A Distant Melody

by Sarah Sundin

  Walt shook his hand. Charlie was a few inches shorter than Walt and Jack, and his round face, yellow hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks made Walt think of Easter eggs. “Good to meet you. The way Jack talks, you’re the best bombardier in the Army Air Force.”

  “I’m hurt.” Abe Ruben’s voice came from behind.

  Walt turned to see his officers. Abe had a pout on his angular face. Walt flung an arm over Abe’s shoulders. “But Jack’s wrong. This man here’s the best bombardier in the Army Air Force.”

  “Too late, Preach.”

  Jack chuckled. “Preach? I’ll never get used to that. You realize he’s the only Novak man who isn’t a pastor?”

  “Men,” Walt said. “Meet my brother Jack.”

  Cracker shook Jack’s hand, then Charlie’s. “94th Bomb Group, I hear?”

  “That’s right,” Jack said. “94th, 95th, 96th, and 351st are coming over. We’re a lead contingent to set up training. Two of the squadrons from the 94th will go to Bassingbourn to train with the 91st, and two will come here. Since I’m squadron commander, they let me bring my men here so I can pester my kid brother.”

  Walt couldn’t contain his grin. Some brotherly pestering sounded awful good—it even overrode the twinge of jealousy that Jack was a major and a squadron commander, and Walt wasn’t.

  Charlie stuck a cigarette in his mouth and gazed at the ceiling of the Officers’ Club, where someone had added “3-18-43 Vegesack” to the smoky inscriptions. “How’s it really going over here? The newsreels back home make it sound as if you had Hitler cowering in a bomb shelter, but the papers can’t gloss over the losses.”

  “It’s getting better,” Walt said. “We’re finally getting replacement crews and planes, and we’re hitting some targets in Germany.”

  “And y’all are doubling the B-17 force over here.” Louis took a swig of beer.

  “If only we had fighter escort to keep the Germans away,” Walt said. “The Spitfires the British loaned us are great little fighters, but they have to turn back at the French coast when things get rugged.”

  “The 4th Fighter Group just got P-47 Thunderbolts,” Cracker said. “They’ve got better range, but still won’t get us to Germany.”

  Charlie’s cigarette waggled as he stared at the ceiling. “Twenty-eight missions? Anyone finished their tour yet?”

  The men laughed. “Nowhere near,” Walt said. “Not with aborts, damage, illness. We’re pretty near the top at nineteen.”

  “Yeah,” Cracker said. “We get Preach out of the hospital, and the brass sends us to the ‘flak shack’ at Stanbridge Earls for a week’s R & R. Missed three missions.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. “You went to some old English manor? You sure have it rough over here.”

  “Indubitably.” Louis pinched up his face and lifted a pretend teacup, his pinky held high. “I do say, old chap, we sampled the finest tea and cr-r-r-rumpets, and saw Captain Novak play a smashing game of croquet.”

  Walt laughed, both from the memory and from his navigator’s Louisiana-spiced British accent.

  “We do mean smashing,” Abe said. “He took out an old English manor window.”

  “Just a little one.” Walt measured an inch between thumb and forefinger. “Don’t tell Dad, or I’ll tell him what really happened to his Smith’s Bible Dictionary.”

  Jack clapped him on the back. “We need to catch up. It’s been great meeting all of you.”

  Walt spied a table across the room. “There’s a spot.” He took the Coke bottle Louis had brought over for him, and the brothers staked out the table.

  Jack tipped his chair back and crossed his ankles. “What’s this about you not lying anymore? Who’ll cover for me now?”

  “Sorry. If you can’t stay out of trouble, you’re on your own.”

  Jack dropped him a wink. “Guess I’m on my own.”

  Walt chuckled and raised his bottle to his brother. Jack didn’t need his help. His good looks and easy charm could get him out of any fix, get him anything he wanted, any woman he wanted.

  If Walt had a fraction of Jack’s gifts, Allie would be marrying him instead of Baxter the fop. Walt swallowed some soda to quench the spark of resentment. Ray and Jack had it all, but they were good men.

