A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection

by Dianna Crawford

  Once they reached the officers’ area, Margaret summoned the strength to complete her assignment. After all, she was a WAAF and certainly above petty nonsense about a man’s eyes. Yet she had driven poorly by hitting the hole in the road.

  Lieutenant Stuart waited beside the car, while Corporal Harris, the more muscular of the two, exited. “Go on ahead. I’ll be there in a moment,” he said.

  She watched the chatty corporal walk toward the colonel’s office, all the while expecting a reprimand for her driving.

  “Corporal Walker?”

  “Yes sir.” She lifted her chin.

  He smiled, the half grin she’d seen before, the kind that could easily melt a woman’s heart. But not hers. “What time do you get off duty today?”

  “Seventeen hundred hours, sir.”

  “Would you consider a stroll?”

  Her pulse quickened. “Well … have I violated a procedure? I mean, I apologize for not minding the bumpy road.”

  His pleasant demeanor remained intact. “No, ma’am, I’m not concerned with your driving expertise. I’d simply like your company.”

  Her emotions bounced between relief and caution, and she wavered. This could be official RAF business. “Yes sir. I mean, that would be fine with me.”

  He touched the brim of his cap, where a tousle of sandy-colored hair slipped onto his forehead. “Thank you. I’ll be at your barracks around eighteen hundred?”

  “Do you know which one, sir?”

  A hint of amusement glistened in his eyes, and she felt her color mount. “Yes, Corporal, I do.”

  The rest of the day sped by, and in those moments of idleness Margaret questioned the lieutenant’s motives. If this had nothing to do with the defense of Britain, then he must be interested in her as a woman, and she had no intention of becoming involved with any man until the British won the war.

  Visions of the young pilots who never returned flashed across her mind. Her brother’s demise had caused her to avoid all men. Shaking her head in denial of the pain, her thoughts turned to Beryl and how she mourned the death of her husband. With four-year-old Christopher and another babe yet to be born, Beryl’s future looked frightening, even without considering the events of the war.

  Margaret had only one love—the Lord—and when the fighting ceased He’d be the one to initiate any kind of a relationship between her and a man.

  Promptly at seventeen hundred hours, Margaret raced to the showers, hoping a quick spray of water would soothe her rattled nerves. Moments later, she slipped into clean work trousers and shirt. She huffed. If Lieutenant Stuart had stated the purpose of their time together—professional or personal—she would have known whether to wear her dress uniform.

  Beryl met her back at the barracks. “Where are you going?”

  Margaret fluffed at her hair, then held up a mirror to make sure the curls fell just so on her shoulders. She noticed a thickening around Beryl’s middle but refused to mention it. “Business, I think,” she said, avoiding her friend’s scrutiny.

  “You don’t know?”

  Dare she tell Beryl what occurred this morning? “I’m supposed to meet Lieutenant Stuart at eighteen hundred.”

  Beryl touched her finger to her lips. She reminded Margaret of a mere girl with her oval face encircled in blond curls. “The name is familiar. Female or male?”

  “Male,” Margaret whispered, glancing about to make sure no one listened.

  “Weren’t you briefed on your assignment?” Beryl’s forehead crinkled.

  “Not exactly.” Margaret slipped the mirror back into her personal belongings. “Oh, Beryl, you remember him. The night in the shelter when those two pilots joined us?”

  “Which one—the chatty or reserved one?”

  “The reserved lieutenant.”

  Beryl smiled and nodded. “Is this something special?”

  Margaret felt the color rise in her cheeks. “I have no idea. He invited me for a stroll, but I don’t know why.”

  Her friend giggled and positioned her hands on her hips. “I say he’s a man who has taken a fancy to a lovely young woman, and you’re fancying him as well, or you wouldn’t be so flushed.”

  “Nonsense. I’m sure this is RAF related.”

  “Your lip is quivering.”

  Margaret cringed. “Is it? Oh, dear, what am I to do?”

  A woman’s voice from the door of the barracks diverted Margaret’s attention. “Corporal Walker, there’s a Lieutenant Stuart waiting outside for you.”

  Chapter 2

  “It is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime.

  That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.”

  WINSTON CHURCHILL

  Lieutenant Andrew Stuart toyed with the crease of his cap. He flecked imaginary dust from his albatross insignia and shifted from one foot to the other. What had gotten into him to invite the lady for a stroll? He didn’t have time for such nonsense when he had a job to do. Hadn’t he and the other men been warned by a superior about allowing women to interfere with duty? He’d been better off to spend his time in a dart tournament. The war effort was the utmost priority. Victory outweighed every selfish desire.

  Unfortunately, once he’d met Corporal Margaret Walker in the shelter, she’d haunted him until he found out all he could about her. Only curious, mind you. He couldn’t see her face in the blackness of night, but something about her intrigued him.

  This morning he saw the sun’s rays pick up reddish highlights in her thick, rich brown hair. Those tresses were the kind a man could weave through his fingers. When she spoke, a sparkle lit up her arresting eyes and drew him even closer. In the past, he held little regard for men who lost themselves in a woman’s beauty, and now he threatened to do the same.

