A Distant Melody

by Sarah Sundin

  Swell. Wasn’t that swell? What a sorry excuse for a man. Sure, he might make captain, but he’d fallen in love with a woman who was spoken for.

  Walt banged open the door of the Nissen hut, and a dozen men startled.

  Earl Butterfield poked around inside the coal stove to coax out some heat. “Preach just met with Armstrong.”

  The other men murmured their understanding.

  “How’d it go?” Louis Fontaine asked. “Get whipped like Butterfield?”

  “No, it went okay.” Walt unbuttoned his uniform jacket and hung it on the rack that ran the length of the hut over the cots. “I think he’ll make some good changes.”

  Louis snorted. “Yeah, you would think so.”

  Something soft hit Walt’s back. He looked down to see a balled-up sock.

  The door opened, and a sergeant brought in a burst of cold air. “Mail call. Fontaine . . . Granger . . . Jansen . . . Novak.”

  Walt took the letter from his brother Jack and sat on the end of his cot, as close to the feeble stove as he could. Jack had transferred to the 94th Bomb Group in Texas, not far from Ray, and the two brothers were able to visit each other. Jealousy and homesickness slapped Walt. He hadn’t seen Jack for over a year, and Ray for nine months. Jack’s group was in the final stages of training and expected to go overseas soon. Jack hoped for England so he could meet up with Walt. Knowing Jack, he also wanted to meet up with some English girls.

  Walt sighed and folded the letter. Jack wouldn’t come. The Twelfth Air Force in North Africa siphoned off the new bomb groups—and all other resources as well. The Eighth Air Force still had only four B-17 groups, two B-24 groups, and not nearly enough replacement crews, aircraft, or spare parts.

  “Novak.” The sergeant held up a package.

  Even from across the hut, he recognized Allie’s handwriting, and his heart skipped like a bad landing. When he opened the box, he found ginger cookies. No wonder he’d fallen in love. If only she weren’t so sweet, so kind, and such a good cook.

  Her note was dated December 13:

  It happened again yesterday. I’m no longer surprised when I read of a mission the following day in the paper. Do you suppose my dreams are an intelligence breach? You said you were honored, but I’m much more honored that God chose me for such service. If my prayers offer any strength or peace, I’ll gladly sacrifice some sleep.

  I’m also honored to include Frank in my prayers. The censors blacked out the reason for his distress, but the Lord knows his needs. At least I can fulfill his request for cookies.

  Walt dropped his head in his hand. Every day, just when he thought he was over his grief, something came along and punched him in the gut again. “Say, Preach, don’t tell me you got a Dear John letter.” Louis inspected a brand-new bottle of that hot Tabasco sauce he liked.

  Guilt compounded his grief. Louis, Abe, and J.P. had all become good friends, and they all believed his lie. “Allie sent cookies—for Frank.”

  Louis winced. “Oh, boy.”

  “Here. Have one.” Walt reached across the aisle and handed him a cookie, took one himself, and bumped them together like a toast. “To Frank.”

  “To Frank. A good man.”

  The hut was silent. Walt stood and passed out gingersnaps. Felt like communion. Maybe that was a sacrilege, but it seemed fitting. He took communion to remember Christ’s sacrifice, and today he remembered Frank’s.

  The tightness in Walt’s throat rose to his face and threatened his tear ducts, so he lifted his chin and his cookie high. “To Frank Kilpatrick—a devoted husband and father, one fine pilot, and my best friend.”

  “To Kilpatrick,” the men said, their voices throaty and raw.

  Louis raised his cookie. His jaw worked back and forth a few times. “To John Petrovich, master of the practical joke.”

  “To Petrovich.”

  “To Bob Robertson,” Earl Butterfield said in a fierce, loud voice. “A good friend and a talented artist, whose work inspired us all.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “To Robertson.”

  So it went, around the room, as the men remembered their fallen friends. Some memories were solemn, some stirred up rusty laughter. How long had it been since they’d laughed together?

  Walt ran his thumb along the edge of the cookie. Allie had no idea what her simple gift had done, how much she helped them remember, mourn, and heal.

