In the Shadow of Alabama

by Judy Reene Singer

  While England fights back, France accepts the Nazi occupation. Officers enjoy summer on the Rue de la Paix—

  This released a barrage of commentary from the audience. “Bloody cowards!” someone called out, which, to Willie, sounded distinctly like Lindsey Davies’s voice. “What’s the shortest list in the world?” another called out and was immediately answered by a chorus from the RAF cadets, “Frog heroes!”

  The newsreel continued:

  The collaborationist Vichy government orders its troops in North America and other French possessions to resist, to the death, if necessary, any British and Allied land and naval forces, if they attack—

  “Little shits!” a British voice commented loudly.

  This was barely spoken before it was drowned out by the booing from the French cadets. Offended by both the newsreel and the audience commentary, they rose to their feet, yelling at the screen in French and waving their fists. This provoked a prompt rebuttal from the RAF. Suddenly, there was an explosion of popcorn and Hershey’s bars, followed by fists; it was another riot in the making. MPs immediately swarmed the theater, clearing it out. The loud, wavering sound of the base alarm wailed over their heads.

  Willie quickly pulled August outside with him. “We’d better get ourselves back to the barracks,” he shouted into his ear.

  “Yessir,” August agreed. “I think it’s gotten too noisy for a movie.”

  “Hey!” Someone grabbed Willie’s arm. He froze for a moment, thinking, but he hadn’t been fighting, hadn’t been part of this. Bewildered, he managed to turn around.

  It was Fleischer. Willie’s heart started to beat again. “Not quite the entertainment they promised,” his sergeant yelled over the noise. “But I can’t say I’m disappointed.”

  There was chaos all around them, with the RAF and French slugging each other to the ground. Willie just wanted to get back to his barracks, but Fleischer walked over to a quieter spot, near a row of jeeps, with a motion for him to follow. Willie and August joined him there. For a minute they watched as the mêlée spread, more shouting, more fists, sirens screeching across the base for more MPs. The fighting between the Brits and the French had almost become routine by now; it had even been spilling into the streets of Montgomery, and the thought of demotions and punishments meant nothing to the French when they got their tempers up.

  “I looked for you before we went in,” Fleischer said to Willie, gesturing to the movie house. “Where the hell were you?”

  Willie eyed him. The guy was either naïve or stupid; it would take Willie a while to figure out which. “We had to go in through the back door, Sarge, the colored door. We been standing in the rear,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, fighting to keep the irony from it. “That’s where we stand, sir. You can always find us standing in the back.”

  * * *

  Davies, neatly dressed in his blue flight uniform, came into the wash rack early the next morning with an official-looking black notebook tucked under his arm. Though there was a cut across his cheek, and his nose was swollen and bruised, he was quite cheerful.

  “You Brits had better start calming down,” Fleischer greeted him. “The brass is out for blood now.”

  “Well worth it,” Davies replied, giving him a toothy grin through a raw upper lip. “I believe I knocked out a Frog or two.” He handed the notebook to Fleischer. “But I came here to hand-deliver this to you. Just like you requested.”

  Fleischer riffled through pages of pencil sketches. Planes flying upside down, a caricature of Seekircher hanging from a wing, French cadets spinning off the props, a bosomy blonde sitting in the cockpit stroking a huge, phallic-shaped throttle between her legs.

  Fleischer was irritated. “What the hell are you handing me doodles for?” he asked Davies, tossing it in the trash with a disgusted flip.

  “You told me to put down anything I thought was funny, mate, and I think these are pretty funny.” Davies folded his arms and leaned against the frame of a Vultee, still grinning. “Now, about that Fuller’s. I can’t exactly find them in this lovely state of Alabama, but I do owe you a beer. Just name your brand, and I will make it my top priority to find it.”

  Fleischer shook his head. “You got to take this more serious,” he said. “You’re the one up there, flying these buckets. I’m just trying to find out what’s going wrong. That’s my top priority.”

