From below I could see the Allied fighters, high above our heads, limping along in a straggly, ragtag formation. Two of the B-17s were smoking, the wings on fire where they’d knocked into each other. I saw the parachutes dropping, one plane spinning toward the earth, but not on purpose like us. I saw the balloon of fire and smoke as it hit, and then I pushed the He 70 up and up so we would get lost in the clouds, out of sight of the two fighters that were still there.
The plane climbed to ten thousand feet, then twelve thousand, then fifteen thousand, then sixteen thousand, until the world went white around us. In that field of clouds, it felt as if we were floating. It was like being in a cave—no flak, no fire, no sound at all. Everything slowed down. I felt light, like I didn’t weigh a pound. If I let go of the throttle I thought I might slip away through the cabin and out the window and into the fog. I would float there like an angel, like Mama, and I would be free as the clouds. I would live in the clouds and live in the sky, nothing pulling me down or keeping me planted or rooting me in place like a tree. I am living out there, I thought. Are you happy, Mama? This is living out there, just like you told me to do.
I wanted to go higher. I wanted to go as high as the sun or the moon. I wanted to open the window and step outside and feel the air lifting me, holding me. My head felt sweet and blurry and it was the first peaceful moment since I’d left America behind. My eyes were heavy and I wanted to sleep. Just for a minute. Just a quick rest. I hadn’t rested in a long time. When was the last time? I couldn’t remember. It must have been months, maybe more. Back in Nashville. Back at the Lovelorn Café. With Gossie in the next room and Johnny Clay keeping us up late talking. And we were learning to fly.
Johnny Clay. There was something about Johnny Clay…. My eyes were closing and my head was blurring. Johnny Clay...
Suddenly I felt a sharp sting on my cheek. I tried to hide my face by turning in to my shoulder, but there was a sting on my other cheek. I was weak and I was weary, and I didn’t have much breath left in me, and then there was something being tied around my head, around my mouth. I tried to push it off, but the more I pushed, the harder it pressed against my face.
A voice that sounded just like mine said, “You’re dreaming, Velva Jean. Wake up. Come out of the fog.”
I opened my eyes and Émile was bent over my seat, wedging himself into the small space, his hands gripping the throttle and the wheel. He said, “Are you mad, Clementine? You pulled off your oxygen mask.”
I felt the mask, and then I looked around. We were out of the smoke and there was nothing but clear sky. No enemy planes. No bursts of flak. I wanted to go back and lose myself. I wanted to pull off the mask and shut my eyes.
I shouted, “Did you slap me?”
“Yes! Take the wheel and get us out of here.”
“Johnny Clay...”
“He has a fighting chance as long as you don’t fall asleep again. Go.”
I said, “We’re hit.”
The engine was running rough. From what I could tell, we didn’t have rudder controls or hydraulic pressure, and the oxygen was low. Émile shouted, “There’s a leak in the bomb bay cross-feed. I opened the bomb bay doors to try to stop an explosion.”
A red light on the instrument panel started blinking on and off. In all the planes I’d flown before, this meant the plane was close to running out of fuel. I chopped the throttle and flew the tightest pattern I could, and then I gave it all the gas I could.
I took the plane low because of the oxygen supply. I let down three hundred feet per minute, which let me increase our speed, and then I throttled back to save fuel. I throttled it back even more and reduced the rpm. We were losing gas and I didn’t know what this meant for us, if we could make it to Harrington or even another ten miles. Down below us, the land gave way to the blue-black water, and suddenly we were over the English Channel.
Émile was shouting something about Manston, England. Not Harrington. Manston. It was an RAF emergency landing field. It was closer. It sat right on the coast. It had a three-thousand-foot runway, which was perfect for a no-flaps, no-brakes landing. They could handle emergency landings there. They had all the equipment. Take us in there, Clementine. Take us in there, Velva Jean. Take us in there.
