Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  Divining that this must be an exit, she dodged outside into…

  Nothing. Beyond the door, the sun was beginning its climb and the air was warm on her skin. There was a faint droning, as if bees had come to the garden in search of pollen. And the sky…

  She squinted uncomprehendingly. The sky overhead was the crisp, robin’s egg blue found only in early morning. It hung over her head like a mirror, yet there were odd, streaking scratches to its surface that wound in upon themselves, as if the mirror were losing its silver.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

  RueAnn started at the voice. Twisting her head, she saw a young woman of about twenty smiling at her from the other side of a closely cropped hedge. She held a cigarette loosely between her fingers. Belatedly, RueAnn realized that besides sharing a common wall, the two houses also shared a yard dissected by a section of privet.

  “What?”

  The woman pointed to the vapor marks with her free hand. “It’s not often you see a dogfight. Usually there are too many clouds.”

  Looking upward again, RueAnn realized that the white streaks were being made by a pair of planes high above them. The distant drone she’d taken for bees were actually aircraft.

  “Dear God,” she whispered.

  The woman squinted at her, then smiled. “You must be Charlie’s girl.”

  RueAnn couldn’t account for the thrill that raced through her veins. This woman not only knew Charlie, but she’d heard him talking about RueAnn. For some odd reason, that fact brought a jolt of confirmation. She truly belonged to him and someone else knew it.

  “Yes.” RueAnn reached her hand over the hedge. “I’m RueAnn.”

  The woman grinned. “Sara. Sara Blunt.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke over her head as she eyed RueAnn with interest. “American?”

  RueAnn nodded.

  “Good Lord, whatever made you come here?”

  “My husband. Charlie. I…needed to see him.”

  Sara’s eyes widened in patent astonishment.

  “You and Charlie…married?” Her shock was so heartfelt that RueAnn’s newfound confidence waned. Charlie had introduced her as his “girl” evidently, not his wife.

  “That should teach me to listen more carefully to fence line gossip,” Sara proclaimed. “I’d heard rumors he was serious about someone, but no one mentioned he’d actually married.”

  RueAnn would have laughed if the ramifications weren’t so tragic. Clearly, Charlie hadn’t told anyone of their marriage—other than his mother, that was.

  “Susan! Come here!”

  Sara gestured to a figure beyond RueAnn’s line of sight. RueAnn watched in utter astonishment as Sara was joined by her carbon copy. No, not quite an exact replica. Where Sara was adorned with the latest movie-star hair and make-up, this woman was more simply dressed.

  “RueAnn Tolliver, this is my sister Susan. Susan, this is Charlie’s wife.”

  Susan’s jaw dropped as she shook RueAnn’s hand. “Charlie’s married?”

  “It gets even better. She’s American.” Sara drew out the word as if RueAnn’s nationality were unheard of.

  But then the two girls looked at one another and grinned.

  It was Sara who leaned close to whisper, “And his mother hasn’t died of apoplexy yet?”

  “Sara!” Susan remonstrated.

  Sara had the grace to look ashamed, but her remorse lasted seconds before she dissolved into giggles. RueAnn couldn’t help but join in.

  “You can’t have been here long,” Sara said when she could speak again, “or we’d have seen you already.”

  “I arrived yesterday.”

  Sara’s artfully shaped brows rose. “You mean to tell me you weren’t already in the country? That you left the safety of the States for a war? And Charlie didn’t stop you?”

  The twins regarded RueAnn with open curiosity.

  “When did you and Charlie marry?” Sara asked bluntly.

  “Sara!”

  “There’s no sense beating around the bush, Susan. One way or another, we’re bound to find out. Why not get the information from RueAnn rather than the neighbors?”

  RueAnn laughed. She found Sara’s honest exuberance refreshing—especially after the veiled hostility of Edna Tolliver.

  “Last September.”

  Sara’s eyes widened, her cigarette hovering forgotten halfway to her mouth. “A year? You’ve been married to Charlie for a whole year?”

