by Murray Pura
“I’m saying I do not know. I will pray, I will read the Holy Word, I will think. I may talk to some of my old colleagues in Philadelphia. But I tell you what it is, Rebecca. I do not like to see a man bullied. And this young man, this Jude Whetstone, no matter what you think, he has been bullied.”
When her father left the kitchen, Lyyndaya’s mother sighed and opened a container of flour.
“Do you want some help with the bread, Mama?” Lyyndaya asked.
“I have no idea what’s come over your father.” Her mother was looking out a window at the gray skies and the falling snow. “I have no idea what he thinks he knows that no one else knows.” She stared at her daughter with tired, dark eyes. “The shunning will come. He cannot stop it. This will hurt you and I’m sorry for that. But remember, my dear, your boy brought this on himself. He has wings and propellers on the brain. He forgets about everything else.”
She reached over and stroked Lyyndaya’s cheek. “You must stop thinking about him. Yes, it is hard to do. But he is bad for our family, bad for the Lapp Amish. He brings us only trouble. Write a goodbye letter. Be gracious, be kind, but be firm. End it before the shunning prevents you from saying farewell in a decent, God-fearing manner.” She turned back to the small bin of flour. “I am baking alone today. Go and do what needs to be done.”
Lyyndaya walked slowly up the stairs to her room. Ruth was not there. She sat on her bed and tried to think clearly, tried to pray. Across the hall she could hear the children laughing and a door slamming. Outside, Papa was calling Trillium with his distinctive whistle. He would never tell her to write the letter her mother wanted her to mail before the Meidung was put into force. But perhaps her mother was right. Perhaps it was better to say some last words to Jude than to be left unable to say anything at all.
She pulled the lap desk out from under her bed and lifted the lid. Inside were the sheets of paper, the ink, the pen, the envelopes. She picked the pen up, dipped it into the ink, pressed the back of her hand against her eyes, and began to move the nib across a clean piece of paper.
THIRTEEN
Mail call!”
Jude had been lying on the bunk in his room with his hands folded under his head, alternately thinking of Paradise, Emma Zook, Lyyndaya Kurtz, and flying, when he heard the voice in the hallway. He got up quickly just before there was a knock on his door. Opening it, he saw Mitch Jones grinning at him and holding out a handful of envelopes.
“You lucked out today, Whetstone. A pile of letters, and I’m pretty certain I can smell perfume.”
Several other fliers had come out into the hall when Mitch had shouted and they began to give Jude a hard time, one whistling, another chanting, “Hubba hubba,” still another crying, “Oh, please, Mr. Aviator, won’t you make an honest woman out of me?” Jude laughed, waved, and vanished back into his room.
He sat on the edge of his bed and went through the stack he’d been given: one from his father, one from Bishop Zook, three from Emma, one from someone named Deborah King and, at the bottom, a letter from Lyyndaya. He read his father’s first.
It was a sad letter, his father obviously lonely and missing him and still wondering why Jude had just up and enlisted without talking things over. Bishop Zook’s was not as sad, but it ran along the same lines: Why had a Lapp Amish boy joined the military, why had he gone to war, did flying matter so much to him that he had to go against his church and his faith? What could he, as bishop, do to protect Jude from the Meidung once Jude was flying aeroplanes over the battlefields of France?
The letter from Deborah King was a request from a young woman at Bird-in-Hand for Jude to locate her brother Matt, who had left the Amish faith years before and was now a combat pilot with an American squadron. Could Jude write back and tell her if Matt was all right? He had been shunned for years so they could not receive correspondence from him, nor could the family send him mail.
Then Jude opened one of Emma’s letters. It was her envelopes and pages that were scented, not with perfume—not from a good Amish girl and the bishop’s daughter—but from the soaps she used on her skin and her hair. It immediately took him back home and filled his mind with her eyes and smile. The feeling was so strong that Jude had to shake his head to clear it. Her letters were funny and witty, and line after line she teased him about when he was coming back to court her by buggy and aeroplane. He lay back and closed his eyes after he had opened all three, listening to the English rain rattle on his windowpane.