I brought us down through the clouds, lower and lower, and suddenly, rising out of the water, there were these giant white cliffs, topped with a bright green, running from east to west as far as I could see. Just beyond them was a long gray-black road that wasn’t a road at all but a runway.
I started cranking the main gear down, and then I leaned in over the instrument panel—the red light flashing—searching for the green light that would tell me the gear was locked, but I didn’t know what I was looking at. We came in fast over the water and passed over the cliffs, and the whole time, I was trying to shake the gear into a locked position. Heavy bombers were scattered across the airfield, and this made me grip the throttle tighter, so tight my knuckles went white.
I pulled up hard to set up for landing. I pitched up and eased the throttle back and punched the buttons that would put the flaps down. I could feel the flaps coming down, but the landing gear didn’t move, and then the flaps seemed to stop, just like that. I punched the buttons again, but they stayed where they were, half-down, half-up. I closed my eyes, just for a minute, and thought about flying blind. This was flying as blind as they came, and without looking I punched the buttons and pulled the levers, right where I would have found them on a plane I knew.
Nothing happened.
I looked toward the ground, and that’s when I saw the ground crew. The air defense men had ripped the tarps off the quad .50 machine guns that sat around the field in a circle. I turned around to look for Émile, but he was gone again. Eleanor was gone. It was just me.
I couldn’t worry about the machine guns pointed at us because I had to worry about landing the plane. The engine was choking, and the gauges were spinning. I used something called a sideslip to slow the plane, which meant I cross-controlled the aileron and rudder to slip the He 70 down, putting the side of the aircraft into the wind to increase drag and decrease speed. I lined up with the runway and all the guns followed me. I stared so hard at the runway that I made the guns blur away. All I could see was that gray-black road stretched out in front of me.
I would have to land the plane on its belly, and I didn’t have any way of telling Émile or Eleanor what I was doing. I flashed my downward recognition lights—or tried to—which would let the men on the ground know I was in trouble and, hopefully, that I was friendly, and then I brought the He 70 lower, lower. I brought her even lower, and there was a jolt as we hit the ground, the metal of the plane’s stomach grinding across the hard pavement.
The cabin filled with smoke and I was in the clouds again. But instead of floating away, I flipped the safety release on the escape hatch. It didn’t open and I thought of Sally trapped in the cockpit of her plane. I flipped it again. Men with guns were climbing on the wings and they grabbed for me. I tried to undo my seat belt, but my hands wouldn’t work. The men were pulling me, and one of them yanked me out of the plane so hard the seat belt snapped in half against my legs. He threw me down onto the runway.
The plane was smoking like a chimney, and the men dragged me away from it, just as they were dragging away Émile and Eleanor and Johnny Clay. My brother’s head was limp against his chest, his arms thrown out to his sides. I started kicking the men and slapping them. I said, “He’s hurt! Be careful with him!”
The men dropped me onto the ground. “You let him go right now, you hear me?” A fire truck came roaring up, and I shouted at the firemen, “That man is dying and you’d better make sure he doesn’t. I don’t care what you do to me, but you’d better take him to a hospital right now.”
There was an ambulance now and they were loading Johnny Clay into the back of it. I tried to get up and run for him, but one of the men blocked my way and another came up next to me and said, “We’ve got a Frenchman, an
Englishwoman, and this one. The Englishwoman may be a German.” His voice was cold and British.
I said, “Please let me go with my brother.” The ambulance door shut with a click. The driver climbed into the cab.
The man blocking my way said, “I’m sorry. Not until we can verify your identity.”
I watched as the ambulance rolled away with my brother inside.
I thought: Good luck. Maybe once you figure out my identity, you can tell me just exactly who I am.
THIRTY-NINE
We were held in a cell in the decontamination center, where we were interrogated, one after the other. When it was Eleanor’s turn, Émile and I sat side by side on a bench and waited.
“How long will they keep us here?” I said.
“I do not know.” He took my hand. “He has lost some blood, but he is strong. He is a fighter like you.”
