A Distant Melody

by Sarah Sundin

  She read the next letter, dated the eighteenth, and another from the twenty-third.

  Dear Allie,

  We flew a mission today. Did you wake up again? Tonight I read your letter from November 9. You said you woke up three nights in a row—I flew missions all three days. If we weren’t both Christians, I’d mark this as a coincidence, but there are no coincidences, only God. I have no doubt the Holy Spirit prompted you to pray. I’m honored. Lots of people pray for me in general, but I’m amazed how you pray for me when I’m in the thick of combat.

  Could you include Frank in your prayers? He’s having a rough time. [Censored] He’s taken it hard, of course.

  Allie could barely read the rest of the letter. Her dreams, her awakenings, her compulsion to pray—all came from God. Goose bumps ran up her arms like notes up a scale. “Thank you, Lord, for using me like this.”

  Next, she read Louise’s letter, in which she described San Francisco’s twenty-fifth air raid alert and her search for roommates. Dear, sweet Louise—so resourceful to take in girls to help pay the rent, so patriotic to relieve the city’s housing shortage, and so lonely with her husband deployed to North Africa.

  Last came Betty’s letter. Betty wrote as she spoke, and her letters always topped six pages whether anything had happened in Antioch or not. Today’s letter, however, filled less than a page. Allie frowned and read:

  Dear Allie,

  Please pray for us. How I wish you were here. You have always been a comfort to me, and I’ve never missed you more than I do now. Yesterday my sister, Helen, received a telegram. Jim’s destroyer was torpedoed off Guadalcanal a month ago. Oh, Allie, Jim was killed.

  Jim Carlisle? Handsome, charming Jim Carlisle, who teased his sister about her doll, who jitterbugged with his wife, who fussed over his baby son? How could he be dead?

  Allie had hardly known him, but her tears left pockmarks on Betty’s letter. “Oh, Father in heaven, poor Helen. She’s only twenty, Lord, and now she’s a widow—a widow with a baby boy. Oh, and baby Jay-Jay won’t know his daddy.”

  Allie couldn’t fathom the loss. Her mind careened as she thought of each person now in mourning. Dorothy lost her brother, Betty lost her brother-in-law, Walt and George and Art lost their childhood friend. And Walt—he couldn’t know yet. Poor Walt, he was going through enough already. And Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle . . .

  Allie sobbed at the thought of the Carlisles’ white house with its high hedges of oleander.

  A gold star would replace the blue in the Carlisles’ banner.

  25

  Over Paris

  December 20, 1942

  Walt stole a glance from the instruments, his group’s sloppy formation, and the charging Focke-Wulf 190s. Even from twenty thousand feet, he recognized the Eiffel Tower. If he survived, he had something good for his next letters. If not? Well, at least he’d seen Paris before he died.

  One hundred eighty miles inland, the Eighth’s deepest penetration yet into enemy territory. The air depot at Romilly-sur-Seine was a great target, and the Luftwaffe attacked as if they knew the Americans were headed to their servicing center. Ever since the Spitfires had turned back from escort duties at Rouen, the squadrons of Fw 190s attacked in relays.

  With the chatter on the interphone to call out fighters, the stutter of Flossie’s guns, and the zing of incoming bullets, a man could go mad, or he could do his job.

  Walt did his job. Was he fatalistic? Who cared? He was calm.

  Frank, on the other hand . . .

  Walt sighed. Frank was a nervous wreck at the briefing and barely got past the physician screening for combat fatigue. If only Doc had nabbed him. If only Frank would transfer.

  Walt looked down through the blur of prop blades to the silver trail of the Seine River. The fighters slacked off—must be flak ahead—but they’d be back, refueled and ready to hassle the remainder of the hundred bombers on the return run.

  Sure enough, flak appeared—how could he describe it in his letters?—like dirty black cotton balls. Nah. He’d leave the poetry to his brother Ray.

  “We’re at the IP,” Louis called on the interphone from the nose.

  Walt made a thirty-degree turn to start the bomb run and glanced at his watch—1229. They’d been under attack for a solid hour, since about 0330 California time. Was Allie praying again? Was that why he was calm? Something warm filled his chest. He never thought she’d write as much as she did—twice a week now and Walt matched her.

