The Lines Between Us

by Amy Lynn Green

  When I looked down at my sketchbook, I saw that I’d traced the soft curves of a mourning dove—Clara’s favorite bird, because, according to my mother, “its song could break your heart.” But the dove wasn’t roosting contentedly on her nest. No, her wings were a flurry of motion, striking out at whatever predator I had yet to add to the scene. A snake, maybe. A hawk. Something attacking the ones she loved.

  Violence, but for a good purpose.

  Was there such a thing?

  The old coals of anger were burning again, deep inside me. Only this time, there was no one to direct it at, just like Sarah Ruth had said. No one to punch or curse or shout at. Jack and Clara were both dead now. There was no reasoning with them.

  They’re wrong. They have to be wrong. I crumpled up the drawing of the mourning dove, tossing it in the tinderbox to burn. The edges caught and curled in a satisfying glow.

  Only four steps to cross the room. I yanked Mother’s letter and the copy of Clara’s diary entry from within the pages of the observation log, leaving Morrissey’s documents alone. Then I knelt by the stove and slid them inside too.

  There. I’d done it. I’d burned away the inconvenient information, tossed my doubts into the stove and slammed the cast-iron door.

  So why didn’t it make me feel any better?

  “Courage is running toward the fire, not away from it.”

  Bending down with a lurch, I jabbed the poker into the fire, trying to save a scrap of the letter, but it was too late. There was nothing left but ashes.

  CHAPTER 30

  Dorie Armitage

  January 26, 1945

  “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  They were the first substantial words, other than clarifying questions, that Lieutenant Leland had spoken during my entire story. He sat with hands clasped in his lap and an unreadable expression on his face.

  When I didn’t respond, he named my misdeeds for me. “You lied to your commanding officer about your furlough, impersonated an army representative, swindled your way into the Forestry Department under false pretenses, and dug up information about a bomb no one is supposed to know about.”

  “But I was honest about it,” I said, trying to find some scrap of redemption. He continued to look at me skeptically. “To you. Right now. And the reason I’m here was because I was trying to confess to Morrissey.”

  It was clear from his expression that he didn’t believe me. How was I supposed to convince him?

  “What are you doing here anyway?” So far, I’d done all the talking, but now it was time to get some answers. “I thought the army wasn’t coming until tomorrow.”

  He grudgingly allowed the change of topic, though I could tell it wasn’t finished in his mind. “Our official appointment is tomorrow. But on the train here, Major Hastings mentioned that Morrissey had asked about a WAC reporting on camp conditions, which he thought was a waste of time and resources.”

  “And you knew it was me,” I finished.

  “I wondered. Which was why I hoped to speak to Morrissey today to ask. Only to find you snooping around his office.”

  “Guilty as charged.” I studied him, his uniform neatly pressed whereas mine was wrinkled and in need of a good laundering, his slush-caked boots the only unpolished thing about him. “The army’s after Morrissey, aren’t they? To shut him up about the bomb. That’s the real reason you came.”

  He looked like he was going to offer up the magic word “classified” again, but then sighed long and hard. “We were supposed to visit some of the spike camps anyway, to see a demonstration, meet some of the training instructors. But yes, we want to speak to him. After the accident, Major Hastings knew there might be trouble.”

  “That ‘accident,’” I said, glaring at him, “killed my brother.”

  Leland ducked his head, looking properly chastised, but I wasn’t done. “I saw what Morrissey found.” Enough of it anyway. “If the army knew about all this, if Jack had been told what he saw in the woods was a bomb, none of this would have happened.”

  “And then what? The whole nation would be talking about it, from the president to the soda jerk at the drugstore. Everyone would be afraid.”

  Unease crept into my stomach. So far, America had been safe, secure with an ocean between them and any of the Axis powers. “And then Japan would hear about it.”

  Leland nodded. “Right now, for all they know, every single balloon bomb fell harmlessly in the ocean. How many more, better bombs might they send if they knew some of them made it?”

