by Linda Ellen
Julie sniffled and wiped her nose, shaking her head with a no.
“Bob and I grew up in an old Victorian boarding house downtown—he and his widowed father lived on the second floor and I lived on the third with my widowed mother. He was an only child and so was I, and we were buddies and like brother and sister. We walked to school together, played games, shared secrets… For years, he had no idea I was crazy as a loon over him,” she paused with a twinkle in her eyes as Julie snickered quietly, thinking that described her feelings for Gary to a T. “But…one day when we were both about sixteen, a very wise man—my grandfather—gave me some sage advice. He told me to fix myself up, march myself downstairs, and let that young man know how I felt about him. He also advised me to—in his words—lay one on him and give that boy a kiss he’d never forget.”
Julie’s eyes had opened wider with every sentence. Finally, she swallowed and gasped, “Did you?”
Her mentor smiled that mysterious smile again. “He married me, didn’t he?”
A beat went by and both women burst out in giggles.
Then, Harriet turned Julie toward the dresser’s mirror and took the snazzy red and white sundress off its hanger, holding it up in front of the girl—sans jacket.
“Now, honey,” she murmured, their eyes holding in the reflection. “We’re going to get you fixed up and you’re going to take a ride out to that base—and you’re gonna tell that young man what’s what.” As Julie’s eyes reflected her obvious uncertainty, she added, “Trust me—he feels the exact same way that you do. I’ve seen it in his eyes every time he’s around you. But one of you has to make the first move. You’re stuck in a revolving friendship door.” Patting Julie’s cheek, she added, “Sometimes, when a guy is stubborn or shy, a girl has to resort to other measures. Prayer is good, but then you’ve gotta get up off your knees and take that obstinate bull by the horns.”
Oh, is Harriet right? I’ve been waiting for Gary to make the first move…what if he’s waiting for me too?
Julie clamped her teeth on her lip, placed her hands over Harriet’s, and nodded…
The big plane rolled to a stop and the pilot cut the engines. The size of those birds never failed to amaze Gary. You could almost fit one of his tiny trainer planes inside the mammoth craft. This one was a newer B-17F model, and he knew all of the specs by heart—nineteen feet high, seventy-four feet long from nose to tail, with a wingspan of a whopping 104 feet, and weighed 17.5 tons empty. They could carry 9 tons of bombs, reach a top speed of 325 mph, cruise at altitudes up to 30,000 feet, fly 2,000 miles without refueling, and bristled with the defensive power of twelve .50 caliber machine guns. Like a kid, any time one of the fortresses made a stop at the field, Gary made it a point to vault himself up inside for a look around; to indulge in his heart’s desire for a few minutes.
Glancing at the nose of the plane as he drew near, Gary couldn’t help but grin as he read the name, Pistol Packin’ Mama, painted there beside a very risqué drawing of a cowgirl in boots, short shorts, tall white ten-gallon hat…and an open vest providing an eyeful of the young lady’s rather amazing assets.
Gary merely glided over the provocative image, however, as the name had brought to mind the image of Julie…the girl who was never far from his thoughts…and that evening so long ago when he had danced with her to that very song before they had ended up in a laughing heap on the floor together—with her straddling his hips in a most embarrassing, although scintillating, manner.
He shook his head to clear it of the image as the door of the plane opened and the crew began to disembark. Gary saluted and greeted each one, until only the pilot was left. When he swung himself out of the aircraft and his feet hit the ground, Gary’s eyes popped open wide.
The other man saw him at the same time and his face broke into a wide smile. He made a beeline straight for Gary, his right hand out for a shake. “Hey! It’s the Whiz Kid! How are ya, bro?”
Gary shook his hand and then they simultaneously pulled one another into a one-armed man hug. “Paul, you seven-times-a-son-of-a-gun, how you been?”
“Man, if I was any better I couldn’t stand myself,” Happy-go-lucky Paul Bloch snorted one of his familiar laughs. “I’m on leave before shipping out; just finished my training in these birds a few weeks ago. They’re sending me to Grafton-Underwood Air Base in England. Gonna get to fly with the 384th Bomber Group of the mighty 8th Air Force, whatdya think of that?”