  All he ever hoped to find in these dark days was friendship. He wanted a woman friend to talk to when the day ended, when he wanted to put behind him the peril of his beloved country and the terror raging over Europe.

  What he’d learned about Margaret also saddened him. She’d lost a brother in ’39. Her brother had flown a Wellington on a mission to destroy a German naval ship and met up with the Messerschmitt 109 bombers. Andrew’s source said he doubted if any pilot could convince the lovely Corporal Margaret Walker to do anything other than transport fliers back and forth to the hangars, much less befriend a chap. Couldn’t blame the lady for her apprehension. Britons were noted for their sense of humor and hopefulness in the midst of bleak times, but that attitude didn’t stop the pain of losing someone they loved.

  Although his chums refused to believe it, Margaret had agreed to accompany him on a stroll, and no matter the outcome he planned to enjoy the company of a beautiful woman.

  No sooner had his thoughts scattered about in his head, than the subject of his musings appeared in the doorway. She looked a bit flustered with her reddened cheeks and crinkled brow, reminding him of earlier when he caught her observing him through the rearview mirror. To his amusement, she hit a rather large bump in the road. The force jolted him up off the seat. She’d been embarrassed, but he’d found it delightful.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant,” she greeted, smoothing her trousers.

  He grinned like an awkward schoolboy. “Hello, and my name’s Andrew.” He noted his sweaty palms gripping the crease of his cap. How many missions had he flown with less turmoil waging his insides? “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you, and I’m Margaret.”

  She returned a measure of congeniality, while he battled his increasing nervousness. He hooked his arm, and she linked hers into his. Margaret’s touch unnerved him, leaving him stumbling for words. They walked for several minutes while he searched for some
thing clever to say—he so wanted a topic aside from the war.

  “I’m not good at conversation,” he finally said.

  “Unlike your friend, Corporal Harris?”

  “Perhaps I should have taken a few notes the night we invaded the women’s shelter.”

  Margaret appeared amused. “Quite the talker, isn’t he? Does he ever run out of subjects?”

  “Only the queen has more subjects than James Harris. I once saw him make friends with a lamppost. He’s a fine chap, though, an excellent fighter pilot.”

  “Ah, so you’re the witty one,” she said.

  For the first time, he relaxed slightly. “Not exactly. More like the quiet one. I prefer watching and listening.”

  “I prefer quiet,” she said.

  He felt his heart do an upward climb, level off, spin, and soar even higher.

  “Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Lieutenant?”

  He’d rather be outnumbered by Nazi aircraft ten-to-one than talk about himself, but he didn’t have a choice. “I attended Cambridge before the war and plan to finish there when it’s over. My family lives outside of Northamptonshire, and I fly Spitfires for the RAF.” He managed to say it all in one breath.

  She laughed. He liked the sound of it, light and cheery as if inviting him to join along.

  “Andrew, must I ask more questions to find out about you? What did you study at Cambridge?”

  His heart hammered louder than gunfire riddling his Spitfire. “Philosophy. I almost have my master’s.”

  “Then what?”

  “Oh, I imagine myself as a professor someday, once I receive my doctorate.” Andrew felt decidedly uncomfortable. Blood rushed through his veins and heated him despite the chilly temperatures of the November day.

  “Splendid.” Her eyes seemed to dance. “And do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Ah, yes I do. Three older brothers and two younger sisters.” His voice faltered.

  Margaret tilted her head. “I see I’ve touched on something sad. I’m sorry.”

  Andrew thought he masked his sorrow. “I’m the one who must apologize. It’s my sister. She died in childbirth about five months ago. Hard on my family, you know. Luckily they live in the country and the babe is with them, while his father commands an army post.”

  “I’m so sorry. Times are hard for England. Everywhere you look is some type of devastation, but we have to go on.”

  She offered kind words and no false expectations. He liked that.

  “Are you Christian?” Margaret said.

  Startled, he nodded. “My faith is what helps me climb into my cockpit. Either in this life or the next, God will give England peace, but until then I will fight for those things He declares important. I firmly believe He will see the free world reign over the atrocities of the Germans.”

  “I do as well. God guards the way of those who fight for His principles, and He will not allow this to continue forever.” She stopped and turned to him. “I lost a brother to the cause. It grieves me, but like your sister, he is in a better place.”

  Andrew stared into the young woman’s face, realizing her empathy was sincere and not a mixing of words to gain his attention. “Thank you, Margaret.” He didn’t know what else to say, especially when he’d already spoken more than usual.

  They walked a bit farther in silence, and he felt his spirit strangely exhilarated with her arm coupled in his. He grappled for another topic and forged on. “Enough nonsense about me, tell me about yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m a country girl, Andrew, and I long to one day return. Strange as it sounds, I’d never been in a large city until joining the WAAF. Before then I had plans to become a teacher, and I’ll finish my degree once the war is over.”

  She didn’t dwell on herself, either. “Whereabouts?” he said.

  “Northwest of Manchester.” She sighed as if remembering another place in time. “A beautiful piece of land: tranquil, lush green, and full of unusual gardens. It’s my own promised land.”