  I didn’t like it, not one bit, but he had a point. And yet . . .

  “But what if others like Jack stumble across those balloons, never knowing what they’ve found? Bird watchers. Travelers. Children on a Sunday afternoon picnic.”

  That made him flinch. “That’s why the army wants the Triple Nickles to take over the smokejumping. So no more civilians get hurt. But until then, I need your promise of silence.”

  I thought for a minute, leaning back in my chair and lacing my fingers together like I’d seen Captain Petmencky do once.

  No. I couldn’t give that. Not yet. “Who are the Triple Nickles, Lieutenant?” I held up a hand. “And don’t say you can’t answer. Because I won’t agree to keep quiet about the bomb until I have the story.”

  He stared at me. “You’re serious.”

  I stared right back and let him figure out the answer on his own.

  “Fine.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a photograph, and tossed it onto the desk.

  I picked it up and inspected the line of black men standing tall and proud and wearing paratrooper gear.

  “Back in the summer of ’43, you might not have recognized me.” He paired a smirk with a limp salute. “Vince Leland, less-than-proud member of the service corps of the Jump School at Fort Benning. Most nights, you’d find me leaning against the jump platform while on guard duty, nodding off in the Georgia heat soon as the white troops marched out in stick formation and we took over.”

  It was hard to picture, but I tried. “What happened?”

  “We were only support staff, you see. No black men were allowed to actually be paratroopers. But our leader, a lowly first sergeant, figured there weren’t any White Only signs around, and that as long as we were guarding the place, we might as well train on it.”

  “A bold move.” Although I hadn’t admitted it outright, Charlie was right: The army wasn’t known for being progressive about race.

  He nodded in acknowledgment. “Well, General Gaither heard about it before long. And he called us in, asked what we thought about starting an all-black airborne infantry unit.”

  There was a whole battalion of black paratroopers? And one started in Georgia, no less.

  “I got trained as an officer, seeing as they’d need some fellows to run things and I was dumb enough to volunteer. After four weeks of paratrooper training, they gave me these.” He rubbed the gleaming wings pinned to his uniform, unable to keep back a proud smile. “And just like that, I went from the laziest loafer you ever did see to a proud member of the 555th Parachute Infantry Battalion.”

  “The Triple Nickles. I see.” I applauded. “Well, Lieutenant, I’d say if Hollywood’s ever looking for a blockbuster, that’ll do it.” It checked every box of a classic underdog story: an inspiring leader, secret training under cover of darkness, and eventually, hard-earned triumph.

  He smiled—briefly, but it seemed genuine. “Now listen, PFC Armitage, wouldn’t you say those men would be the ones you’d want to call in if you had an unsolvable problem?”

  Even I had to admit they seemed to be perfect for the job. “Wouldn’t your men rather be fighting Hitler overseas?”

  “You bet.” The answer was instant, delivered with a wry smile. “Every last one of us. We’ve been waiting months for orders to fly into a combat zone. But if this is what America gives us, we’ll take it.” His hand was in a fist, I noticed, his jaw set in a determined line. “And maybe, if we fight in this
war, if we can do anything the white soldiers can, when we come back, they’ll have to treat us equal.”

  It was a fair enough answer, but I could still think of problems with it. “There’s a black CO here—a man named Charlie Mayes—who says only a fool would think you could change the country from the inside like that.”

  He leaned back in his chair, as if considering. “Do you think it’s easy, Private Armitage? Figuring out the best way to fight hate that’s been around for hundreds of years? Knowing what to do, what will make a difference, how to be heard?”

  That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. “No, but . . . but don’t you think you’re doing the right thing?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.” He nodded firmly. “So do all of us in the Triple Nickles, or we wouldn’t have joined up. But if a brother of mine thinks and prays and decides he’s going to take a stand in a different way, I understand. It’s hard to know.”

  But was it? It had always been easy for me, right and wrong and what to do next.

  Until now.

  “What if I said the same thing? That it’s hard for me to know whether or not to keep quiet about these bombs?”

