The Lines Between Us

by Amy Lynn Green

  “I know that,” I explained patiently, still eyeing the hallway, “but most men who stop by here to visit are.”

  “Aren’t WACs allowed free time?”

  “Officially, yes, as long as we behave ourselves. And we can invite guests to dinner if we reserve a place for them in advance. But my superiors don’t approve of frequent gentlemen callers. All the same, a girl’s got to have a little fun every now and again. How else am I going to see all the latest movies on a WAC salary?”

  I waited for a chuckle, or at least a smile. None came. In fact, he seemed to have a gift for making his face a perfect blank slate, eyes aimed slightly downward. I’d met men difficult to read, like a book in another language, but Leland seemed to have the magical ability to make the pages perfectly blank when he wanted to.

  I found myself—of all things—blushing, like Violet whenever she talked to anyone of the male species.

  He must think I’m a featherbrained little opportunist. Which of course wasn’t fair at all.

  “Anyway, we should be safe for now. Clarice and the gig list will occupy her for a while.” I plopped down in the settee we’d recently re-covered to spare it from its previous frayed floral upholstery. “You were saying?”

  Leland nodded and remained standing. “How often do you contact your brother?”

  “Never.”

  His expression barely flickered. “Ah.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Do you know, Lieutenant Leland, you can fit more judgment into one word than most people can cram into a full speech? Do they teach that to paratrooper units? How did you end up in a paratrooper unit anyway?”

  “It wasn’t judgment,” he said, and for the first time, there was a hint of fluster in his voice, which made me unreasonably proud. “It’s just . . . I shouldn’t have assumed.” My second question, if he heard it at all, he ignored.

  Then, so suddenly I blinked in surprise, he backed toward the door a few steps. “Thank you for your time, PFC Armitage. But I think my commanding officer was right.”

  Something here was fishier than a Friday lunch special during Lent. I stood, motioning for him to stay. “Hold on. Right about what?”

  “I was told,” he said, “that it wouldn’t be worth my time to talk to you. And now I see why. Anything I say might upset you more.”

  Sending Leland away myself was one thing. Hearing him say he was worried about upsetting me, like I was a Victorian damsel who kept smelling salts tucked in her corset, was quite another. “Why don’t you ask your questions and let me decide if I want to be upset?”

  He seemed to weigh that and finally nodded, stepping back to his place in front of the mantel. “All right. Since your brother is one of them, what do you think about the COs’ character?”

  “Don’t you listen to the news? They’re cowards. It’s as simple as that.”

  A pause, a long one this time. “Do you always treat conversations like you’re neutralizing an enemy position, or is this a special exception?”

  It was an exception, I realized. Normally, I was all charm. But he’d taken me off guard, and questions about Jack . . . well, they were another matter.

  “You asked for the truth. I’m giving it to you.”

  “Maybe you should take a second look. People are never simple. Once you see past old prejudices and first impressions, you’ll see that the most overlooked ones can be . . . useful.”

  “Am I one of those overlooked people who might be useful?”

  “That depends on whether you’re going to tell me what you think of the COs’ character.”

  Just like the army band that had played at a Seattle parade on election day, he didn’t miss a beat. I got the sense he was secretly the conductor.

  “I can’t tell you much about their character in general, Lieutenant, just what I saw. Jack let his starry-eyed roommate turn his head with thoughts about peace.”

  I’d overheard Jack and Gordon arguing with Daddy late into the night just before Thanksgiving, but once I’d realized they were going on about politics, I’d left them alone, sure it wasn’t serious.

  “There was nothing I could say to change his mind. Not when the war started, not a year later when he and Gordon were drafted. He chose Gordon over me. Over all of us.”

  I knew I was getting emotional, because Leland coughed to fill the awkward silence before changing the subject. “I’m sure it felt that way, but what I want to know is: Can the COs be trusted? Are they loyal to their country?”

  “I can’t see how, if they weren’t even willing to fight for America.”

