Brown, the cabbie snickered, “Lieutenant Tucker, when’a you gonna tell that’a little gal you’re Cracker Jacks about her, huh? And she’s got it just as bad.”

  That perked Gary’s ears up and he snapped his attention toward the rearview. “You think so, Angelo?”

  “I’d bet’a my brand new Yankees cap, Lieutenant,” he returned, raising said cap and giving it a wiggle.

  Flying high, Gary sat back in the seat of the cab with a silly grin, wishing they had more than two days left to be together.

  With the arrival of the weekend, the three couples spent as much time with each other as they could, during which Gary deemed to join them all at church on Sunday. This prompted a big, pleasant surprise—his father mentioned off-hand that he and Charise would like to come along. It was a wonderful day, and they all ended up staying for the church’s annual “Homecoming” picnic afterwards, with the congregation welcoming them into the fold like old friends.

  Then all too soon, Monday morning rolled around. His father left for the office and Gary ate a leisurely room service breakfast with Charise, idly chatting about the fun everyone had the day before.

  Just as Gary was trying to decide how to spend his last full day of leave, the buzzer sounded, and he got up to answer it. A bellboy stood at the door, a pile of letters lying on a small tray in his hands.

  “Brought the mail up, sir. This one on top looks important,” he added, obviously hoping for a larger tip for being so conscientious. Gary grinned and dug in his pocket for a quarter, which he tossed to the eager teen. The youth caught it in mid air and then saluted with a grin and a look of pure hero worship, gushing, “Thanks, Lieutenant!”

  Gary chuckled and returned the salute before he shut the door, a happy smile gracing his face. He felt like he was sitting on top of the world.

  Placing the mail and the newspaper on the table, he glanced at the top letter and it was, indeed, an official correspondence from the War Department, addressed to him.

  With furrowed brow, he took out his pocketknife and quickly sliced open the missive. Taking out one crisp sheet of paper, he began to read.

  “What is it, Gary?” Charise asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

  Reading, his eyes growing steadily larger, Gary groused incredulously, “This has to be a mistake! This says I have new orders and I’m supposed to report to Bowman Field on Wednesday morning. But…that doesn’t make sense! I’m all set to go to the Gulf Coast Air Corps Training Center at Randolph Field in Texas for the next phase of my training. And from there to Maxwell Field, Alabama to learn to fly B-17’s. Bowman doesn’t offer advanced training. This has to be a mix-up of some kind.”

  Glancing up at his new stepmother, he caught an odd look in her eyes before she quickly masked it with a blank stare. A cold chill washed over him.

  “Charise…do you know anything about this?”

  Ten minutes later, Gary stormed through the door of the plant. Oblivious to the salutations of employees and office workers, he bounded up the interior steps and stomped down the hall to the executive office. Seething, the familiar surroundings seemed to have taken on a red haze.

  Passing Mabel without much of a glance and ignoring her greeting, he stormed into the office and threw the paper down on the desk in front of his father.

  “Do you know anything about this?” he demanded. Breathing hard from the emotion and the blocks traversed on foot, his heart hammered in his ears and thudded in his chest. He was so angry; at that moment he could have pummeled the man behind the large desk, because although Charise hadn’t known the details, she had admitted that her husband might have somehow had something to do with this sudden change in his orders.

  His father, holding the telephone receiver, said quietly into it, “Something has come up. I’ll have to get back to you with that information. Yes, thank you. Goodbye.”

  He replaced the handset into the cradle and then calmly, as if he wasn’t surprised to see his son crash into his office lik
e a Sherman tank, Gareth, Sr., picked up the paper and read it thoroughly. Then, he placed it back onto the surface, folded his hands over it, and looked up at his son.

  Gary’s consciousness registered through the misty, red fog of anger that his father seemed to have aged quite a bit in the past three months. However, he ruthlessly pushed that thought aside and glared into the man’s passive face.

  “Well? Are you going to tell me what you did and how you did it? Or just sit there and look at me,” Gary flung at him, not caring that it was the first time in his life he’d ever raised his voice to his father without fear of a resulting reprimand.