“Oh man, do I envy you, my friend,” Gary replied most sincerely.
Paul narrowed in on him, a trace of confusion in his eyes, but continued, “Well, you know I ain’t got no home to go back to for any sloppy goodbyes, so I had some downtime and volunteered for transport duty, taking this bird and her misfit crew to Chatham Field in Georgia. But she developed a miss in one of her engines, so I detoured to here. Everybody knows Bowman’s got some of the best mechanics in the service,” he added with his memorable silly grin.
Just then, First Sergeant Baker, the man in charge of the main hanger, walked toward them and saluted Paul. “Your bird sick, Lieutenant?”
The two talked for a few minutes about the problem that Paul had noticed in #3, and the sergeant gave a knowledgeable nod. “Sounds like a spark plug or two breaking down—a common problem these Wright R-1820 Cyclone’s have. We’ll get her fixed up and ready to go in no time, sir,” he answered.
Gary nudged his friend’s arm, “C’mon, let’s head over to the OC and do some catching up, huh?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Paul replied as the two slung their arms around one another’s shoulders and headed toward the Officer’s Club.
Looking around, Paul spotted a group of flight nurses listening to one of their instructors and poked Gary in the side with an elbow. “I’d heard they had dames here. Any of ’em lookers open for a little fun?”
Gary shot him a look. “If I were you, Pal, I wouldn’t let any of them hear you call ’em dames.” At Paul’s curious look, he explained, “Friend, don’t let the fact that they’re women fool you—in their own way, they are just as tough-as-nails army as you or I. Try to put a move on one, and you’d end up on your back on the tarmac, with a black eye, to boot.”
Paul tipped back his head and laughed, prompting Gary to shake his own, hoping his friend hadn’t just taken his warning as a challenge. Same old Paul—hasn’t changed a bit.
Once in the OC and settled at a table with Paul palming a Coca Cola and Gary cradling his habitual Dr. Pepper, Paul began, “So, man, what are you doing here? When you didn’t show up at CGAC and then you didn’t show at Maxwell, either, we didn’t know what to think…”
Gary told his friend the gist of why he was at Bowman and why he’d missed out on his dream.
“Oh man,” Paul murmured, shaking his head in near disbelief and adding a few colorful words. “That’s flippin’ tough. I know how much you wanted to fly bombers, man. I’m sorry…”
Gary shrugged, glad it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. “At least I’m still flying. I made up my mind to try to be the best instructor Uncle Sam has in this man’s army. They give me the ones who’ve never stepped foot in a plane before, much less flown—and I know that when I send a guy on to bomber school, I’ve transformed him from a greenhorn to a capable, bomber-ready pilot. That’s something, I guess.”
“You can say that again. Man, I could tell you some stories,” Paul agreed, sharing a few near misses with fellow students who hadn’t been sure of their basics. Then, Gary related the tragedy that occurred on his first visit to Bowman when the young lieutenant had crashed into the house.
After that, Gary asked, “Man, tell me…what’s it like to fly one of those monsters?”
His friend sent him a grin that lit up his face and Gary fought the jealous shards slicing his gut. Paul spent the next two hours giving Gary a blow-by-blow description of what it was like to be the commander of a legendary B-17, and answering every question Gary could think of. Gary soaked up and enjoyed every word like
a man finding an unexpected water hole after wandering three days in the Sahara.
“Tell you what,” Paul concluded. “On my first bombing mission over Germany, I’ll have the bombardier paint your name on one of the eggs. We’ll drop that sucker right on Hitler’s lap—a gift from Tucker the Whiz Kid.” The two enjoyed a good laugh at that.
Minutes later, Paul took a swig of his Coke and eyed his friend. “So…Julie Baby lives here, right? You her O.A.O.?”