  Lots of flak. None near Flossie. Walt drew a deep breath and felt light-headed. Yep, the bag on his oxygen mask was icing up. He squeezed it to break up the ice. With the temperature at forty below zero, his fingers were stiff, even with gloves and what passed for a heater in the cockpit. But the waist gunners, with those open windows, had no relief.

  “Oxygen check, Cracker. It’s been a—”

  Black cloud, flaming red center—twelve o’clock low. Flossie’s nose lifted, and shrapnel hit the windshield like gravel. Walt whipped his head away in reflex. He looked back and leveled the nose. Cracks in the Plexiglas let in frigid darts of air.

  “Fontaine? Ruben?”

  “We’re fine,” Abe said. “Got some new ventilation. Coming up on the target.”

  “They’re—they’re getting a bead on us.” Cracker clenched the wheel.

  Walt had to distract him. “Oxygen check?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Cracker nodded too many times and called through the stations—engineer, radio, ball, right waist, left waist, tail. “Tail?” he repeated.

  No response from Mario. Walt and Cracker shot each other a look.

  “Wisniewski, check on Tagger,” Cracker said to the right waist gunner. Pete would have to crawl through the narrow tunnel to the tail turret and drag Mario out.

  “On my way. Glad you have a medic on board?”

  “Sure am.” Walt winced at the draft, like icicles carving up his face.

  Another round of flak lifted the right wing, then the left. Too close.

  “Pete’s got Tagger,” Harry called on the interphone from the waist. “He’s unconscious. Pete’s got him on a portable oxygen bottle, says he’ll come around.”

  “Good. Stay with him.” The lead squadron dropped their bombs and peeled away. “Ruben, you got the target yet?”

  “No. The bombsight—couple dials damaged in that flak burst. Can’t—”

  Boom!

  Something kicked Flossie in the tail. A string of explosions rocked the plane, hurled her down and to the right. Walt’s seatbelt cut into his thighs, blood rose to his head. Clunks pounded the left side of the Fort. Walt pulled back on the wheel. Had to stop her, she was going into a spin. “Gotta get the nose up.”

  “Harder,” Cracker said.

  The two men braced their feet and pulled the controls, muscles straining. Harder than it should be. Elevators must have been hit on the tail. Rudder too—she slipped to the inside of the turn. Walt eyed the flight indicator on the instrument panel until it was level again. Sweat made his oxygen mask even clammier.

  “Navigator? Bombardier?” Cracker ran through the stations again. All okay.

  Walt scanned his ship. Still had two wings and four engines, and the gauges looked okay, but the damaged elevators and rudder would make the return home a challenge. Considering the destruction in the tail section, Mario would be glad he’d blacked out. That iced-up oxygen mask saved his life.

  Walt guided Flossie up into formation. He felt his pulse against his earphones. “What was that?” he asked.

  “A—a Fort,” Al said from the ball, his voice smaller than his turret. “A Fort. Took a flak burst—in the bomb bay.”

  Walt and Cracker looked at each other and shook their heads. That explained the series of explosions. The plane still had a full bomb load. There would be nothing left.

  His face grew cold, even colder. A B-17. Close. To his left. Behind him.

  Frank.

  “Who is it?”

  Silence.

&n
bsp; “Who—is—it?” he asked, voice hard.

  “Preach,” Harry said. “It’s—it’s My Eileen.”

  Whacked him in the chest, knocked all the air out. “Chutes! How many chutes?”

  “Preach, there—there aren’t any.”

  Walt pounded the wheel, made Flossie bounce. “Count the chutes!”

  “Preach . . .”

  “Keep watching. That’s an order.”

  “Walt!” Harry said.

  He sat up straighter. Harry Tuttle never called him Walt.

  “Walt, there’s nothing—there’s no way anyone could have survived.”

  His breath came fast and shallow. Couldn’t be. Frank. Blown to—no! Not Frank. Not Frank!

  “Novak.” Cracker suddenly looked alert and controlled. “The bombs. Our squadron’s bombing.”

  He blinked over and over. Holes in the windshield. The strap for his throat mike—the strap was too tight. Not Frank.