  Davies sighed melodramatically. “Leave it to you Yanks to take the fun out of things,” he replied.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to indulge,” Fleischer added, then gestured with his head to Willie, who was nearby, adjusting the dials on the carbon tet. “But we’re gonna have a problem trying to include him.”

  “Interesting setup the good citizens of Montgomery have.” Davies shook his head in disgust as he headed for the doors. “They’re awfully concerned about us respecting their milking cows, but don’t care in the least that half your servicemen get treated like dogs. Looks like I’ll have to take things into my own hands.”

  * * *

  It was well past midnight, and the three of them were sitting in the office off the radio room. Fleischer had let them through the outside door, in the back, away from the bustle of the night crew inside the hangar. He had also taken the precaution of locking the door to the rest of the hangar from the inside and turning the lights off, just to be safe from being found out by the night sergeant. The only light came from a radium dial wall clock, and they sat quietly in its eerie green glow. It hadn’t been easy to meet here. There had been a few cases of sabotage in local waters, an incident in California and another one up in New York—by Germans or German-American sympathizers, no one was really sure yet—and the place was crawling with MPs. Still, Davies had somehow managed to smuggle several bottles of real beer onto the base, along with a bottle of Scotch. The beer was for Fleischer and Willie Jackson; the Scotch for Davies.

  “The beer’s warm,” Fleischer complained with good humor, as he lifted the cap off his bottle with a pair of pliers.

  “As it should be.” Davies laughed into the darkness. “But don’t blame me for the taste. Wish it was Fuller’s. You Yanks make a sorry brew.”

  “Tastes mighty fine to me,” said Willie after taking a tentative sip. He relaxed, leaning back against the wall, then took another big swallow.

  “Here’s to victory,” Davies said, putting his bottle in the center. They all clicked their drinks. “I don’t fancy speaking German.” They fell into silence over the thought of it.

  “It does look pretty grim over there, doesn’t it?” Fleischer commented. “Think we’ll do okay?”

  “I hope so, mate,” Davies said softly. “When I was drafted, I was glad to get out of the coal mines, you know, and fly. Poor blokes like me ordinarily never get a chance in the RAF. But the way the war’s going, those mines are looking awfully good right now.”

  “I wanted to fly,” Fleischer muttered. “But I’m color-blind.”

  “I wanted to fly, too,” Willie said softly, aware that it was dangerous to share himself, but there was something about the Welshman—he was straightforward, disarming—that made Willie trust him. “They don’t let us fly.”

  “Pity,” said Davies. “You think the Jerries give a fig who’s shooting at them? An enemy plane is a plane to take down.”

  He raised his bottle to them. “Well then, lads, I’ll fly for the two of you.” This was followed by a long swig and an announcement. “To my new friends. Brooklyn and Willie J.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Fleischer, looking pleased with his new nickname. “But we need a name for you, too.”

  “‘Jink’ should do it,” said Davies. He explained that it was for “jink-away,” a British flying term that meant a quick turnaround in the sky. “Just call me Jink,” he repeated and they shook hands on it.

  Even Willie.

  Chapter 16

  They met once a week or so, Jink always supplying the libations. Their evenings wore on pretty much the sam
e every time; Fleischer double-checked the door to the inner office to make sure they were secure, passed around the beer, and toasted the army. Jink usually started them off by complaining how the American brass was treating the RAF cadets, and how the cadets exacted their revenge by flying in formation, although it was expressly forbidden, since it was considered too risky for new pilots to maintain proper spacing. While on duty, they took special delight in buzzing the men in the airfields below who were drilling in calisthenics, and while off duty, managing an impressive amount of hard drinking. But their pièce de résistance was panicking the area’s cattle and knocking over outhouses on local farms.

  Fleischer and Willie mostly listened, Willie filled with envy that Jink got to fly. Their own complaints were limited to the chickenshit orders, Hogarth, and more Hogarth.

  One night someone tried the office door and they all jumped. “Don’t know why the day crew locks this damn door,” the voice on the other side complained. The men sat quietly inside, letting the night fill with the hissing of steam, the shouts of men working outside in the hangar, before their own soft conversation resumed.