  “Did you go home before you shipped out?” Walt asked.

  “Ten-day furlough. Forgot how beautiful Antioch is this time of year—everything green, wildflowers coming up.”

  Walt nodded. “How are Dad and Mom?”

  “Grayer. Funny how people age when you only see them once a year.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. The war’s not helping.”

  Jack waved to Charlie over by the bar and made a drinking motion. “For the first time, they’ll have two sons in combat. You were training when I was in the Pacific, and when I came back, you shipped out. They act brave, but I know Mom’s anxious.”

  Walt frowned. Mom had a right to be anxious. Twenty-one crews from Thurleigh were gone now, either in German prison camps or killed. The odds said at least one Novak brother wouldn’t come home.

  “Grandpa and Grandma look good,” Jack said. “Slowing down, of course. I got Grandpa to admit he maybe, perhaps might possibly think about considering hiring on more farm help after the war.”

  Walt smiled. “For Grandpa, that’s as good as surrender.”

  Charlie came over with a cup of coffee and swept a long bow. “Anything else, my esteemed skipper?”

  “No,” Jack said with a laugh. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Charlie pulled Jack’s cap over his face and left to join the other men from the 94th.

  Jack righted his hat. “Good man, de Groot.”

  “So you’ve said.” Once again, a stab in Walt’s chest. He sure missed Frank, someone to call buddy.

  “Your friends send greetings,” Jack said. “Betty Anello grows ‘great with child.’ Boy, is George proud.”

  “Yeah. Still can’t believe he’ll be a dad. So, how’s Helen Carlisle? I’m worried about her.”

  “Didn’t see her. Mom says she’s practically taken over Riverview’s Ladies’ Circle, the Red Cross, and the Junior Red Cross. Guess it keeps her mind off Jim.”

  “At least we drove the Japanese off Guadalcanal. That’s some vindication.” Walt crossed his ankle over his knee and changed the subject. “How’s Ray? Still can’t believe the Army trained him to be a B-17 flight instructor.”

  “It’ll be good for him. A change of pace, a transfer from San Antonio to Fort Worth—just what he needs in tough times.”

  “Tough?”

  Jack groped in the inner pocket of his flight jacket. “Here you go. Hand-delivered. Read that one first—from Ray.” He tapped the top envelope, his face grim.

  Walt opened it. What could be wrong with Ray? He had a stateside job and a lovely fiancée planning a September wedding.

  Dear Walt,

  What great news that you will be back on U.S. soil soon. I’ll count down those missions with you.

  I appreciate your excitement that you might be able to attend my wedding; however, I’m afraid there won’t be a wedding. Two weeks ago, Dolores returned my ring. After four years together, she decided she doesn’t love me.

  Although my heart and pride feel mortally wounded, my mind has now turned philosophical. I thank the Lord I found out her true character before we were married.

  Walt looked at Jack. This was the second time a woman had broken an engagement to Ray. First his college sweetheart and now Dolores. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Think about it. How many times did Ray propose before Dolores said yes? How long did she put off setting a date? And when I was in Texas, I caught her making eyes at other men.” Jack’s lips twisted.

  “You’re kidding. Why? Can’t do better than Ray.”

  “I agree. Dolores didn’t. I’m glad he didn’t get stuck with her.”

  “Yeah.” He stared at Ray’s letter, sure it showed only a glimpse of his heartache. How could Dolores do this to him? How
could she hurt him like that?

  “Four years.” Walt smoothed the letter flat. “What kind of woman breaks an engagement after four years together?”

  March 20, 1943

  Wasn’t that what he wanted Allie to do? Walt glanced around the hangar at the men in dress uniform, the women in bright spring dresses, and the band on the stage. That’s what he wanted Allie to do, wasn’t it? To break her engagement? To fall in love with him? To treat Baxter as Dolores treated Ray?

  Jack nudged his shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

  Walt smiled. “English bands don’t know how to swing.”

  “That’s okay. English girls don’t know how to jitterbug.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Emily doesn’t mind. That girl’s mad about you.”