  “Ruben? Can you get a fix?” Cracker asked.

  “Nope. Just have to follow the others. Bombs away.”

  The plane rose with the loss of weight. From behind, J.P. put his hand on Walt’s shoulder. “Walt, you okay?”

  He filled his chest with air, took charge, and turned Flossie away with the squadron. “I’ll get us home.”

  He wouldn’t think. He’d do his job—hands firm on the wheel, mind fixed on the instruments, the formation, the adjustments he had to make due to the damage. He’d learned to fly before he could drive. It was automatic.

  He bounced over the flak, didn’t flinch when the fighters attacked, kept Flossie in formation, crossed the Channel, made a complicated but flawless landing, filled out forms, and logged damage. He answered questions during debriefing, listened to the description of My Eileen’s demise, stayed detached and professional.

  But now what? Back to quarters, then what? He could feel his men watch him on the truck ride back to the living site. Louis held open the door at the end of the Nissen hut, looked with concern at Walt, then over Walt’s shoulder to Abe and Cracker.

  Walt took in the scene before him and stopped. Half a dozen men he didn’t recognize stood around Frank’s cot and the cots of the three ops officers who had just taken over as replacements on Frank’s crew. The strangers tossed things to each other.

  “What’s going on here?” Walt asked.

  One of the men shrugged, a husky man who wore a ground crew cap with the earflaps flipped up. “Just cleaning up. This fellow went down.”

  They weren’t cleaning—they were looting. “Those aren’t your things.”

  “Just helping.”

  Abe stepped beside Walt. “Just helping yourselves, you mean.”

  “Not as if they need this stuff anymore.” He snorted and lifted a brass picture frame—Eileen, three little boys, and a tiny baby girl.

  Something lurched deep inside Walt. He charged forward, yanked away the picture, and planted his fist in the man’s face. “Get out!”

  The thief screamed, grabbed his mouth.

  “Get out!” Walt swung again, right into the man’s meaty stomach. Felt good.

  The man doubled over and spat drops of blood on the floor.

  “Hey, back off! We’re leaving, we’re leaving,” another fellow said.

  Walt coiled for an upper cut, but someone grabbed his arm.

  Abe. “Preach! It’s okay. They’re leaving. If they don’t, we’ll bring up charges.”

  The thief stumbled to the door. “He’s crazy. Crazy.”

  “Kilpatrick was his best friend.” Cracker called them every filthy name in his considerable vocabulary.

  Walt panted, shrugged off Abe. His right hand smarted, and he inspected it—tooth marks. He was bleeding. His left hand—the picture frame—cold in his clutch. Eileen, so pretty, a wash of freckles over her cheeks. Frank Jr. looked like his mom. Sean and Michael were the spitting image of their dad. And Kathleen Mary Rose—too soon to tell—just a little blob.

  Dear God in heaven, no!

  “Here, I’ve got an empty box,” Abe said. “Anyone else have boxes?”

  “Yeah, a few,” Cracker said.

  Louis set his arm around Walt’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get his stuff packed up for his wife. The other men’s stuff too.”

  Walt nodded, his neck stiff, his gaze on Eileen and the kids. What would happen to them?

  Walt felt his mouth hanging open, his lips drying out.

  “Sit down.” Louis guided him to his cot. “Whoa, watch out for your mail.”

  He sat. Mail? Yeah, a letter, a package.

  “You’re getting Christmas presents already.”

  Christmas? Yeah, five days. Oh no, Frank’s family. When would they get that telegram?

  “You know what?” Louis had the whitest teeth Walt had ever seen. He pried the picture from Walt’s hand and gave it to Abe. “A present is just what you need.”

  A present? Walt’s gaze drifted to the box. How could he open a present now?

  “Come on. If you don’t, I will. It’s from your girlfriend. She sends food.” Louis set the box on Walt’s lap.

  His hands were heavy and thick, but he opened the box. He had to. If he sat still, he’d think. He unwrapped tissue paper and found a brown leather satchel—casual and masculine.

  “Anything inside?” Louis asked.