Gary schooled his features, hoping to avoid Paul’s usual incessant teasing over his inability to declare that he was Julie’s One and Only. “We’re just friends. I see her all the time because our families are related. Plus, she’s a hostess at the big USO in town; so I see her there, dance with her sometimes. She came out here to a dance last month, too,” he answered with a careful, nonchalant shrug, although in his mind’s eye, image after image of Julie smiling up into his face, laughing, or fitting herself snugly against him during a slow, romantic song floated through his mental viewer.
Paul gave him the eye. “So, she turned out not to be the one? Or did you crash and burn?”
Thankfully before Gary could form an answer other than the fact that he wished she thought of him as her one and only, the telephone on the wall rang and another officer answered it. “Hey, there a Lieutenant Paul Bloch here?”
Paul looked over and casually raised his hand. “That’d be me.”
The man gave a nod. “Sarge says your fort’s ready.”
Paul gave Gary a sly look; one that Gary remembered usually meant he was up to no good. He opened his mouth to ask, but Paul stood and motioned with his head for Gary to accompany him out.
Once they were walking in the open, what the man proposed blew Gary’s mind. Although Gary had been inside of B-17s many times since being stationed at Bowman, he’d never actually been up in one. As an ode to their friendship, Paul aimed to remedy that.
Under the pretext of wanting to test-fly the repaired fortress before taking it on to Georgia, Paul arranged for the crew chief—who had declared “Mama” now in perfect working order—to go up with him, and for Gary to go along for the ride.
Gary had never felt so exhilarated in all his life. Then, in order for him to get what Paul called the “Full-on Experience” he handed Gary a spare set of gear. It was the whole nine yards, including a tan head-cover with ear protection, goggles, respirator, and dark green parachute ensemble, the kind that doubles as a seat. Feeling like a kid at the amusement park preparing to go on a thrilling ride, Gary donned the equipment with Paul’s help, and then his friend invited him to take a seat in the co-pilot’s spot. He handed Gary the take off checklist, and prepared to fire up the fort’s four massive engines.
When he hit the switches and the big bird’s four Wright Cyclone engines fired up, Gary felt the bone-jarring rumble in every cell in his body, but especially his belly. His mouth went dry and he couldn’t stop himself from letting out a whoop of excitement like a child in a candy store. Busy with pre-flight preparations, Paul glanced over at him and laughed.
With clearance from the tower, Gary watched Paul’s every move as he taxied out to the end of Runway 6-24 and performed a textbook takeoff. In seconds, they were airborne.
Man, what a ride! He was flying in a B-17! Gary could scarcely believe it. Then, Paul shocked him again when he looked over and announced, “Once around the park, Jeeves.”
Gary’s eyes and mouth fell open. “What? I can’t! I’m not trained…”
“Flying straight in these birds is just like flying anything else. Go ahead, take it. Play with it. Go on.”
Gary cautiously put his hands on the yoke and Paul gave him a few pointers in what to do to perform a simple bank and other maneuvers. Gary picked it up instantly, of course, and delighted with the fort’s ease of handling, he was soon having the time of his life.
All too soon, however, they had to head back to the field so that Paul could gather the rest of the crew and continue on to Georgia.
Paul took the controls back and performed a perfect landing, taxiing back to the hanger.
Laughing with his friend as he exited the plane by the side door hatch, Gary knew he would remember that day for the rest of his life, and as he thanked his friend profusely, and thought the day couldn’t get any better…out of the corner of his eye, a splash of red and white caught his attention…
In mid-word, he stopped dead in his tracks as a vision in red began to saunter toward him from the direction of the hanger. Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat—it was Julie! His heart skipped first and second and jumped clear into third gear, then took off like a racehorse at the Derby.
His attention riveted to the vixen in scarlet and white, he drank in the sight of her. She had put her hair back in soft light brown waves with a fetching crimson, silk ribbon at the crown. As she neared, his sodden brain registered that she had applied more makeup than she usually did, and that get-up she was wearing—a daring, sleeveless, form-fitting, red and white polka dot sundress edged in white—showed off her curves and made her creamy skin glow with a healthy tan. Of their own accord, his eyes ran down the length of her body as she advanced, relishing the swing skirt of her dress fluttering in the breeze around her shapely legs.