  “How commendable to know what you want. I’ve met people who strive to merely end the war and don’t know what they will do afterward. We need dreams of a future to keep us alive.” He hesitated, a bit self-conscious for speaking his mind and mentioning the war. “Do you have a large family?”

  “Just my parents now. We’re all doing what we can. My mum took in six children without consulting my father. When he found out, he added two more.”

  Andrew allowed his laughter to roll about them. “I neglected to mention my family is housing several children as well. How are your parents faring with the additions to their home?”

  “Quite well. They both insist having little ones about keeps them young.”

  He took a gander about them and realized they’d walked farther than he anticipated. Evening shadows danced about, and with the promise of night also came the reality of bombing.

  “We should make our way back before the Germans bestow us with their gifts,” he said.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She glanced upward.

  For a moment he permitted himself to think she didn’t want the evening to end any more than he. They stopped at a crossroad. One building stood, while another lay in shambles beside it. The philosophical side of him compared the sight to all affected by the war. He knew where he stood. He’d stepped across the line separating the weak from the strong, the resolute from the defeated. God held his destiny in the palm of His hands as well as all Britons who’d willingly give their lives.

  “What are you thinking?” Margaret said. “Or is it none of my concern? You look hundreds of miles away.”

  “Simply thinking about the war—a topic I vowed not to discuss this evening.” They slowly walked back toward the barracks.

  She nodded. “I understand, but it’s quite all right, you know. It consumes us but will not overtake us.”

  “Good show, fair lady. I admire your spunk, but I’d rather speak of dearer things.” He stared into her flawless face. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

  “You’re welcome, Andrew. I’ve enjoyed our time together.” She glanced at the sky with its pressing shadows. He saw a frown, and they increased their pace. “Now tell me about your boyhood. What was your most favorite thing to do?”

  They chatted all the way back, and much too soon they stood in front of the round-roofed wooden building she referred to as home.

  “Sometimes I think I’d like to plant flowers around these barracks,” she said. “My friends think the idea foolish.”

  He attempted to envision a spot of color around the drab quarters. “What kind would you plant?”

  For a moment, she closed her eyes, and he marveled at the serene smile gracing her face. “Oh, roses. I can only imagine how lovely they’d look, and their sweet fragrance would make the days brighter.”

  Andrew remembered a matter of importance. He shuddered at his actions in complete disregard for his careful upbringing. “Margaret, I never asked. You missed the evening meal, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but it’s perfectly fine. Did you not eat as well?”

  He refused to confess his thoughts had been on her and not his stomach. “I’m sorry. So much for my being a gentleman.”

  She laughed. “If I’d been hungry, I’d have stated so.”

  A strange silence enveloped them, and she slipped her hand from the crook of his arm. “I best be going inside.”

  “Of course. Thank you again for joining me. I had a grand time.”

  “You’re a fine man, Lieutenant Stuart.” Her eyes fairly glistened.

  “May … may we do this another time? I’d like to see you again.”

  Margaret took a deep breath and hesitated. She appeared to carefully form her words. “I don’t think so, Andrew. It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  With her decision made, she hurried inside the barracks, leaving a whipping blast of chilling air behind her.

  Margaret braced herself and slowly made her way down th
e narrow row of iron cots to hers. She smiled at the women who greeted her, hearing them but not truly seeing them. Some would want to talk. They always did. She had the gift of listening to their problems and offering prayer and encouragement. Beryl said Margaret reminded her of a mother hen with her chicks—always drawing them close and fussing over each one.

  Tonight, Margaret’s heart felt heavy. She’d find it hard to cover her burden and take care of these precious ladies. The truth lay before her plain and simple. She couldn’t see Andrew again, in fact not ever. He reminded her too much of the dreams she’d put aside until after the war. Someday she wanted to build her life around a man like Andrew, have his children, and grow old with him according to the plan God designed for a man and a woman. But not until the free world won the war. Worrying over a man flying missions against the enemy didn’t fall into her plans.

  Andrew held the same ideals as Ross, her sweet brother, and she didn’t dare let her heart feel such intense grief over a man again. Some scars bled easier than others, and caring for men who knew the probability of their destiny made them easier to love—if not for the man, for the integrity of their values. All she needed to do was consider Beryl: a widow with one small child and expecting another.

  Every time Margaret transported a lorry full of pilots to the hangars, she couldn’t help but count them and calculate how many would not return. That’s why she declined invitations to dances, the theater, and social events sponsored by the churches and the air force. No relationships for her, not even friendships. She couldn’t involve herself casually and learn later they’d been shot down.

  “Margaret, you look a fright,” Beryl said. She rose from her cot and tossed aside a newspaper. “What happened?” A fierce look passed over Beryl’s round face, and she whispered, “Did the lieutenant have dishonorable intentions?”

  Margaret pretended to smooth her blanket. “Oh, no. He acted quite the gentleman.”

  “What happened?”

  “I liked him.”

  Tears pooled her friend’s eyes. “Then why are you so sad?”

  Margaret eased down onto her cot, unable to gaze into her friend’s eyes. “Because I don’t dare see him after tonight. It makes losing him harder to bear. Oh, Beryl, I know we only had a brief walk together, but he’s a good man, a Christian who puts others before himself.”