  Walt opened the flap. Sheet music—loads of it. New stuff— “When the Lights Go on Again,” “Serenade in Blue,” “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition,” “White Christmas.” And a note:

  Merry Christmas, Walt. I hope this will remedy the shortage of sheet music. With the damp and rainy weather, I thought the bag might be useful to carry papers, as well as music. Perhaps the bag will blend in with your flight jacket so Flossie won’t be upset by yet more leather.

  “Swell bag,” Louis said.

  “Swell girl.”

  “Might as well open the letter. News from home will do you good.”

  Dad wrote this one, on the typewriter as always, the same Smith-Corona he wrote his sermons on, lowercase a filled in, uppercase T set too high. Walt could almost hear the clatters and dings, smell the walnut desk in Dad’s office, see Dad chew a pencil as he typed. He used a typewriter. Why the pencil?

  Walt’s throat swelled shut. Sure would be nice to be home, hear Dad’s voice, taste Mom’s cooking. Mom always knew what he needed, let him stew, then listened when it all gushed out. Who would listen today?

  Dad’s note rambled. Dad never rambled. Then Walt hit the last paragraph:

  There’s no good way to relay bad news. I wish I could tell you in person, but obviously, these aren’t ordinary circumstances. I’m afraid Jim Carlisle was killed in action off Guadalcanal. You can imagine the impact on his wife and parents, as well as your group of friends. Now the grief has crossed the ocean to you. I wish I could be with you, son. Now more than ever, you’re in my prayers.

  Whacked in the chest—again. “No. No. Not Jim.”

  “Huh?” Abe glanced up from the box he was packing.

  Walt looked up to the corrugated steel arching over his cot, to the snapshots tucked in the grooves. There it was—Jim with that dumb sailor cap over his crew cut, his arm around Helen’s shoulder, her light hair blowing behind her, baby Jay-Jay cradled in her arms, Jim’s hand holding one tiny, bootie-covered foot.

  “Jim. Friend—from home. Guadalcanal. Ki-killed.”

  “Oh no,” Abe said. Louis sighed. Cracker cussed.

  Walt’s head shook from side to side. He couldn’t stop it.

  “The Swan?” Louis said.

  “No, too crowded,” Cracker said. “I know a pub in town. Locals only.”

  “Come on.” Louis took Walt’s elbow and pulled him to standing. “It’s time you became a man. We’re getting you drunk.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Yes, we are.” Abe slid a box under his cot. “We’re paying. No arguing.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “You heard the man. No
arguing,” Cracker said. “You need this tonight.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  Cracker stared at him with eyes as blue as the sky that had swallowed Frank, the sea that had swallowed Jim.

  “What about tomorrow? Am I supposed to get drunk tomorrow and the day after and the day after? Will that bring Frank back? Or Jim?”

  “Of course not.” Louis came in front of Walt and set his hands on Walt’s shoulders. “But you’re in shock. We’ve just gotta get you through tonight.”

  “Thanks. Thanks.” Walt turned to his cot and dumped the music out of the bag from Allie. “But that’s not how I want to get through tonight.”

  “Walt . . .”

  “No.” He grabbed his stationery, his Bible, letters, whatever he could reach, and stuffed them in the bag. “I gotta go.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Don’t know.” He tipped them a salute, slung the bag across his chest, and strode out the door. He got on the first bike he saw and rode south, away from the base, around the village. The pedals pumped, the chain squeaked, and memories invaded.

  Jim and Art, tagging after Walt and George in grade school. Pests—until they realized Jim had great ideas and Art had access to hardware. Jim at twelve, chasing Helen Jamison on his bike until she fell and twisted her ankle. Jim at eighteen, chasing Helen Jamison until she fell for him. Frank, setting Allie on the grand piano, smoothing a prickly situation. Frank, tossing a carbon dioxide canister into the stove in the Nissen hut—the explosion, the coal dust everywhere. Frank, always laughing, talking, moving.

  Dead! How could they be dead?

  He rode harder. The road blurred. Moisture ran across his cheeks and into his ears.

  No. He wasn’t crying, was he? He hit the brakes and wiped his face. It had to be from the wind. He lifted the bike over a hedge, climbed over, and barged into the trees.