I didn’t bother moving my hand away. I was so tired. I leaned my head back against the cold stone wall and closed my eyes. After all that time trying to find Johnny Clay and worrying about him, he had been fit as a horse. And then I’d found him and now he was dying and once again I couldn’t even see him. It was good to be on land, especially safe land, where there was no one to run from or to shoot at you, but I could feel the dark clouds gathering around me. All I wanted to do was sleep.
Émile talked to me about the Heinkel He 70 and Manston, and he told me about Westgate on Sea, how it was built right on the cliffs, which were the famous White Cliffs of Dover. He said they were made of chalk—or calcium carbonate—which was why they looked white, and that on a clear day you could see them from France.
I opened my eyes. I said, “Like the song.”
“The song?”
“‘(There’ll be Bluebirds Over) The White Cliffs of Dover.’” I started to sing about laughter and love and the peace that would come once the world was free again. “I’ve heard that song a hundred times, but I never stopped to think about the words.”
He said, “They will be sending us to London. I need to go with Eleanor, to deliver her into the proper hands.”
“I’m not leaving here without my brother.”
“I know.”
“What will you do?” I meant in the rest of the war but I also meant in life.
“I will volunteer for another mission.”
“In France?”
“France is all but free now. Somewhere in Europe though, or perhaps French Indochina in the Pacific.”
I didn’t want to think of Émile going back to it. I didn’t want to picture him organizing the Resistance in the Pacific or blowing up rail lines or freeing spies.
“Eleanor is a double agent,” I said.
“Yes.”
That’s good, I thought. That’s important. I wasn’t sure it was worth the lives of Perry O’Connell or Ray or Coleman or Barzetti, but it was something.
“So is this good-bye?” It wasn’t really a question because I knew it was good-bye. I wanted to say, Will I ever see you again?
“I will try to come back before they ship me out, to check on you and your brother.” I wondered if he would try and if I would watch for him or if we both knew that this was the end. He turned his whole body to face me. He took both my hands in his. He said, “I don’t want you to wonder why we met. I want you only to remember the rough and surly Frenchman you knew and how you were like a star that lights the way. I want you to remember that good did come of this, no matter what an idiot Frenchman once said.”
I sat not moving, not talking. I thought, You will not cry.
He said, “Maybe you will come to France someday, just for pleasure. You will see it the way it is meant to be seen. We will climb the Eiffel Tower and drink champagne and toast our fallen comrades.”
I thought: No. I won’t ever go to France again, and if I do, it will be years from now and you will be married to a good French girl with a gap between her teeth, one who understands what you say and where you come from.
I said, trying to sound light and bright, “And then maybe you’ll come to America, and I’ll show you Fair Mountain and my family and Nashville. Maybe even the Grand Ole Opry, where I’ll be singing with a Hawaiian steel guitar and a suit made of rhinestones.” I sounded as breezy as a spring day, but inside my chest my heart tightened like someone was squeezing it.
He said, “I look forward to it.”
And then he leaned in and kissed me. He held my face in his hands and when we finally pulled apart I said, “Do not love me, Émile Gravois.”
He laughed, with sadness. “I am afraid it may be too late for that.” He put his arm around me and we sat, side by side, not talking.
Afterward, they let us shower and gave us new clothes, and I brushed my hair for the first time in weeks. Right down the middle of my head was a thin gold-brown line, like a road, where my own color was coming back. I thought, It’s good to see you again.
The clothes had been donated by the Ursuline Convent, which was a few miles away in Westgate on Sea. When I asked about my brother, the officer who’d brought us the clothes said he had been taken to the RAF hospital.
“Can I see him?”
“We will take you there later.”
They released us then, and I wondered if the SOE and the OSS and Jacqueline Cochran herself had confirmed who we were. Outside, the station commander was cross and unsmiling. He said someone was waiting to transport Émile and Eleanor to London right now, and me to Harrington, and he began walking us to an RAF transport plane, which sat, engine running, on the taxiway.
I said, “I won’t go without my brother.”