  Walt settled in the upholstered armchair in the Officers’ Club and read the story in Time again. Eddie Rickenbacker, World War One flying ace and Walt’s childhood hero, had been in a Flying Fortress that crash-landed in the Pacific in October. While adrift in a raft for twenty-four days, the crew held twice-daily prayer meetings. Once, after praying for food, a seagull landed on Rickenbacker’s head. The men ate it raw.

  Walt smiled. God made the front page.

  “Hi, Preach.”

  Walt looked up. Cracker stood in front of him with two Coke bottles. He held one out to Walt.

  “Thanks.” He didn’t know what surprised him most— Cracker taking a seat next to him, Cracker buying him a Coke, or Cracker drinking a Coke. “Cutting back?”

  “Yeah.” He set elbows on knees and stared at the glass bottle. “You’re right. Doesn’t help.”

  “Hmm.” Walt tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. Cracker’s tan had faded, and his hair had dulled in the English overcast. Didn’t look so much like a movie star.

  Cracker scanned the club. “Quiet tonight.”

  The crews that had survived the mission on January 3 had put down at St. Eval in Cornwall with damage and were stranded there by the weather. The rest of the men were licking the wounds Armstrong had inflicted.

  “Yep. Quiet.” Walt sipped and let bubbles fizz in his mouth.

  “You were right about a lot of things.”

  Walt almost spat out the soda.

  “Armstrong lit into me today, called me arrogant, incompetent. Seems I’ve heard those words before.” He pointed his bottle at Walt. “He says I owe you—a lot more than a Coke. He told me what you did. I don’t know why you’d give up squadron command for me.”

  “Neither do I.” Walt lifted his drink to Cracker.

  He chuckled and clinked bottles together. “Listen, I may be arrogant, and I may be incompetent, but I’m not stupid. I know a second chance when I see one. I want to be the crackerjack pilot I claim to be, and I’m determined to get you that squadron commander position.”

  Walt stared into Cracker’s eyes. The man was serious. Walt had done it. He’d earned the respect of every crewmember. “We have to work together. We’ve been competing since that first day at Wendover.”

  “The better man won.” Cracker took a swig and made a face, as if disgusted to find Coke and not beer.

  Walt couldn’t gloat over his victory. His crew was demoralized, and there was no end to the war in sight. He crossed his ankle over his knee. “I think God put us on the same crew for a reason. You have skills with people that I lack.”

  “Maybe. But you’ve got the crew’s respect. I lost it.”

  “So we work together as we did over Romilly. That alone will help morale. You could do some other stuff with the men, as you did stateside.”

  “Yeah.” Cracker tapped his thumbnail on the glass bottle. “Like a baseball game against another crew, football maybe.”

  “With this weather, maybe water polo.”

  Cracker laughed, then nodded to the table. “We could at least share cookies.”

  Walt grinned and offered him the box. “Have one. From my—” His lie stuck in his craw. “From Allie.”

  “Thanks. You know, that’s another thing you did right— found a good woman and stuck with her. That’s what I should do.”

  Walt popped a gingersnap in his mouth, his lying mouth. Frank knew the truth. Frank winked at the story and made it feel like a joke. But with Frank gone, Walt’s lies ate at him, and his readings in Proverbs didn’t help. This morning he read, “Lying lips a
re abomination to the Lord: but they that deal truly are his delight.”

  How could a little white lie get so complicated?

  28

  Riverside

  January 14, 1943

  “Really, Allie, you mustn’t cover your ring. People will think you’re ashamed of your engagement.” Mother tapped Allie’s right hand, clasped over her left.

  “Sorry, it’s a habit.” She offered her mother a smile as flimsy as her excuse. The habit was born of many stares at a ring too glamorous for hospital wards and Groveside Bible Church.

  She reversed her hands and glanced out the bus window at the Parent Navel Orange Tree, brought to Riverside in 1873, the source of the local citrus industry, ensconced in a park on the corner of Magnolia and Arlington.

  If only fresh oranges could survive the trip to Walt in England. But they wouldn’t make a dent in his mountain of grief. Three days had passed since she’d received his letter, handwriting slanted hard, content blackened by the censor’s pen, paper ripped and pocked by rain or—could it be tears?