  There wasn’t a note of challenge in my voice anymore. I couldn’t manage to make a joke or even look up. Jack was dead and a Japanese bomb had killed him and nothing made sense anymore. Instead, I studied the picture in my hand, the faces of the Triple Nickles standing at attention, tall and proud.

  “Well. I guess I’d ask you to trust that we’ll take care of them.”

  And I looked up from the picture to see Lieutenant Vincent Leland himself. Maybe he’d started out an unambitious security guard, but that’s not the man I saw before me now.

  He really means it. Whatever he and his men could do to prevent more deaths, they’d do it, no matter the cost. “Okay.”

  “Because if you don’t—” He paused, realizing what I’d just said, and the shocked look on his face almost broke through my heavy mood to make me laugh.

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone about the papers, or about the bombs. Not a single soul.” I stuck my hand out, and he shook it, warm and firm.

  “Thank you.” Tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he could trust me.

  All of a sudden, I felt exhausted, the way I did when I made it safely inside after a date where I’d put on a cheerful front to entertain a fellow about to ship off to war. I rubbed my temples, willing away the headache I could feel coming on. “All I wanted was a simple solution. Someone I could bring to justice. When we found the papers, Gordon said—”

  Oh no.

  I’d done it. Like the villains in books during interrogations. Let my emotions get a hold of me and make me say just a bit too much. Maybe he won’t notice.

  But Leland’s eyes focused in on me. “Who’s Gordon?”

  So much for that hope. “He was my brother’s best friend. One of the COs.”

  “And he knows about the bomb too.”

  If I’d thought quicker, if I’d pulled out my innocent smile, if I wasn’t so gosh-darn tired, I could have salvaged my mistake. Maybe.

  Or maybe I didn’t try because I wanted to drag Gordon into it with me.

  All I know is that I sighed a sigh it felt like I had been holding in since Pearl Harbor and said, “Yes. He does.”

  His mouth tightened in a frown, and I guessed what he was thinking: More loose ends for the army to deal with. “Then how about you track him down for me, PFC Armitage? I’d like to tell him the same thing I just told you.”

  “That’s going to be tough.” I explained about lookout duty and the downed phone lines, and the same frustration I’d felt on learning that news flashed over Leland’s face.

  “We can’t wait a week. If anyone leaks information about the bomb, they could be tried for treason or espionage against the United States.”

  Treason and espionage? Those were strong words, meant for black-cloaked criminals with a hatred for their country, certainly not me or Gordon or Morrissey. “That’s absurd. None of us have done anything wrong.”

  “Oh?” He raised his brows. “Based on what you told me, Earl Morrissey deliberately violated an order from his superior to let this matter rest.”

  I thought about the papers I’d seen, the warnings and official seals and the word confidential.

  “And if you’re telling the truth about those documents you found, then a court could find him guilty of intention to commit treason.”

  But, I wanted to protest, Morrissey isn’t a traitor.

  Still, I couldn’t deny that, by the laws of the land, he might be.

  It was all so complicated. Did Morrissey deserve to be punished? Was keeping quiet about the bomb the right decision?

  Words. Words and ethics and philosophy and everything else I hated. And that’s when something clicked into place in my mind. “You need to talk to Gordon.”

  “You’re right,” Leland said at last. “I think I do. If his story matches yours, I’ll report to my superiors back at the hotel tonight . . . and Earl Morrissey and the United States Army will need to have a reckoning tomorrow.”

  Leland stood, and I stood with him, turning off the lamp and, by habit, adjusting each chair so it matched the angle it had faced when we came in. Just in case.

  “It’s a little over an hour to hike up to the lookout.” I glanced at the clock. Just after 1400 hours. “If you leave now, you’ll be back by nightfall.”

  He followed me into the ranger station proper, shuddering at the owl perched beside Sarah Ruth’s desk. “Will the snow affect anything?”

  As he opened the outer door, I could see an inch had accumulated on the ground. “Not if you’re careful.”

