by Sarah Sundin
Vera’s upper lip curled. “Aren’t you the one acting superior right now?”
“Because she is superior.” Alice batted her blonde eyelashes and pressed her hands together as if praying. “Forgive us, Sister Kay, for we have sinned.”
The sour feeling dribbled into Kay’s stomach.
Vera and Alice strolled on ahead of her, shaking their heads and laughing. They hadn’t invited Kay to go dancing for over a month.
Because of her faith, Kay no longer bridged the two factions. She’d joined one.
Vera and Alice had it wrong. The last thing she felt was superior.
21
Over the Mediterranean
August 15, 1944
Despite the cool night air in the cockpit, sweat tickled Roger’s upper lip. “You got it, Pettas?”
“Position Hoboken coming right up.”
“Good.” Hoboken was the last naval checkpoint before the French coast. Two thousand feet below, a ship guided the planes with Eureka radar beacons and Holophane infrared lights. Although Roger flew toward the end of the hundred-mile-long string of 396 C-47s, he was responsible for his flight of nine planes and for the twenty-eight British paratroopers in the cabin. He couldn’t afford to stray off course.
“Thirty-nine miles to the IP.” Mike Elroy swiped a hand over his forehead, then adjusted the throttles.
Thirty-nine miles to the French coast. Roger ran the numbers in his head—less than seventeen minutes until he crossed into enemy territory.
Today the Allies would open a fourth front against Nazi Germany. The forces from Normandy streamed east toward Paris, the Soviets marched west through Poland, the Allies in Italy pushed up through Pisa and Florence, and today the US Seventh Army would land in Southern France near St. Tropez, not far east of the major ports of Toulon and Marseille.
Operation Dragoon.
“Passing over Hoboken,” Pettas said on the interphone.
“Thanks.” Roger flipped off the amber downward recognition lights meant to protect them from Allied naval fire, but now likely to draw enemy fire.
The amphibious landings were scheduled for 0800, with the first paratroopers jumping at 0330. The clock read 0441, and Roger was scheduled to make his drop at 0505.
He scanned the instruments and checked his grip on the control wheel.
Lord, don’t let me mess up. The lead position was a great responsibility with dozens of lives at stake—and it was an honor. Just this week, Major Veerman had praised his improved reliability and said he might be able to put in a good word with his brother.
Roger’s heels tapped a pattern on the floor. Finish his thousand-hour combat tour, fly stateside for the duration of the war, then audition for the Veerman band. A gift.
“You have a gift.” Kay’s words speared through his head, but she was wrong. He might have a way with kids, but teaching was entirely different.
He could still see her as she said it, lowering one end of a bench, hair falling into her face, a soft smile pushing up her pink cheeks.
Man alive! He never should have gone to the orphanage.
Roger tumbled his gum around in his mouth and fixed his mind on his instruments. Looked good. A crescent moon barely illuminated the scattered clouds above and the land ahead.
The land looked—he squinted—pale and puffy? Oh swell. The meteorologists had been concerned about fog over the drop zone. They got it right. “Fog,” he said.
Elroy leaned forward as if six extra inches would improve visibility. “Oh great.”
“Pettas, here’s hoping your toys work. We’ve got fog over the shore.”
“The Rebecca radar hasn’t picked up a Eureka beam from the drop zone yet.”
“It’s early, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” The radioman’s voice crackled. “Hope Veerman’s radar works.”
Roger peered ahead at the dark planes in their V formations silhouetted against the pale gray fog ahead. In the lead of the serial of thirty-six planes, Veerman’s navigator had an SCR-717 set which distinguished land from sea, so they’d know when they crossed the coast at the harbor at Agay.
Elroy fiddled with the oil mixture. “Sure hope the Pathfinder teams landed all right.”
“Yeah.” The first men to jump carried Eureka beacons, lighted panels, and other navigational aids to guide the rest of the planes to the drop zone.
Was it his imagination, or did the stream of planes bend slightly to the west? “Pettas, are we close to the IP?”
“Yeah. Dead reckoning says we should be there in two minutes.”