In his right hand he held the envelope with Lyyndaya’s flowing script on it.
Why did I open Emma’s first? Why did I save Lyyndaya’s to open last?
There was a loud knock on his door. He sat up and Mitch poked his head in. “Hey, lover boy, the old man wants to see you tout de suite.”
“Major Jackson? What for?”
Mitch shrugged. “Beats me. I just deliver the news. And the mail.” He grinned his freckled grin again. “Maybe perfumed envelopes violate military protocol. Which puts you in hot water and absolutely no one else.”
Jude threw on a coat and walked from their barracks to the command hut, slogging through grass and pools of water. To his left, the biplanes sat stoically in the gray rain, looking undefeated and strong and as ready to take to the air as if it were a sunny day. He stepped into the hut, spoke to Jackson’s aide, and was ushered into his commanding officer’s room without any delay.
He saluted. “Sir.”
The salute was returned. “Stand easy, Lieutenant.”
Major Jackson was in a brown uniform shirt and pants like Jude. Tall and lean with a perpetual tan. His hair was silver and cut short for the warm Arizona days he had ranched in until America entered the war. The pilots said he was making a fortune with his beef contracts to the army and could have stayed in southern Arizona without any danger of being drafted. But Jackson had volunteered. Behind his back they called him “Ironwood” after the desert ironwood tree that grew in America’s Sonora Desert.
He stood up and went to the window that looked out on the aerodrome and the planes neatly lined up on the green grass.
“What do you think of the English climate, Whetstone?”
“I can live with it, sir. Our Pennsylvania springs are pretty wet too.”
“But warmer.”
“Yes sir, warmer.”
“I can’t stand the constant rain myself. I feel like I’m on Noah’s ark. The desert suits me better.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jackson put his hands in his pockets and turned to face Jude, his gray eyes sharp, but not unkind.
“I was reading up on your—church—and it made me wonder about a few things. For instance, if the Amish won’t bear arms, what are you doing here?”
Jude had not expected this. He cleared his throat and went back to attention. “Well, sir—”
“Stand easy, I said.”
Jude tried to relax. “It was something I had to do.”
“Why?”
“To save lives.”
“Save them? Most airmen talk about taking lives and becoming aces.”
“Well, sir, I suppose they and I come at this conflict from different perspectives.”
Jackson came slowly toward him, hands still in his pockets. “Your people are exempt from serving in the military. You could be at home chatting up a pretty girl with perfumed hair and plowing your land for spring planting.”
“Well, sir—” Jude wondered briefly if Jackson knew about Emma’s letters and then plunged ahead. “I mean no offense, but you could be on your ranch in Pima County riding at the head of your spring roundup.”
The major thought about this, smiled in a small way like a dry, curved stick, and jingled some change in his pocket. “You have horses, Whetstone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You like ’em?”
“Yes, sir. I got my first pony when I was twelve. An Appaloosa.”
Jackson’s eyes widened and changed color to an almost bright blue. “Appaloos
a! You like that breed?”
“Grit’s always been a great horse.”
“I had a bunch of Appies once that near drove me around the bend. Stubborn, knot-headed, you say left, they go right. As for me, I have a fondness for paints. All the horses on my ranch are paints.”
“Beautiful horse, sir.”
“Darn right. And they know how to take orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jackson walked back to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. “Your gunnery has improved. You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn last month and now you’re shooting ticks off a flea’s back. What happened?”
Jude lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Don’t know, sir. Got the hang of it, I guess.”
Jackson stared at him. “I think you always had the hang of it. I think you were holding back on us. Not sure why.” He sat on the edge of his desk, still holding the piece of paper. “Eyes like a carbine sight. Reflexes sharp as a razor blade. Mind as cool as a blue norther. I believe you always could shoot like Wyatt Earp. What’s going on, Lieutenant?”