  Nothing in his face changed that I could point to, but I could tell he wasn’t satisfied with that answer, which put a bee in my bonnet, all right. There was no point in even asking me if he thought he already knew.

  “Thank you for your help, PFC Armitage,” Leland said with a nod. “If you’ll excuse me—”

  Oh no, he wasn’t about to get away that easily. I stood and ducked behind the settee, blocking his path to the door. “Why do you need to know, anyway?”

  He gave me a lukewarm smile. “I’m not allowed to say. And please don’t speak to your fellow WACs about this conversation. It’s classified.”

  “Classified, eh?” This was serious, whatever it was about. “But why you? I mean . . . a black paratrooper from Georgia?”

  “Stationed in Georgia,” he corrected. “I’m from Detroit, born and raised.”

  That would explain the lack of Southern accent. I glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes. Hopefully Archie wouldn’t be early. I couldn’t imagine him taking a polite interest if he stumbled into this conversation.

  “But how did you do it?” I pressed. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I’ve never seen a black officer before.”

  He nodded as if he’d expected the question. “I grew a moustache.”

  My eyes darted involuntarily to his lips. “I beg your pardon?”

  “All my life, I’ve been told how young looking I am. No one’s going to take orders from a baby-faced fellow. So, I grew this.” He stroked the neat moustache—which was, I had to admit, quite dashing. Like Clark Gable’s in Test Pilot. “Facial hair. The secret to command.”

  Even though a half smile hadn’t appeared, I could hear it in his voice, and I crossed my arms. “You’re patronizing me.”

  “And you were doing what exactly by assuming a black man couldn’t work through Officer Training School like anyone else?”

  That made me pause a moment. Had I been patronizing too?

  Of course not. That was silly. I was just asking an innocent question.

  The insistent ticking of the clock filled the silence, each one a warning gunshot. Nine minutes. Time to say good-bye, Dorie.

  “Well then,” I said, stepping out of his way, “I promise I won’t tell anyone about your questions about Jack.” Once army men started throwing around words like “classified,” things got touchy fast.

  “Thank you.” Leland got most of the way into the hall, then stopped. “You don’t know what your brother is doing there, do you?”

  I shrugged. “It’s middle-of-nowhere Oregon.” Mother had given me his address, so I knew at least that much. “National park tasks, I guess. Something safe the CPS could spin into being ‘work of national importance.’”

  He didn’t contradict me, but from his expression, I could tell I’d guessed wrong. “I don’t think ‘safe’ is the right word. Do you ever pray for your brother, PFC Armitage?”

  I felt a half second of shame. “No.”

  He buttoned up his coat and looked soberly at me. “I think you might want to start.”

  FROM DORIE TO HER PARENTS

  January 10, 1945

  Dear Mother and Daddy,

  It’s pouring buckets of rain here, and we’re all tucked inside the Stratford for a cozy night in. Now that I’ve jotted a few lines to some of the hometown fellows stationed overseas, I thought to sit down and write to you. Honestly, while I miss both of you to pieces, when writing a bo
na fide update, there’s not much to say.

  I’ve gotten a few motorpool requests that pulled me away from the garage, I’m to be the Master of Ceremonies for the Valentine’s Day Revue (since I haven’t a single real talent beyond fixing cars), and I watched a new movie last night (Laura, a thrilling mystery—I simply must have a clock with a secret compartment now). Oh, and I’m memorizing a speech for a WAC recruitment tour of women’s clubs and high schools around Seattle. That’s about all the news that’s fit to print.

  Also, I was wondering if you happened to know how Jack was doing. I know I’ve never asked about him, but . . . he was on my mind, that’s all.

  Maybe it’s the dreary weather, but I’m feeling the tiniest smidge of homesickness. Wouldn’t it be glorious if we could go back to the time Before? I’m happy to be seeing a new part of the country and doing my patriotic duty, but I can’t help but think of snowbound January nights back home, stirring hot chocolate with a peppermint stick, Jack slumping asleep against my shoulder before Daddy could finish his latest tale. No worries or news of war or blackout drills. Everything safe and warm and peaceful.