  His father drew in a breath and let it out, but didn’t speak.

  Gary swore under his breath, clamping his hands on his hips. “How in H…Hades did my orders get changed from Texas to Louisville? From Advanced Bomber training to…to I don’t know what at a tiny regional air base in the states? What is this, father? Meddling in my life the way you always have?” When would he get out from under this man’s thumb? Gary had always admired and even been amazed at the contacts his father possessed and the power he wielded in the business world. However—wielding power over Gary’s life was stepping over the line and he’d had a belly full of it. He’d decided on his angry march to the plant that if his father had, indeed, been instrumental in this, it would be the last meddling the old man would do.

  “Please sit down, Gareth,” his father replied softly.

  Swearing again and calling his father a slang term he’d never used in his presence before, Gary shot back, “Answer my question!”

  A spark of something ignited in his father’s eyes, but he merely said in a controlled voice, “I am still your father, Gareth Bradley, and you will give me the respect that position demands.”

  Totally unlike Gary’s normal persona, his face twisted in rage and he sneered, “I’ll respect you when you quit interfering in my life and derailing my plans! Tell me what you did you lowdown son of a—”

  “Gareth!” his father thundered as he shot to his feet, matching Gary’s volume and barely glancing over as Mabel silently closed the door to give them privacy. “I’ll not answer questions delivered in a tone such as that!”

  Gary spun away with a growl of fury, his hands gripping his head as he fought not to tear his hair out by the roots in frustration, before stalking to the familiar window overlooking the river. Breathing heavily and using every ounce of self-control he could muster, he forced himself to stare at the mile-wide, smoothly flowing body of water and counted silently until he could feel the thumping force of his pulse begin to ease. Minutes passed.

  Finally, he turned and lowered his arms, his movements measured.

  Meeting his father’s eyes again, he ground out, “I apologize for my profanity, sir. I respectfully ask for an explanation.”

  Drawing in a deep breath and letting it back out, much like he had before, his father reached up to press his fingers to his forehead, and then swung the hand toward one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. “Please, sit down Gareth.”

  Gary closed his eyes and ground his teeth together, drew in a breath, and released it in a huff. Experience told him his father wouldn’t budge until he complied. So he stalked, although less aggressively, to the chairs and took a seat. Slouching back, his fists resting on his thighs, he stared silently at the man behind the desk.

  Gareth, Sr., met his gaze wordlessly for a few moments, and then closed his eyes. His righteous anger from minutes before had quickly evaporated.

  Quietly, he began, “Gareth…my son…please try to understand. I…I’ve lost every living soul I’ve ever loved. My parents, my family, dear friends, your mother…they were all just wrenched from my life and I had no say, no control, no way to stop any of it from happening…”

  “I’m sorry, Father, but what does that—” Gary interrupted, but his father held up a staying hand and continued, “So now you…Gareth…mean the world to me. I would pay any price, give up anything…do anything, to keep you safe.” He paused and added softly, “I would give my life for you, son.”

  His dad opened his eyes and chanced a look at Gary, but seeing his expression hadn’t softened, he stood slowly—and, Gary thought, somewhat tiredly—moved to the window that his son had just vacated.

  After a few full minutes of standing with his hands clasped behind him and peering out at the busy river, he continued, “I’ve tried, son. I’ve tried so hard to just let you go. To stand by knowing that you were studying hard to become a pilot who would fly dangerous bombing missions over Germany and Japan. To be proud of the fact that you volunteered to put yourself in harm’s way for the greater good. Truly, I am proud. But…every time I read in the paper or heard on the news that yet another B-17 had been shot down or the pilot captured and tortured, part of me recoiled. I tried to put it out of my mind. But, I’ve had nightmares of you dying in a fiery crash, screaming in agony, while I stand by watching and unable to help.”