  “And I assume the trails to the lookout are marked?”

  “Ha!” a voice burst out, and we both turned to stare. Jimmy Morrissey leaned against the railing of the ranger station porch, his sharp-featured face spread with a cocky smirk. I braced myself for an interrogation about what we’d been doing in the ranger station alone, but Jimmy just shook his head. “You must be a city slicker for sure to say that.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” Leland asked, frowning.

  He reached into the wheelbarrow beside him, stacking firewood on his arms. “My name’s James. I’m one of the smokejumpers around here.”

  James? That must be his given name—no one named their child Jimmy on his birth certificate—but it was the first time I’d heard him use it.

  “Ah, one of the COs.” Leland nodded in greeting. “Good to meet you. Lieutenant Vincent Leland.”

  “If you want, I could take you there,” Jimmy said, all teenage bravado.

  So that was it. “James” was trying to sound grown-up in front of the army man. Typical.

  “He does know the mountains better than anyone else around here,” I added, and Jimmy’s chest seemed to expand another few inches.

  Leland seemed to weigh this, snow landing on his collar in a pattern of lace. Then he nodded. “All right. Let’s go.”

  It’s for the best, I reasoned. Gordon would hear Leland’s story and know what to do, whether to give up the documents or protect Morrissey. Gordon always knew what to do, with that rock-solid certainty of his.

  Feeling generous, I even took the armful of logs from Jimmy so they could get started. When I stooped down to the hole cut into the stone fireplace, though, it was already full to the brim with logs, so I opened the grate to toss in some of the ones Jimmy had brought, prodding the coals with the poker to spur them on. He’d clearly been restocking the wrong building.

  I flipped through my notebook, reading some of the interviews, looking over what Gordon and I knew, trying to decide if I’d done the right thing. It was so hard to tell.

  And something seemed . . . wrong.

  I sat on the wood floor in front of the fireplace, lost in the flickering glow of the growing flames, thinking through what might feel off.

  “James,” he’d said. Not Jimmy Morrissey. No mention of his last name at a
ll.

  And when Leland had assumed Jimmy was one of the conscientious objectors, Jimmy hadn’t protested.

  It did seem like a bit of a coincidence that he’d arrived when he had. Was it a godsend . . . or had he been eavesdropping? And if he had, did he hear Leland accusing his father of treason?

  The ranger station door banged open, and Sarah Ruth burst in, snow swirling around her feet as she tramped the excess off her boots, muttering to herself like an eccentric mountain hermit. She craned her neck past me to the office, dark and still. “Where’s my father? And what are you doing here?”

  “Out,” I said, figuring that was the safest answer. “And I came to use the telephone.”

  She seemed about to question that, then shook her head, displacing droplets of melting snow, and hurried into the office. I followed.

  Her finger skimmed the surface of the calendar splayed on Morrissey’s desk. “January twenty-sixth . . . meeting with Mayor Simmons?” She shook her head. “I never scheduled that meeting.”

  “Maybe it came up while you were at the lookout,” I offered. “Anyway, if it’s an emergency and you need a ride into town, I’m an ace driver.”

  “No time. I’ll have to go after them myself.”

  Go after them? “It’s Jimmy, isn’t it?”

  She looked astounded at my deductive insight, which should have made me feel smug, but nothing could overpower that prickling unease that now grew stronger. “Is something wrong? I know Jimmy was taking Le—an army officer to the lookout. But surely the snow isn’t bad enough to worry you.”

  She paced the floor, her boots tracking muddy prints in all directions. “It’s not that. He came back to the house to get his thicker coat. But the way he talked on the way out the door . . .”

  No one had told me that a detective could correctly identify the clues and still feel a sick feeling in their stomach when someone confirmed them. “What did he say, Sarah Ruth?”

  Her voice changed in imitation of her younger brother. “‘I’m going to protect Dad. Just like Willie told me to.’ And then when I asked him what he was talking about, he said, ‘When the greater good is at stake, you’ve got to do anything you can to get there. Anything.’”