  “Just about.” Too late, RueAnn wondered if Sara might have been romantically involved with Charlie at one point in time. RueAnn couldn’t blame him if he had. The girl was absolutely lovely with snapping blue eyes and an infectious enthusiasm.

  “And you’ve only just come to England?” Susan asked, clearly mystified by the delay.

  Again, RueAnn nodded.

  “Then you’ll be living next door, alone, with Mrs. Tolliver until Charlie comes home,” Sara prompted.

  “Yes. I suppose so.” Was that so terrible? To have sought shelter with a motherin-law she didn’t know?

  Sara grinned and shook her head. “Then dearie, we’d better be showing you the gap in the hedge. You’ll be needing it sometime soon. You can escape to our side of the fence for a cup of tea and sympathy.”

  “Sara, I swear!” Susan chided, clearly shocked by her rudeness.

  “Really, Susan,” her twin offered with a roll of her eyes. “You’ve got to admit that Mrs. Tolliver can be an absolute a gorgon at times.”

  Susan regarded her twin with something akin to horror, her gaze skittering toward the open door leading into the Tolliver abode. “You shouldn’t say such things!” she whispered. “Mrs. Tolliver is her motherin-law!”

  Sara made a face. “She’s a woman to be respected and admired, but good Lord, can you imagine living with her day in and day out? Charlie would be the first to admit she can be positively difficult.”

  At the mention of her husband’s name, RueAnn’s fingers began to worry the frayed edge of the pocket on her husband’s robe. With studied casualness, she asked, “So Charlie spent time at your house?”

  Sara’s grin was as clear and guileless as the morning sun. “Sweetie, who do you think made the gap in the hedge?”

  A swooping hum filled the air.

  “There’s the all-clear,” Sara said, reaching across the neatly trimmed privet. “I’ve got runs on the Green Line nearly back to back for the next couple of days, but would you like to have tea with us at the end of week? Say, Sunday, five o’clock?” She turned to her sister. “Shall we go to Grimshaw’s or have something here?”

  Susan smiled. “Let’s have it here. Mum would enjoy the company and I’m sure she’d love to meet Charlie’s wife.”

  RueAnn was a little disconcerted by the impulsive invitation. In the Boggs household, strangers were regarded with suspicion and had to earn the right to be invited into one’s inner circle.

  Nevertheless, her mother had drummed in the importance of manners. “Should I bring something?”

  Sara grimaced. “Good Lord, no. Just yourself. I think it’s a bit early for you to be nicking something from Edna’s larder.” She giggled. “Although it might be fun to see what happens if you did.”

  • • •

  Rouen, France

  This time, it was the cool kiss of water being poured over his feverish skin that drew Charlie from a dark, dark place made of fantastical nightmares of roiling snakes, roses with enormous fangs for thorns, and pig shit. He was mired in pig shit, covered in pig shit…

  Rex offered him a crooked grimace of a smile. “Welcome back, old boy.”

  Somewhere, Rex had found an old dented pail which he’d filled nearly to the rim with water. He’d ripped a strip of fabric from the hem of his shirt and was using it to bathe Charlie’s face.

  “…Hot…” Charlie said after clearing his throat.

  Rex nodded, understanding his mental shorthand. “You’ve got a raging fever.”

 
He soaked the fabric in water again, then folded it into a loose square and laid it over his brow.

  Charlie focused on that point, on the coolness against his skin as it warred with the fever.

  Rex abruptly spoke. “I’ve got an idea. Not a great idea. But it’s the best I can come up with.” The last word emerged more like a croak and Rex covered it quickly with a bitter laugh. “You always said I had the judgment of an out-of-control goat—and I swear this isn’t much better but…”

  “Shoot…me…” Charlie whispered.

  The words were nearly inaudible, but they seared into the silence like a hot knife.

  Rex reared back as if he’d been struck. “No! I’m not…I didn’t mean…”

  “Shoot. Me. Don’t leave me…to the…Nazis.”