“Not sure, sir.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure you know.” Jackson looked back at the paper and ran a hand through his close-cropped silver hair. “You’ve requested reconnaissance duty. The observer has the guns on reconnaissance. Not the pilot. Is that what you were thinking?”
Jude stumbled. “I’m not…I suppose I was hoping—”
Jackson put the paper down and folded his arms over his chest. “Have you given much thought to what it’s like in the air during a war?”
“Of course—”
“Well, whatever you think, change your mind. It’s worse. Even up in the air and away from the trenches, it’s worse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not about flying, Whetstone. It’s not pretty like that. Not a hop over the Grand Canyon. Or a cruise over Lancaster County. It’s about killing men. It’s about sending planes down in flames. We want twisted wreckage on the ground, Lieutenant. Their wreckage, German and Austrian wreckage. Their pilots getting the glorious military funerals.”
Jude felt a coldness working its way through his body from his head to his stomach and legs. “Yes, sir.”
Now Jackson’s gaze on him was like rock. Or, Jude thought, a rattler.
“Can you do that? Can an Amish boy shoot men? Not just Fokkers and Albatros fighters?”
Jude didn’t respond. Jackson sat gazing at him, arms still over his chest.
“I have a faith too, Whetstone. Born and raised Baptist. Got dunked at fourteen and I darn well meant it too. Still mean it.” He tapped a black leather book on his desktop. “Keep my Bible with me at all times. Read it morning and night and a lot of times in between. Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight: My goodness, and my fortress; my high tower, and my deliverer; my shield, and he in whom I trust; who subdueth my people under me. A psalm of David, number one hundred forty-four, verses one and two.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Lord is a man of war: the Lord is his name. Exodus chapter fifteen and verse three.”
Jude nodded. “I know, sir.”
“Then live it. Live your faith in God and honor his Word.” Jackson stood up. “Your request to fly reconnaissance is denied. You are much too good of an aviator. We need you at the front bringing the enemy’s planes down. In the name of God.”
Jude looked straight ahead.
“You are on your way to France in the morning. We’ve kept you here far too long as it is. There’s no need to put you in our advanced schools at Issoudun or Clermont-Ferrand. You were already ace material when you arrived. But we needed your help teaching the prairie boys and the mountain men and the city slickers. You did a good job. Got them to love flying as much as you love it, as much as I love it. However, now that your shooting eye is what it needs to be—well, we’ve taken casualties, Whetstone. We’ve lost a lot of good boys. And we want to prove to our allies that an American flier can be just as tough and resourceful as a French or British one. America wants her best pilots at the front. It’ll mean a lot to our doughboys down below in the muck and poison gas. And it’ll mean a lot to the American public back home.”
Jude came to attention. “Of course, sir.”
“The transport will pick you up at 0300 hours. Take everything you need. You won’t be coming back.”
Jackson drew himself up as rigid as a flagpole. He saluted. “I hope to join you in due course, Lieutenant. Good luck. And God bless you.”
Jude returned the salute. “Thank you, sir.”
That night, Jude did not sleep well. When the motor vehicle arrived with a British driver he threw his duffle bag in the back and climbed in. Neither of them had anything to say. A fine mist was drifting over everything.
Later, on board the ship that took him across the Channel, he leaned against the rail and finally opened Lyyndaya’s letter Mitch had given him the day before. Tiny droplets of water formed a film over the paper and made some of the ink run, but Jude kept reading as the sun whitened the sky.
Do I love you? I don’t know. I pray about you, think about you, care about you, but deep, deep love, the love a woman has for her man, the love that lasts a lifetime—do I have that for you? I don’t know. I suppose if I don’t know, then I don’t have it, do I? Because I don’t think I would have to guess. But I care for you so much—oh, so much—can it be far away?