He said, “Your brother is immovable at this time, Miss Hart.”
“Then I’ll stay here until he’s able to go himself.” I stopped walking.
“But you will need to be debriefed, and your commanding officer will do that at Harrington.”
“I don’t have a commanding officer, sir, unless you’re talking about Jacqueline Cochran. I don’t work for the OSS or the SOE or any branch of the military. I’m a WASP, and we’re civilians.”
The station commander said, “I am sorry, but it’s procedure.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you. It may be procedure, but I’m not. I’ve got nothing to do with procedure in this war.”
Émile said to the man, “If I may.” The man looked at him, and I suddenly saw Émile through his eyes—dangerous and commanding. “I would like to save you a good bit of time and a great deal of energy by suggesting you do not argue with her. You will be much better off letting her do what she’s put her mind to do.” Émile looked at me and smiled.
The man walked away, shaking his head as Eleanor came toward us. She held out her hand to me. She looked pretty and fresh now, like a regular girl and not some important spy in a war. I thought about hugging her, but instead I put my hand in hers and shook it. Her grip was softer than I’d expected.
Over the engine, she said, “Thank you, Clementine Roux. Because of you—because of your team—I can see my daughter again.”
I was surprised at this because I didn’t know she had a daughter. But then, I didn’t know anything about her. I said, “You’re welcome.”
As she headed for the plane, stopping just feet away, waiting for Émile, I tried not to feel lost or alone. After everything we’d been through—Eleanor and me, but mostly Émile and me—now it was over, and I was glad and relieved and thankful, but I was empty too.
Émile stood in front of me, smiling down with his dark gypsy eyes. I pulled off Clementine Roux’s wedding ring and handed it to him. I said, “Thank you.” My hand felt free and empty. I wiggled my fingers just a little, letting them breathe. I didn’t think I’d ever wear a ring again.
He said, “Keep it. As a memory.” He placed it back into my palm. “Good-bye, Velva Jean Hart.”
I said, “I don’t even know your real name.”
He said, “You know more than that.” And he took my hand and pressed his lips to it, hol
ding them there so I could feel them burning into my skin.
September 12, 1944
Dear family,
I’m writing to tell you that I found Johnny Clay. We’ll give you the whole story when we see you, but we met up in Germany, and now you’ll be glad to know we’re back in England.
Even while I’m writing this I’m not sure what to say, but there’s something I’ve got to tell you and it’s a hard thing to hear. Johnny Clay was hit by a German bullet and he’s in the hospital on base. I haven’t seen him yet but I’ll see him soon. They don’t want any germs near him right now, so they’re keeping him to himself.
But they did tell me this—he was hit in the abdomen, just below his ribs. The doctor said it’s amazing that his stomach didn’t rupture and that he didn’t die before he got here because usually that’s what happens—the acid in a person’s stomach can get into their bloodstream and kill them. They’re worried right now about his spleen and his liver. He’s lost a lot of blood and he might be bleeding inside where they can’t see it. They’ve been giving him transfusions, which means I’ve been giving them as much of my own blood as they’ll take. The doctor’s going to operate, to make sure the bullet didn’t hit a major organ, and we won’t know much more until they do. I don’t think Johnny Clay’s in pain because he’s sleeping right now. He’s been asleep ever since it happened. The doctor’s worried he might not wake up.
Let me tell you something about where we are because this might make you feel better about him being here. Manston is a fighter airfield for the 11 Group Airforce, squadrons 600 and 604. It sits on the White Cliffs of Dover, just like the song, and it’s also a graveyard for heavy bombers because it’s so close to the front line, and airplanes are always limping in, like we did, after being hit by ground fire or air attacks. Because they’ve had so many emergency landings, the RAF built a hospital so they could treat the wounded on the spot instead of shipping them off somewhere else. This hospital has sixty beds, and the staff is made up of Red Cross doctors and nurses and the Princess Mary’s RAF Nursing Service, and also the Royal Navy.
Becoming Clementine: A Novel Page 32