  Rex’s scowl grew fierce. “Bloody hell! I didn’t haul your soddin’ ass all this way just to—” He clamped his mouth shut, a muscle at his jaw clenching furiously before he consciously relaxed his expression and said, “If I shot you, it’d be a waste of lead. You’re going to get better. To shoot you now would deprive His Majesty of one of his finest agents.”

  “Bullshit,” Charlie growled.

  “You’ll be getting better. I promise. ‘Cause I’ve got a plan, see?” He bent closer as if they might be overheard. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.”

  Afternoon.

  When had it become morning, let alone afternoon? Charlie only remembered the night. The pigsty. The patrols.

  Or had there been a patch of day somewhere in between?

  “Listen, mate, I’ve got a hare-brained scheme that might, just might, work.”

  Charlie’s gut twisted as cramps clutched his innards. He could feel the heat and pressure of infection as it ate away at him.

  “Shoot…me…”

  A solitary bead of moisture began to track from the corner of his eye down to his temple.

  “Shut up and listen!” Rex hissed. He pointed to a spot beyond Charlie’s head. “Just up that road is an old estate the Germans have converted into a hospital. There was some trouble at a bridge near there earlier today—an explosion, gunfire.”

  Charlie shook his head, clearly not understanding.

  “I’m thinking that if we could steal a kraut uniform, we could dump you somewhere close by, see?”

  Charlie blinked at him in confusion.

  “Don’t you get it? If they think you’re a German, they’ll patch you up, fill you full of Wienerschnitzel and schnapps, and send you to some cushy camp to recuperate. By the time they figure out you’re not one of them, you’ll be strong enough to run for it.”

  Again, Charlie shook his head.

  Sadness darkened Rex’s eyes to the color of crushed leaves. “Come on, old boy. Think about it. As long as you kept your mouth shut and your eyes closed, you could buy yourself some time. At best you could escape. At worst…a prison camp where you wait out the war.”

  They both knew that wasn’t the worst that could happen. To be caught wearing an enemy uniform could mean a firing squad. But Rex wasn’t about to consider the unthinkable, let alone utter it out loud.

  “Will you do it, mate?”

  Charlie’s eyes closed. Despite dodging enemy patrols, eluding capture, being wounded, it was the first time he had truly faced his own mortality. He had no illusions. His body couldn’t go on much longer as it was. He would be lucky to live through the night.

  “Charlie,” Rex whispered, clearly fearing that Charlie had lapsed into unconsciousness.

  But Charlie opened his eyes again. Through parched, cracked lips, he whispered, “Do it.”

  Sweetheart,

  I have an unaccustomed afternoon off. Not enough time to come to London, but long enough to sit and feel sorry for myself. With a few more hours to my disposal, I could have caught a train and made a hurried visit. But I’m stuck here—even though I’m not allowed to tell you where that might be.

  The other fellows headed to the pub for a pint. But after a few minutes of their antics with the chippies, I found I couldn’t stay. Not when I miss you so much that my body aches. And my heart.

  I hesitate to burden you but…

  I watched a friend die. Milt and I grew up on the same block. As luck would have it, we joined the RAF at about the same time and were assigned to the same training session. Then, a few months back, he was transferred to my squadron.

  It was good to see someone from home. When I got into trouble in the air yesterday, I couldn’t believe my luck when he swooped in from behind, downing a Gerry that was on my tail. I’d hardly had a chance to celebrate before the air was thick with them. They were coming in from all sides, closing in on us like locusts. I immediately started to climb, hoping that if I could maneuver into the clouds, I could shake them.

  And then, just like that, the sky was clear again.

  That is, it was clear except for a thin plume of smoke. As I swung down, I knew immediately it was one of ours and moved in closer. Since I was out of ammo, I figured I could help a fellow pilot limp back to base.

  But as I drew near, I could see it was Milt. His Spit had been severely damaged at the tail and left wing, and it was clear that his landing would be iffy at best. So I pulled in close, motioning for him to ditch even as I shouted to him over the headset.

  It was then I read the fear in his expression. The canopy sometimes has a tendency to stick, and in order for a person to escape, one has to fling back the canopy, roll the plane, and literally fall out.