She looked stunning. More gorgeous than he’d ever seen her, and that was saying a lot. The thrill of piloting a B-17 was nothing compared to seeing this sweet little vixen on a direct trajectory to his coordinates! What is she doing?
Then, his eyes rose again to her face, and the determined expression in her eyes glued him to the spot. This was a woman on a mission. His heart tripped over itself and doubled-timed as his brain screamed that he was the object of the flaming desire radiating from those dazzling green eyes.
Behind him, he vaguely heard Paul give out a wolf whistle, and then declare, “Buddy, if this is your Julie Baby, I got a feeling your friendship days are about to crash and burn. You lucky stiff,” he guffawed.
Moments later, she reached him and he sucked in a breath, not knowing what she would say or do.
Stepping so close she could touch him, those eyes still pinning him to the side of the plane, she placed a hand on her hip and raised the other to poke his chest with a finger.
Moistening shiny red lips, she announced her purpose. Her words made his mouth drop open.
“Gareth Tucker, I want to talk to you. Right. Now.”
Julie steadied her nerves and did her best to ignore the catcalls and whistles coming from every side as Gary’s fellow airmen saw what was happening and came running to observe the spectacle. She didn’t care. Come hook or crook, she would complete her mission—which was to tell Gary how she felt about him, and get him to admit he felt the same. Oh Harriet, I hope you’re right about this!
Once Harriet had instilled determination in her heart and convinced her this was the right thing to do, they had worked together on Julie’s hair and makeup, wanting everything to be just right—in order to wow the socks off a certain lieutenant. Then she had called a cab for the trip out. Angelo, of course, drove up and taking one look at Julie, let out a whoop, figuring he knew what she had on her mind.
“Miss Julie, you’a gonna go get him, eh? It’s about’a time!”
She’d kept up a mental litany all the way there, practicing what she would say when she found him. They’d let her in the gate—thankfully, she had thought ahead to bring her defense plant I.D.—and once she had found out where he was on the base, she had been escorted there, leaving no opportunity to waver and chicken out.
However, when she saw him drop down out of the huge airplane, she’d nearly balked, as he was wearing a strange looking outfit over his uniform, complete with some sort of full head covering—so much so that she almost didn’t recognize him. A crewman standing next to her had prompted, “There’s Lieutenant Tucker now, ma’am.”
She’d watched as he grasped the odd looking hose attached to a black rubber mask and dragged it to the side in preparation for removing it. Taking a deep
breath, she focused on her objective, squared her shoulders—in the somewhat revealing dress—and headed his way. She was quivering with nerves and shyness, feeling a bit conspicuous, as she’d never worn the dress before without its jacket. No matter. She’d set her course, there was no stopping now. Target—dead ahead.
Now, here she was, one finger poking Gary’s chest, as they stood nearly nose-to-nose. His expression was one of shock and surprise.
She’d heard the man behind Gary mumble something and then let out a loud laugh, but she refused to be sidetracked. Staring into the eyes of the man she loved, she informed him she wanted to talk to him. “Right. Now.” She wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer.
He moistened his lips and his voice seemed husky as he answered, “Okay.”
Taking another deep breath, trying to sort through her memorized lines, she began, punctuating each phrase with a jab. “Gary Tucker, you’ve been stringing me along for months now—ever since we first met at Gene and Viv’s wedding. You call me your best friend—but then you kiss me ’till my head spins in the Tunnel of Love. Then you go back to being friends again. I can’t figure out what’s up with you. Do you only want to be friends, or are you attracted to me in a stronger way? A girl needs to know these things,” she added, her voice gaining volume as she went.
“So, what I want to know right now, Mr. Tucker, is—” she paused, his rounded eyes so shockingly blue against the backdrop of summer sky behind his head that they made her lose her train of thought and threatened to take her breath away. Ahh, heck with words. Mustering all her determination, she mumbled, “This—”
Reaching up with both hands, she clasped the straps hanging loose on his head covering, closed the scant distance between them, and pulled him down to reach his lips. What she did then shocked them both—she took his mouth in a kiss meant to set him on fire clear down to his regulation shoes.