  Ah well. Time enough for nostalgia after the war is won.

  Hope everything’s well with you, and do give Shep an extra treat for me tonight, will you?

  All my love,

  Dorie

  FROM GORDON TO HIS MOTHER

  January 10, 1945

  Dear Mother,

  Greetings from Oregon. I hope you’re staying healthy. Aunt Harriet wrote and said she visited you last week and you didn’t seem to be in your usual spirits. Is everything all right? Or was Harriet just in one of her overly critical moods and spent the whole visit griping? (That’s what she did in her letter to me anyway—Roosevelt is a communist, her next-door neighbor might be stealing their mail, and her ancient cat is afflicted with acute gout.)

  As for me, I’m well enough. The other fellows have been on edge this week, and we all know why: Jack is gone to lookout duty. He’s been our crossbeam for so long that it’s a wonder we haven’t all collapsed without him. Silly things, fights over someone using too much hot water at the shower house, accusations of laziness on dishwashing duty, old grudges dragged out. Nothing serious, but we’ll be grateful to have him back this Friday night, that’s for sure.

  Did you happen to read the copy of Walden I sent to you? I’m glad at least that you’ve had more time to read these past few years. That’s all I enjoy about fire duty—the books and, I suppose, the quiet. Right now, I’m writing this while hearing, in one ear, a debate about whether competition in sporting events is inherently anti-Christian, and in the other, a discourse on how many days one can reasonably go without a shower. We’re a sophisticated lot here.

  Almost lights-out, so I’ll sign off.

  Gordon

  CHAPTER 5

  Gordon Hooper

  January 12, 1945

  “Remind me again why we’re taking pictures of dead birds?” Charlie asked as he knelt on the weathered boards of the ranger station. He took his camera out of its leather case and cradled it like a baby.

  “So I can sketch all the details later.” I passed my handkerchief over the extended wing of a golden eagle, coming away with a spotty layer of grime and dust. “Sarah Ruth, don’t you ever clean these?”

  She harrumphed from behind the secretary’s desk where she surveyed our work, dressed in her usual blouse and trousers, her Forest Service jacket draped over her chair. “Of course not. I’ve got real work to do. Memos to type, grazing petitions to approve, timber company negotiations to pass on to Father.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” Charlie quipped, his grin a quick flash of white against his dark skin.

  “And no time for housework,” she finished, wrinkling her nose. “It took me nearly an hour to unscrew all of those birds from the wall where they belong.”

  “Which we appreciate,” I said, trying to mollify her. She grunted and went back to her typewriter, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the keys.

  But secretly, I knew Sarah Ruth was wrong. Birds didn’t belong stuffed and mounted on a wall or over the wide stone hearth, on display in death. They were meant to fly. And I was determined to make that happen, even if it was only in sketch form.

  James Audubon had done the same in the 1830s. Back then, his detailed full-color plates showing birds in their natural environment had awed both the art and naturalist world. My task was no Birds of America, but I meant to make the trail guide brochure Morrissey had commissioned from me as professional as possible.

  “There’s no challenge to this.” Charlie knelt and clicked his camera, capturing the eagle’s tail feathers. “What’s next? Gonna yank some trout fillets out of the icebox, toss them in a pot of water, and call it fishing?”

  I gave him a flat look to prove he wasn’t funny. “Just take those pictures, Charlie.”

  He’d do a good job of it too. Before he’d joined the CPS, he was making a decent salary at a black-owned radio repair shop in Pittsburgh and saved enough for a camera—a Leica model. I knew because he’d snapped at me once for calling it a Kodak, though unlike Shorty, I hadn’t borne his wrath by labeling his photos “snapshots.”

  Morrissey started covering the costs once he realized that postcard pictures of the Flintlock Mountain trails would be good for tourism. He took the film with him whenever he went out of town to someplace where the drugstore was sophisticated enough to have a darkroom. Charlie had produced some fine images of the forest in summertime and the Flintlock Mountains viewed from the lookout, as well as my personal favorite, a fawn asleep, surrounded by curled maidenhair ferns.