  Milt was trying to handle the stick even as he pulled at the canopy again and again, but nothing was happening and he was losing altitude fast. Worse yet, I could see the panic setting in.

  Hoping to calm him down, I told him to proceed to the airfield and make an emergency belly landing. But he didn’t answer, so I was afraid his com system had been damaged. I tried to use hand signals, but I don’t think he saw me. I don’t think he saw anything but the jammed handle and his dwindling altitude.

  Then, without warning, the small plume of smoke flared into open flames and I knew he didn’t have much time. I was shouting at him to land in a field up ahead when suddenly, he began banging on the canopy with both hands, trying to break the windscreen. His face was filled with such terror, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then a ball of fire engulfed the cockpit and his plane dipped nose-first and he slammed into the ground.

  I’ve seen men die before. Too many to count. And I know the numbers are against me. There aren’t many of us original blokes left anymore. I suppose if I have to go, I’ll know I’ve given it my all. When it’s all said and done, it’s not going to be my time in the air that I’ll regret. I’ve worked with a jolly good lot, right down to the last. If I had it to do all over again, I’d still volunteer. I’ve seen enough of what the Gerrys have done to France to know I’ll do anything to keep that from happening over here.

  No, the only regrets I’ll have will be from the things I’ll miss—a home, a career, a family. It’s funny how so many brushes with death can hone one’s wishes down to the most important few.

  And principal to them all, is you. I want to hold you. I want to love you. I want to drown myself in the scent of you. If I were to be given one last moment in time, it would be to fall asleep in your arms and wake to you again in the morning. I long for your company so completely that there are times when I wonder if I can gather another breath without seeing you just once more.

  If I sent for you—if somehow I were to receive more than a few hours leave—would you meet me? I know I’m being presumptuous. I should court you properly with flowers and long afternoon walks. But such idyllic hours have become luxuries that few of us have. I’ll understand if you won’t come, honestly, I will. And I promise that even if we were only to meet for tea and I could hold your hand beneath the table, it would be enough. I would never want to pressure you into an uncomfortable situation.

  But I’m growing weary of the blood and gore, the noise and confusion. If I could have a fe
w hours of peace, with you, I could go on a little longer.

  That being said, perhaps I should discourage you from coming at all. As I watched Milt fight so desperately, I knew what he was thinking. He wasn’t fighting for God and Country in that instant. He was thinking of his new wife and a baby on the way. He would have done anything to be with them. Anything at all.

  So maybe I should save you the pain of such an end and wait until this hellish war is over. I can’t help thinking that my own number could be up at any moment.

  Just please…Dear God…

  Don’t let me burn.

  P.

  Chapter Eight

  London, England

  If RueAnn had wondered how she would spend her days until she received word of Charlie’s welfare, she quickly found her answer. The moment the all-clear sounded, Edna emerged from her cubby under the stairs as if she were a cork shot from a bottle of shaken soda.

  RueAnn was just stepping back into the kitchen when Edna pushed through the swinging door.

  “Has Louise arrived yet?”

  Bemused, RueAnn shook her head.

  “Well, don’t stand there dawdling, we have a mountain of work and only a few hours to complete it.” She frowned, glaring at the pale blue sky. “And that’s only if the Germans manage to stay away for the day.”

  It was clear from her scathing tone that she didn’t believe the dreaded Hun would cooperate.

  “Since Louise has probably been detained, I’ll need you to pitch in and help.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Edna made an abrupt about-face and marched toward the staircase. “Can you dust?”

  Could she dust? What kind of question was that? Did RueAnn look like a pampered socialite? Or an imbecile?

  Although a peppery retort leapt to the tip of her tongue, RueAnn hurried to catch up, offering, “Yes, ma’am,” instead.

  “Good. The WVS is meeting here tomorrow and this house needs to gleam, positively gleam! Marjorie Wilkes-Hamilton hosted the last meeting and I won’t be outdone by her. I simply won’t!”