Elroy nodded. “I’ll count it down.”
While Elroy ticked off the seconds that would determine whether twenty-eight men lived or died, Roger made sure everything was ready. Oil and fuel mixture, manifold pressure, heading, altitude, airspeed.
His gum turned stiff and flavorless, and he clamped it between his molars.
“I’ve got it!” Pettas shouted in the interphone. “I’m picking up the Eureka.”
Roger lifted his earphone away from his head. “And we’re picking you up—loud and clear.”
“Sorry, Coop.”
He grinned. “That means the Pathfinder team landed safely. Hallelujah.”
Elroy tapped Roger’s upper arm. “We should be at the IP.”
“The boys ahead of us agree.” Roger waggled his wings and then put his plane into a descending four-degree turn to the left, following the stream of troop carriers. Since the IP was only ten minutes from the drop zone, he rang the bailout bell.
He and Elroy worked together to ease back the throttles, their hands coordinating from months of practice. Had to get down to fifteen hundred feet and 110 mph.
Spots of light flashed in the fog below. The Nazis had discovered them.
Roger drew in a deep breath, reassured by the weight of the flak vest. First time the Twelfth Air Force had ever issued them to troop carrier crews.
A crack rocked the plane.
“Elroy, do a check. Pettas, how’s our heading?” He had to keep them on target.
“Half a tick to the right,” Pettas said.
Roger adjusted his course and eyed the fog below. The drop altitude of fifteen hundred feet was much higher than usual due to high terrain features, and he didn’t want to meet one of those terrain features face to face.
Elroy shifted in his seat. “Everything’s fine. Don’t think we took any damage.”
“Good.” He definitely didn’t want to meet the Nazis face to face. In the pocket of his trousers, he carried a clicker, issued to all the crewmen today to differentiate friend from foe if they crash-landed. The brass expected minimal losses since the Germans focused on the Allied threat in northern France. “Minimal” might make the generals happy, but not the man testing his clicker behind enemy lines.
“Two minutes,” Pettas said.
Roger flipped on the red light and raised the flaps. Back in the cabin, the Brits would queue up, do a final check, and prepare themselves.
Those men would be using their clickers today. And their guns.
“Altitude fifteen hundred, airspeed one eleven.” Elroy wiped one hand on his trousers.
Roger eased the left throttle back and the right throttle forward.
“Signal’s nice and clear,” Pettas said. “We’re on course. Thirty seconds.”
Ahead and below, parachutes blossomed and sank into the fog.
Roger stuffed his gum into his cheek and willed his muscles still and steady. He had to amount to something today. For the sake of the men in the back, he had to.
Pettas ticked off the seconds, and Roger’s hand rose to the light switch on the overhead panel.
“And . . . now!”
His thumb froze in position. Lord, please. Please let them live, let them do their job.
He flipped the switch from red to green, flung the men from friendly to enemy territory, from safety to danger.
Slowly the plane lightened and lifted, emptied of twenty-eight men laden
with gear.
“All right, Coop.” Whitaker spoke on the interphone back by the cargo door. “They’re out, every one of them. All clear.”
“You know, I’ve never been to France.” Roger chomped on his gum. “Who wants to do some sightseeing?”
Pettas cussed. “Are you joking? Get us home.”
Elroy laughed. “Would Coop ever joke? Never.”
Roger turned the wheel to the right and drew it closer to his chest. “We’ll come back another day.”
No joke this time. Once the Americans had secured the beachhead and built an airstrip, they’d fly in supplies.
Roger finished the 180-degree turn and adjusted his rate of climb so he’d reach the return altitude of five thousand feet.
What next? Running cargo from Rome to Toulon? How about medical air evacuation? Would the ladies of the 802nd stick to the Rome to Naples route, or would they join the men of the 64th TCG? Maybe he’d get his wish and he wouldn’t fly with Kay anymore.
The flak vest pressed hard on his chest. Yeah, that had to be what he felt. He couldn’t be disappointed, could he?