  But even Charlie couldn’t sneak up on a western tanager snacking on insects, not close enough to get a clear image of the angle of its wings as it perched on a branch. His photos, like my ink sketches for the brochure, would have to make each species recognizable to casual birders without any color.

  Not that there would be droves of them using my guide. Flintlock Mountain, a few thousand acres carved out of a larger national forest, had no spectacular waterfalls or geysers, just trails, a gently sloping mountain, and plenty of wildlife. With the war on and gas hard to come by, even the summer and autumn had been, according to Sarah Ruth, “lean” compared to the late ’30s.

  Satisfied that Charlie had the golden eagle well under control, I moved on to the barred owl that used to lurk in the corner by the fire poker, clearing off a few cobwebs. Then, making sure my body was between the bird and Sarah Ruth, I lifted the brittle wing an inch, shifting it to better show the distinct variegated pattern of the underbelly.

  The clack of typewriter keys paused. “Gordon Hooper, you better not be touching those birds after I specifically told you not to.”

  How did she do that?

  I let the wing go, and it stiffly slid back into place. “Don’t worry,” I managed, “all’s well here.” The barred owl stared at me accusingly with black-marble eyes.

  “They’re very delicate, you know,” she said, repeating the lecture she’d given me when we arrived. “Most are twenty years dead, except for that one.” She pointed to the pheasant, plumage splayed out wide. “That one, I shot. And my aim is still good, if you catch my drift.”

  I could only meet her warning glare for a second before swallowing hard. “Understood.”

  Charlie came up beside me, peered at the owl through his lens, then shook his head and moved the owl closer to a patch of afternoon sunlight. “Say, Jack’s coming back from lookout duty tonight, isn’t he?” he asked me, as if it were only natural that I’d know his whereabouts.

  I counted the days in my head. All the weekdays blended together, mere scratches on the wall to mark our war-long sentence. “Should be.”

  It couldn’t come too soon. We needed someone to remind Thomas and Lloyd there were more important things to do than argue about politics and religion, chuckle at Shorty’s jokes when the rest of us were tired of them, and smooth things out with the townies.

&n
bsp; Charlie went around to get a shot of the barred owl from the side, his face half disappearing behind the camera. “Did you hear that the Oregon Department of Forestry is so short on men, they’re planning to train some local boys as lookouts for the summer season? Some women too, from what I hear.”

  “Interesting,” I said, shooting a glance toward Morrissey’s office, the door closed. He hadn’t been in all morning, probably making the rounds with the other rangers.

  Sarah Ruth stood with a file folder of papers and jabbed a fountain pen in our direction. “Are you saying a woman can’t be just as good of a lookout as a man?”

  “No, ma’am, not a chance.” Charlie’s disarming laugh gave me a twinge of jealousy. I’d be a sputtering mess if Sarah Ruth had leveled a line like that at me. “Anyone who’s had a mother knows women could beat a man at sharp-eyed attention any day.”

  “Thinking about joining up, Sarah Ruth?” I asked.

  She shook her head, then opened her father’s office to drop the file inside. “I served my time when I was seventeen. And I don’t mean to go back.”

  “Really?” I didn’t bother concealing my surprise. Lookout duty seemed like it would be at the top of Sarah Ruth’s list of leisure activities: uninterrupted time in her beloved forest. “It’s got to be better than grazing petitions and timber negotiations.”

  All I got for that attempt at humor was a raised eyebrow. “You of all people ought to know we don’t always get to pick the work we do.”

  “Too bad they don’t let women become smokejumpers,” I joked.

  “Too bad,” she repeated, looking out the window toward the airstrip where the Trimotors would land to heave us up into the sky. A small sigh eased out of her before she turned away again.

  She really means it. It didn’t make sense to me why anyone, man or woman, would want to parachute into an inferno.

  “Anyway, I hope Dad trains them well, especially the teenaged boys. Come July, I don’t want a bunch of loafers taking over for—”

  She was cut off by the metallic clang of the dinner bell.