  At those words, an icy chill skittered down the length of Gary’s body and his eyes widened. Gooseflesh rose on his arms. His father continued, “I’ve walked the floor at night worrying, trying to find some way to stop what seemed the inevitable.” He paused again before continuing, “Then…at your graduation…I happened to see among the officers in attendance, Colonel Howard Blake…the same Howie Blake who had been a boyhood friend…and I couldn’t stop myself. I had to try.” He stopped to gather his thoughts and perhaps decide how much to tell his son.

  Gary, his mouth suddenly dry as sawdust, mumbled, “Go on.”

  As if reciting something he had written, his dad related, “I asked if I could see him privately. He said yes. We talked in his office. After a bit of small talk and reminiscing about our boyhood, we discussed you and, I…I reminded him of a favor he owed me from all those years ago,” he paused then and shook his head gently, letting out a barely discernable smirk. “We were ten, scrappers the both of us, growing up in a small farming community in Kansas. We’d been best pals, did everything together, fishing, teasing girls, playing hooky from school…until I took the rap for him when he broke into Old Man Hawkins’ chicken coop and stole his best laying hen because he wanted his Ma to make chicken and dumplings for his birthday. I had to work to pay it back and took a whipping by my father to boot. Howie had sworn that someday he would pay me back. I told him I was calling in the marker.”

  Silence filled the room for a full minute as Gary digested this news. He’d never heard this story of his father’s childhood. But then again, he realized he didn’t know much about the person Gareth, Sr., had been before he became the shrewd businessman Gary had known all his life. Now, he stared at the back of his father’s head, noticing that the gray in his hair seemed more pronounced.

  Emotions swirled within him—anger and frustration that he didn’t seem to be able to direct his own affairs without his father stepping in and commandeering the apple cart—all mixed together with familial love for this man who had raised and cared for him his whole life.

  Finally, Gary mumbled, “How could he have had my orders changed?”

  As if snapping out of a trance, his dad took a quick breath and answered, “He made a few phone calls and worked it out with someone higher up, I suppose. Once we had finished our discussion, he told me to give him some time to figure things out, and he wasn’t happy that I’d put him on the spot. I left his office and rejoined Charise. He sent me a note later that night, delivered to my hotel. It read simply, ‘It’s in the works. Tear up that blasted marker.’ I didn’t know exactly what he had arranged, so I must say I couldn’t be more pleased that of all places, it turned out to be Bowman Field right here in Louisville. I’ve been on pins and needles since you’ve been home, not knowing when your new orders would come through.” He took in a shuddering breath, standing up straight and tall. “I know you’re angry, son…but I’d rather have you hate me…than have you dead.”

  Then, he turned and met Gary’s eyes again.


  “Gareth, I took it upon myself to speak with your flight instructor in Texas—we had a long conversation, and he told me you possessed an amazing natural affinity for flying, as if you are ‘connected’ to the plane. He said you were the best student he ever had, that you have a God-given skill for instruction and had even helped train others. The Army needs good instructors, son.”

  Gary pressed his lips together in frustration and his dad continued, “Yes, they need bomber pilots too, but good basic instruction in flight with a talented, dedicated trainer before they undertake advanced training in the bombers, is vital. With the war on, some of the pilots were rushed through their early flight training, with tragic results.”

  Immediately remembering the tragedy of Lieutenant Vincent, Gary swallowed back the comment that was on the tip of his tongue.

  “By the grace of God, the army is going to use you as a basic flight instructor right here at Bowman Field, where you can do much for the war effort by getting other men ready for the task ahead.”

  Feeling sick to his stomach and much like an eagle with his wings clipped, Gary stared past his father through the window glass at the blue sky. He knew what was out there…the river…people hustling and bustling…soldiers, civilians…life… For some reason he couldn’t fathom, it took him back to the moment when months before he had stood at the window looking out at the world below and felt like a caged animal, unable to break free.

  For a while, he’d escaped his cage. But now, after months of work, sweat and tears, he felt as if he were back at square one—only in a uniform.

  As the image of iron bars began to close around him, he sprang to his feet with an oath and stormed out of his father’s office.

  CHAPTER 18

  “You got any idea what’s up with Junior?” a co-worker asked as she passed Julie coming out of the ladies’ room at the plant.