He checked his heading, airspeed, altitude—state of mind. Yeah, he was disappointed at the thought of not working with her, not seeing her.
More than anything, he wanted to spit out his stale gum. Shelby was right—he shouldn’t have gone to the orphanage. Shell had declined. As a married man, he kept his distance from women to avoid temptation. A wise policy Roger had followed until lately.
But Kay and her friends had pleaded on behalf of the children. Did she know kids were his weak spot?
Worse, the kids softened him and stole away his defenses. And there was Kay, playful and sassy, bumping against him, making him want to grab her around the waist and stop the game with a good long kiss.
Roger rapped his hand against the control wheel.
The plane dipped, and Elroy shot him an alarmed look.
“Sorry. Forgot something.” Yeah, forgot his brain, forgot his common sense, forgot all the lessons he’d learned the past decade.
He was tumbling into territory almost as dangerous as the land below. Not just for him, but for her. She already had to fight off one lecher recently. She shouldn’t have to fight Roger off too. Or worse—what if she didn’t fight?
Roger grimaced. Somehow he had to get some distance again. Lord, please let us go our separate ways. I’ve done my bit. Now pull me off the assignment.
The flak vest pressed hard.
22
Sisteron, France
August 22, 1944
“Vive la France!” Mellie Blake crossed the sod runway, arms outstretched as if to hug the country.
Louise Cox giggled and nudged Mellie. “You’re just happy because Tom’s here.”
“Right here at Sisteron. Rudy’s here too.” Mellie’s tone took on a teasing lilt for Louise’s sake, then she turned to Georgie. “And I do believe a dark-haired pharmacist is in the area.”
“He is.” Georgie sighed. “France is already living up to its romantic reputation.”
Too much romance for Kay, especially since Roger remained in Italy. And especially since Roger had no romantic interest in her. She fell back to walk with Vera, Alice, Lieutenant Lambert, and Capt. Frank Maxwell.
“Isn’t the light exquisite?” Alice shielded her eyes and gazed around. “The Impressionists said Provence has the best light in the world, and I have to agree. I can’t wait to get out my paints.”
Kay didn’t know anything about light or paint, but the scenery was gorgeous—the rolling Durance Valley, the mix of golden grasses and deep green trees, and the sudden white of limestone cliffs, one topped by an ancient citadel.
Vera shook back her shiny sable hair. “I’m looking forward to Paris. The way we’re charging up the Rhȏne Valley, we might beat the Normandy forces there.”
“They have too much of a head start on us.” Captain Maxwell chuckled. “But never fear. You’ll be shopping on the Champs-Élysées before long.”
Kay rolled her eyes. The flight surgeon thought women only cared about shopping.
Lieutenant Lambert wore a satisfied smile. “That’s why I chose these two flights for this assignment. The twelve of you ladies have been overseas the longest, and you deserve to be the first to fly from France.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. We appreciate it.” Kay’s smile felt as fake as her words. France didn’t feel like a reward when Roger was in Italy, and when Lieutenant Lambert would return to 802nd headquarters in Lido once she got the French detachment settled in. How could Kay convince Lambert she was chief nurse material if Lambert never saw her?
Kay fanned the open neckline of her blouse for relief from the heat. Since April, her spiritual tumult had thrown her off her goal and driven a wedge among the nurses. But soon the war would end and she’d lose her opportunity. Somehow she had to bring the group together. Unity would be more important with the women isolated, away from the other two flights in the squadron.
Unity. That was the key. Kay hefted her barracks bag higher on her shoulder and smiled at her friends. “We’ll have to work together like never before, like sisters. And here we are at Sisteron.”
She almost gagged on the corn in her mouth. Corn? She’d never been corny in her life. Where on earth had that come from?
Alice glanced to the side as if embarrassed for Kay, and Vera’s upper lip twitched, a look Kay had only seen directed at Mellie and Georgie before. And Lieutenant Lambert gave her a quizzical look.
Kay laughed it off. “On the other hand, maybe not. I don’t even like my sisters.”
Vera’s lip stopped its twitch, and Lambert raised a slight smile.