  Frank Kilpatrick was dead. Despite censorship, that much could be deduced. Allie couldn’t decide if it was cruel or kind that Walt learned of Jim Carlisle’s death on the same day. All she knew was her grief for a man she’d met once but memorably, for his widow and children, and for Walt.

  Poor, dear Walt, crushed by guilt for surviving while Frank had perished, guilt for wishing such a fate on his own crew, even guilt for writing Allie such an emotional letter.

  The bus crossed Fourteenth Street, Magnolia Avenue changed to Market Street, and Allie gazed at Riverside’s beloved architecture. How could she comfort a man thousands of miles away? Her condolences seemed empty and impotent, as did her reassurances that she respected his transparency and was honored that he chose to unburden to her.

  “Allie, Eighth Street.” Mother’s tone said she was repeating herself.

  She rose and followed her mother off the bus and under the Spanish-style arcade along Eighth. Mother opened the door to Miss Montclair’s dress shop.

  “Dearest Mary, how are you?” Miss Montclair glided over, kissed Mother on the cheek, and took both Allie’s hands. “Oh, what a charming bride you’ll be. How have you been, dear? We’ve truly missed you at St. Timothy’s.”

  What was the truthful solution to this dilemma? Allie stared at Miss Montclair, who, despite her aristocratic bearing, seemed to have risen from the local hills, craggy and sharp angled.

  Mother draped her garment bag over an upholstered chair. “As I told you, Agatha, she’s doing volunteer work at a church for the needy.”

  Church for the needy? Volunteer work? Mother’s warning glance silenced the retorts on Allie’s tongue.

  “How gracious of you, dear Allie. We who are blessed with a church like St. Timothy’s often forget those who aren’t so fortunate.”

  She sandwiched her tongue between her teeth. Groveside’s congregation was far more blessed, but she had to respect her mother’s need to maintain proper appearances.

  “May I see what you brought?” Miss Montclair opened the garment bag and pulled out Mother’s wedding dress. “How exquisite. I can design something more modern, even with the silk shortage. How generous of you to let us alter your gown. Here, Allie dear, try it on.”

  She stepped into the dressing room and removed her bottle green hat and suit.

  “I’m thrilled about this wedding, Agatha. I’ve dreamed of it for five years. Why, Baxter’s already like a son to us. Allie should have the most beautiful dress Riverside’s ever seen, silk shortage or no silk shortage. I won’t force her into yesteryear’s fashions because of my own selfish nostalgia.”

  Allie stared at herself in the mirror. All her life she’d seen the portrait over the drawing room fireplace of her parents on their wedding day in 1918. Now she wore the dress. It would be refashioned, and she would have her picture taken with Baxter on July 3, and she’d see the portrait over their fireplace for the rest of her life.

  Nausea swirled in her stomach. She sat down hard on the little stool and leaned her cheek against the cool wall until her stomach stilled. She’d spent her whole life trying to earn her mother’s approval. Now that she had it, why did it fail to satisfy her?

  Oh Lord, please help me. You heard my mother, how happy she is. Your Word tells me to honor my parents.

  She could see Walt standing among the strawberry plants in the summer sun, his head turned toward his grandparents’ farmhouse, his hand extended to help Allie to her feet. “Sure, we have to honor our parents, but we have to honor God first.”

  “Allie, are you ready in there?” Mother called.

  She stood and took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  Mother and Miss Montclair descended on her with measuring tape and pins.

  “That long collar must go.”

  “Yes, and I’ll take in the bodice. Perhaps a sweetheart neckline.”

  “That would be pretty. What about the sleeves?”

  “Shorten them, puff them. The skirt will be the hard part.”

  “Much too narrow.”

  “Yes, but I have plenty of lace in stock. I’ll create some insets, and it will be the height of fashion.”

  Allie stepped on and off a platform, raised and lowered her arms, turned and stood still, all while avoiding the mirror.

  “She’s rather glum for a bride,” Miss Montclair whispered.

  Allie didn’t meet Mother’s eye.

  “An acquaintance of hers was killed over France,” Mother whispered back. “She took it quite hard.”