  “So, you lads working on our little problem?” Davies asked them when they were sure the man outside had left the door. “Had a few near misses last week.”

  Fleischer groaned with frustration. “I’m changing the pressure settings in the wash hoses,” he said. “Experimenting a little. Maybe the connections are just not getting clean enough.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking how my connections could use a little cleaning.” Davies grabbed his crotch. “Hey, Brooklyn, want to join me one of these nights? I got an address from one of the other cadets.” He sighed luxuriously at the thought.

  “No thanks,” said Fleischer. “I got a girl. Trying to talk her into getting married, but no luck yet.”

  “Tough,” Davies said sympathetically, then brightened. “You know, I kissed the Blarney stone once; maybe I can convince her for you.”

  Fleischer eyed Davies’s even, linear features, the sandy-blond hair that fell over his eyes, and shook his head. “Hell, if she meets you, she won’t want anything to do with me. She might like blonds better.” He ran his hand through his own tight black curls. Davies leaned over and touched it.

  “And what kind of hair is this, mate?” he asked solemnly.

  “Jew hair,” said Fleischer. They both leaned over and touched Willie’s head.

  “Nappy hair,” Willie announced, running his own hand through it.

  Davies laughed. “No difference that I can see,” he said.

  “Nope,” said Fleischer, “’cept the heads they’re growing on. Hang around with the two of us long enough and you’ll be growing a thatch of your own.” They clicked bottles.

  “I will try to hang around,” Davies said solemnly, “but that seems to be entirely up to your American technology.”

  Fleischer knew what he was referring to. Somehow it always came back to the crashes. They had lost RAF, Americans, a few French, a couple of Canadians. And still no one knew why.

  “How about this?” he said. “I can set up a transmitter and receiver right in your plane. If you run into a problem, call me; maybe I can troubleshoot things right from the hangar while you’re flying.”

  Davies nodded. “Sounds all right to me.”

  Fleischer jumped to his feet and started explaining with enthusiasm. “Good. I’ll run a small—”

  But Davies interrupted him. “I’m off duty now, laddie, so don’t trouble me with details.” He burped loudly. “But nothing better go wrong. Not while I’m up there. Or coming down.” He reflected on this. “I will tell you this, though, they don’t feel right when I bring them in. The ground around here is too soft and cuppy for a decent landing. Damn kites dig a hole for themselves.”

  “Swamp,” Willie added helpfully. “The whole state is swamp.”

  “No,” Fleischer disagreed. “They land hard because they’re bigger and heavier than any of the other trainers. You got to fly them like the big planes. That’s the whole point of them.”

  “’Cept the big ones don’t turn into lawn darts,” Davies said. There was a thoughtful silence.

  “I’ll find the problem,” Fleischer finally said. “And I promise I’ll fix it. I’m a man of my word.”

  They stood up and clinked bottles before polishing off the contents. Except for Davies. He tucked the rest of his bottle of Scotch inside his jacket. Fleischer carefully opened the back door and peered outside to make sure it was clear.

  “No MPs,” he said softly to the others. “So let’s get the hell out of here. Jink, you go first while I spot for you.”

  “Yeah,” said Davies. “The last thing we need is a run-in with the swamp rats.” They slipped into the shadows, but then, to Fleischer’s consternation, Davies threw his head back and whistled loudly as he marched himself back to his barracks.

  * * *

  A plane fell from the sky the next morning. They could hear it, even in the wash rack, the erratic buzzing over the airfield, the motor cutting out, then sputtering back to life, then cutting out a final, deadly time. The men ran from their posts to the door of the hangar, and watched in horror as one of the Vultees lifted, dropped, lifted, then dropped again, into a deadly spiral, sinking below the horizon of sycamore trees. There was a screech of metal hitting trees and a crash, followed by a high plume of acrid black smoke that swirled ominously up into the clear, bright blue sky. The base alarm wailed to life.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Willie said to August. “I hope it’s not Jink.”

  * * *

  They didn’t need Hogarth to tell them they had to salvage what was left of the plane, but he appeared at the hangar first thing the next morning.