Jude smiled, the Channel spray and slowly lifting fog making his face shine with water droplets. Emma would say, Oh, I’m sure it’s love, I’m certain I’m in love with you, over and over again in her letters. Lyyndaya would express her doubts, her hesitations, her uncertainties, knowing she took the risk of losing out to her rival when she did so. There really was no one like her. Though he wished she would dab her envelopes with the soap she used on her hair and hands—yet he knew she was not the kind of woman who would ever do that.
Of course you created a little bit of a thunderstorm among the colony by joining the military. I don’t understand why you did it and I can’t believe it was just so you could fly. After all, you could still fly your Jenny here, couldn’t you? You don’t really explain yourself well in your letter, it all sounds mysterious and—forgive me—evasive and not to the point. What are you not telling us? What are you not telling me? Oh, I suppose that eventually the truth will come out. God will always make sure the truth comes out. Except I have no idea when that will be. You could change all this with a pen stroke. But will you? You are hiding something from me, it is like one of our childhood games, only it’s not so much fun, it’s too serious, war is too serious to be fun.
A French driver was looking for him at the dock and they began the long morning’s drive to Paris.
“Is that where I’ll be stationed?” asked Jude.
The driver had been chosen for his facility with the English language. He smiled at Jude’s naivete. “Wouldn’t that be nice, monsieur? All the charms of Paris and the war far away.”
Jude felt his face flush with embarrassment. He surprised himself by saying, “I don’t wish the war to be far away, monsieur, and I do not wish to remain and partake of the city’s charms if it is. It’s just that I have no idea where the front is.”
The driver stopped smiling. He felt the americain was almost ready to come to blows with him. They were a rough and ready bunch, always looking for a fight. He changed his tone of voice. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur. You will need to transfer to another transport in Paris. I am not sure where you are heading exactly, but the front is hours away from our great city and many of the americain squadrons are south of us.”
Jude was humiliated by his burst of temper. I am still Amish and a Christian, he reminded himself, whether I am heading into a war zone or to a café in Paris. The two men did not speak for the rest of the trip. The mist from England and the channel was gone and a blue April sky had been spread over them by the sun. Birds swooped in front of their vehicle. Green fields a
nd hedges gleamed in the light. It was beautiful, and except for an occasional military convoy or group of soldiers Jude would have had no idea he was getting closer to the battle lines.
The driver dropped him off at some sort of gathering point for Americans in Paris. He was told by a young man with an accent as thick as creamed honey that he would have to wait. Did he want a book? A coffee? Jude said no to the book and yes to the coffee, taking it outside and settling down on the steps to watch the Paris traffic as well as the men, women, and soldiers cramming the streets. After a while he began to reread Lyyndaya’s letter. He smiled again as he read the part where she said, And if I did fall in love with you, how would it be any different from the way I feel about you now? Would my heart race a little faster? Would I get goose bumps when I heard you call my name? Would I have trouble keeping myself from taking you and your mop of brown hair into my arms? Well, all those things are happening now anyway, so what will be the difference—can you tell me?
Jude heard his name called, and he quickly folded the letter and tucked it back in his pocket. He was quickly herded into a truck with five other fliers and two American drivers. The truck banged and snorted east, the drivers warning the pilots they would not get to their aerodromes anytime soon. Jude pulled out Lyyndaya’s letter and began to read it again.
“Where are we headed?” asked a youth with flaming red hair sitting beside Jude. “Is it a state secret or something?”
“Nope. A placed called Nancy.” A pilot facing them yawned. “It’s a couple of hundred miles away. Betcha they pull over and snooze for the night once it’s dark.” He glanced at Jude. “Whatcha got there, sport? Letter from your girl?”
“Are you talking to me?” Jude looked up from the pages.
“Don’t see no one else with a letter.”
“She’s—a friend.”
“Sure. A friend. We all like gals that are friends.”