  “Well, we’re done for today.” Miss Montclair set her hand on Allie’s shoulder. “Yes, these are difficult times, dear.”

  Allie had never noticed the kindness in Miss Montclair’s stone gray eyes, and she ducked into the dressing room before tears welled up. Difficult times? Yes, for Walt and for Eileen Kilpatrick and for Helen Carlisle. But Allie was only indirectly affected.

  Why, she had a wedding approaching. She should be celebrating. So why hadn’t she told Betty? Why hadn’t she told Walt? She had a date set at St. Timothy’s, a reception room reserved at the Mission Inn, and her mother’s wedding gown about to be cut to pieces. It was time to tell everyone.

  “Poor Agatha,” Mother said with a sigh as they strolled up Orange Street.

  Allie glanced away to the old Post Office, now used by the Fourth Air Force, in charge of the defense of the southwestern United States. A captain in dress uniform trotted down the wide steps of the Italian Renaissance building and tipped his hat to the ladies. Perhaps his attention would distract Mother from a story Allie had heard too often.

  “Good afternoon,” mother and daughter said in unison. Allie said a quick prayer for Walt, as she did whenever she saw a man in olive drab.

  Mother sighed again. “Poor Agatha’s never been pretty. She was fresh out of school when we moved to Riverside after our wedding, and she wasn’t pretty even then.”

  Allie crossed Orange Street and cringed at Mother’s tone, which implied that unattractiveness was a character deficiency.

  “I know you could have made over the dress, but I like to give poor Agatha the business whenever I can. It’s sad to see what she’s fallen to.”

  Allie waited on the corner to cross Seventh Street. Few cars traveled the city streets, since nonessential driving was forbidden, new cars hadn’t been produced since January 1942, and tires were unavailable. Perhaps when they arrived at the Mission Inn for lunch, Mother would forget to finish the story.

  “So sad. She was well situated after her parents died in the flu epidemic. If only she hadn’t fallen for that swindler in 1925. Hmm, or was it ’26? No, no, ’25.”

  Allie murmured to steer her mother around the obstacle of a trivial detail.

  “No, it was ’27. I still can’t believe a bright woman like Agatha Montclair let a rogue talk her into selling her father’s company—her own father’s company, mind you—and putting all her money in st
ocks.”

  Allie concentrated on Riverside’s landmark across the street. The Mission Inn covered an entire block with tile-roofed Mission Revival buildings, which glorified California’s Spanish days.

  “I saw through the man right away,” Mother said. “One of those cads who preys on homely women of means.”

  Homely women of means—like Allie. Finally, they could cross the street and stroll under the vine-covered arcade along Seventh.

  “Then in ’29, the Stock Market crashed, and there she was with no stocks, no money. With her looks, she couldn’t find a husband, certainly not at her age. At least she found that seamstress position and eventually bought her own shop. Still, so sad.”

  Allie sighed in relief at the familiar end of the story. She glanced through one of the arches in the arcade, across Seventh Street, to City Hall with its square tower and palm trees.

  “If only she’d listened to her family.”

  Allie turned back to her mother. That wasn’t how the story went. “Her family?”

  Mother tucked a blonde curl back under her navy blue hat. “I suppose I’ve never told you this part. It’s rather shameful, and I didn’t want to warp your view of Miss Montclair when you were younger.”

  Allie raised her eyebrows. “But now that I’m older . . .”

  “Now you’re old enough not to repeat stories.” Mother greeted a lady from St. Timothy’s Ladies’ Circle, the afternoon tea faction. “If only Agatha had listened to her family and kept her engagement.”

  “Her engagement?”

  “When I met her, she was engaged to a fine man, Herman Carrington.”

  “Carrington Citrus Company?”

  “The same. It was a splendid match—his citrus groves and her citrus packing company. Her grandparents set it up after her parents’ deaths, and Mr. Carrington agreed to the match, even though he’s quite a handsome man.”

  Another plain woman in an arranged marriage. “What happened?”

  “Agatha always had a willful streak. She insisted he didn’t love her and he’d—” Mother leaned closer and hushed her voice. “Well, he would cheat on her. Isn’t that a disgraceful accusation?”