“Where are we staying?” Changing the subject seemed wise. Kay waved her hand around at the scenery. “Where’s our grand château?”
“I’m afraid it’ll be the Château de Canvas de l’Armée.” Lambert’s brown eyes crinkled.
“Tents.” Alice scrunched up her nose.
“Not just any tent,” Kay said. “A tent in Provence with Impressionistic light filtering in.”
“Romantic.” Sarcasm colored Vera’s voice, but she smiled. “So many happy memories under canvas.”
“Many more to come.” Captain Maxwell gave her a warm smile.
Kay fought a frown. For a married man, he was far too familiar with the nurses.
Then there was Roger, who acted more like a married man than Maxwell did. And people said women were hard to figure out.
Istres/Le Tubé Airfield, France
September 8, 1944
Two asphalt runways and one earthen runway. Nice. No wonder the Luftwaffe had liked the airfield. But now the Americans ran Istres/Le Tubé.
Roger carried his bag across the runway with the Indian dhol drum strapped across his chest. He hadn’t received a replacement drum from Chicago. The music store apologized—shortages of metal, you know, but if they received anything in stock, they’d send it. He was getting good on the dhol though. If only that impressed the big band leaders.
Major Veerman beckoned Roger and Elroy to the Army truck that would take them to officers’ quarters.
Warm sea air filled Roger’s lungs. The airfield lay close to the Mediterranean, not far west of Marseille. To the surprise of the Allied commanders, the French had taken both Marseille and Toulon before the end of August, and the US Seventh Army had already linked up with the Normandy forces over a hundred miles to the north. The Allies held a line from the English Channel to Switzerland and down to the Franco-Italian border. Maybe this war would be over by Christmas.
Roger would do his best to speed the process. In France he’d fly new routes and face new dangers and challenges. For the first time in his life, he felt prepared.
“Hey, Coop. Elroy.” Bill Shelby waved and approached with his copilot, Irvin Bernstein. “Can’t believe we’re stationed in France.”
“Swell, isn’t it?” Roger tossed his bag into the back of the truck and climbed in.
“D
o you know . . . has anyone heard if the gals are here?” Mike Elroy hoisted himself up over the tailgate, but his voice sounded stiff.
Roger plunked down onto the bench seat, and a brotherly urge rose in his chest. The poor man needed help talking to women and asking them out. However, Roger’s bad experience would only lead to bad advice.
“Sure thing.” Bernstein shoved his barracks bag under his seat. “Heard some of the gals of the 807th are up at Le Luc, and the gals of the 802nd arrived here at Istres a few days ago. Good news for you, Playboy Elroy.”
Mike’s cheeks flamed. “I’ve never . . . no one’s ever . . .”
When the men broke down in good-natured laughter, Mike laughed too and exchanged shoulder slugs with Bernie.
Roger patted out a quiet rhythm on both drumheads of the dhol. The gals of the 802nd were here at Istres. He was afraid of that. No matter where in France Kay was stationed, he’d fly with her. But to be quartered at the same base, sharing a mess, church services, all that?
“Oh boy,” he muttered and shifted his tempo.
The truck rumbled across the field and down a road running east. The wind cooled Roger’s face, ruffled his hair, and mellowed his beat. Kay or no Kay, this was a first-rate location. The airfield lay on a large coastal plain. Far inland, limestone ridges jutted up.
They turned into town. The streets were lined with two-storied homes, plastered in shades of tan or yellow, with colorful shutters and red tile roofs.
The truck eased onto a side street and filled it from curb to curb. A staircase ran up the exterior of one of the houses, and four ladies sat on the stairs, top to bottom.
Roger’s heart lurched in his chest, throwing off his rhythm.
Kay Jobson sat on the bottom step, hair glowing in the sunshine. She raised one hand to shield her eyes, then grinned and waved.
His heartbeat gave a whole new meaning to syncopation.
He returned the smile and the wave. At least the rest of the boys were whooping and waving, so he didn’t stand out.
The truck stopped. Veerman pointed to the house across the road. “That’s your home, gentlemen.”