  “You boys got some work to do,” he said, his face split apart by a delighted grin. “Seekircher wants a full report on whatever you find.”

  Fleischer just stared at him, impassive, quiet, but Willie knew that he was wondering. They were both wondering. They hadn’t heard yet who it was, but they knew Davies, who had become a sort of ringleader among the RAF cadets, was fearless, and took more chances than probably any of the others.

  “Do you know who it was?” Fleischer asked.

  Hogarth suddenly looked solemn, and strangely, they felt relieved by his next words. “It was an American boy,” he said quietly.

  * * *

  The plane lay twisted, like a small, glittering, prehistoric animal, broken in two, the oil from the motor spilling across the tan and green swamp grass, wilting it in a dark, wet stain. Willie couldn’t stop thinking about the baby birds, when he saw the plane with the wings crooked against the earth, the prop broken off sideways, the canopy cracked in half about thirty feet away, the cockpit smacked off like the plane had been beheaded. Fleischer had taken him and Corporal Charlie Hobbs from the wash rack to salvage what was left, and it took time to carefully sift through the wreckage. Hobbs had done some salvage work on a loan-out to another company, and Fleischer thought it would make him helpful. They had already disconnected the wires from the dynamotor and dropped it into the truck Hobbs had parked behind them. Fleischer was kneeling in the cockpit trying to disconnect the radios, and Hobbs was handing him tools from a kit, when suddenly Fleischer raised his hands and looked at them questioningly. They were covered in a dark reddish-brown oozy film.

  Fleischer looked up at Hobbs, then down at his hands again.

  “Sorry, Sarge,” Hobbs said softly. “They never clean it up too good.”

  “What is it?” Willie asked. He had never seen anything like it. It was too red for motor oil and fuel was pale yellow; it couldn’t be fuel. They both looked over at Hobbs, who shrugged, his lips twitching as he tried not to grimace.

  “What?” Fleischer asked. He held his hands up to inspect them again. “What the hell is it?”

  Hobbs took a deep breath and looked away. “Pilot,” he replied.

  Fleischer jumped to his feet, his face contorted with horror as he reeled fr
om the cockpit. Willie stood by the truck, paralyzed. Stood by the truck, holding a joystick that was covered with the same goo. He dropped it to the ground and just stood by the truck, with no place to look as Fleischer kneeled down, kneeled onto the swampy earth, next to the broken plane, and puked his guts up.

  Chapter 17

  What am I to make of this process that transfers memories from one person to another? These murmurings, these old images that are being pulled from some distant circumstance, half-remembered, half-felt, shaped into words, and whispered across a hospital bed for me to hear and reflect on, until they settle themselves in like bedfellows alongside my own.

  I hear Willie’s voice in my dreams at night; I hear the wasp-like buzzing of a Vultee climbing over the skies, its screaming complaint, then fatal silence as it loses its grip of air and clouds. I feel the heart-clutching horror of the pilot when he knows that nothing can help him, nothing can help him, nothing, nothing.

  * * *

  I hadn’t planned for these memories, have no room for them, but I still sit by Willie’s bed and listen, with the fascination of someone driving past a car wreck, not wanting to look or know, but directed by some primal force, compelled to stare and acknowledge that something terribly wrong is happening to another human being. I pull myself from a restless sleep in the middle of the night, my heart beating rapid-fire, and sit straight up, just before the plane hits the ground.

  I reach over to touch David, but he is not next to me.

  Puerto Vallarta, I remember.

  And I know for sure.

  He is next to someone else.

  And I mine my heart, my chest, for some deep, wrenching pain. There is a hollow where the pain should be, and there is a knowing, at arm’s length, a certain twinge, that I should feel more.

  * * *

  “Would you mind terribly much to bring me up some tapioca pudding?” Willie asks me as soon as I greet him in the morning. He is out of bed, and sitting in his chair at the window. The newspaper is opened in front of him, a cup of tea next to it. He twinkles me a smile. “The cafeteria makes good tapioca pudding,” he says. “Every Thursday.”