  Across the hangar, the ladies were returning from powdering their noses or whatever ladies did. Cracker’s girlfriend, Margaret, wore a light yellow dress—made the blonde look even sunnier. Emily’s dress screamed at Walt with gigantic bright pink flowers. She waved, and Walt raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  “Is the feeling mutual?” Jack asked.

  Walt shrugged and bit back the temptation to lie. “I don’t know. She’s a nice girl, but I haven’t known her long.”

  “Not real bright.”

  Walt turned to his brother. “You mean because she likes me.”

  Jack laughed. “No, she just isn’t bright. Sure, the accent makes all the Brits sound intelligent. Can’t fool me. But then a lot of fellows like the dumb, doting type.”

  “Yeah.” Walt had seen plenty of men flee at the first sign of intelligence.

  “Now me, I like a girl with brains, someone I can match wits with.”

  Walt smiled at the memory of bantering with a green-eyed lady in a rowboat. “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Huh?”

  Emily returned and relieved him from explaining the contradiction between his words and his actions. She took his hand and pulled him away from Jack. “Come along, Wally. I so dreadfully want to dance.”

  “Wally?” Jack mouthed. His face fought between laughter and disgust.

  Walt rolled his eyes and allowed her to drag him away. “Call me Walt,” he said. “Walt, Walter, Novak, Preach, anything but Wally.”

  Emily faced him with wide, hurt eyes. “You don’t like it?”

  “Sorry. Never have.”

  “Oh, but you don’t mind it from me. It’s a special name only I can call you.” She slipped her hand over his shoulder and snuggled close to dance.

  Walt scrunched his face up. Why did he want to run screaming into the hills?

  Emily’s hair tickled his nose, and her fingers worked into his hair in the back. Reminded him he needed a haircut. He scooted her a bit in his arms to dislodge her.

  Why? He’d loved Allie’s curls tickling his nose. He dreamed of Allie’s fingers in his hair. That was it, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to hold Emily; he wanted to hold Allie. This was wrong, all wrong. Emily, dancing, dating—all wrong. The sadness drilled like acid into his heart. Why couldn’t Allie dump Baxter and fall for him?

  Walt groaned loud enough to make Emily look up. He forced a smile, and she settled her cheek back on his shoulder. He had it all backward. Dating Emily wasn’t wrong; loving Allie was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He was in love with another man’s fiancée, and in a few months she’d be his wife. Dear Lord in heaven, I can’t covet another man’s wife!

  Emily let out a contented sigh. In his tension, Walt had tightened his grip around her waist.

  He loosened his hold.

  Jack caught his eye and winked, even though he had three starry-eyed Bedford women around him. If only he could ask Jack’s advice. But then he’d have to tell the whole messy tale.

  A great wave of grief crashed over him. He wouldn’t have to tell the whole messy tale to Frank. Frank already knew it, and he loved to talk everything to death. Walt closed his eyes. He couldn’t handle this. He missed Frank, he didn’t want to talk to Jack, and he didn’t know what to do. All he knew was how much he loved Allie. Every letter made him love her more.

  Every letter. Walt gritted his teeth. No, Lord. Not the letters. Don’t make me give up the letters. But he saw it. The letters fed his love and his fantasy.

  He argued with God while the band played “Moonlight Becomes You,” but it had to be done. He had one more step of obedience to take, one more friendship to lose and mourn over, one more sacrifice to make.

  But how? If he just stopped writing, she’d worry something had happened to him. He had to tell her he was stopping. But why? Was he supposed to tell her the real reason?

  That’s too much to ask, Lord. Let me keep a little dignity.

  There had to be some other reason to give Allie, some excuse. Walt looked down at the young woman, the excuse in his arms. He’d barely have to stretch the truth. Allie wouldn’t pity him, and Walt would save face.

  One last ball bearing lie.

  36

  Riverside

  April 3, 1943

  The new Easter hat would be perfect. Soft cream, with a sage green ribbon and a spray of miniature lilies, it complemented Allie’s crepe dress with the lily appliqué. She’d also wear Walt’s lily cross.

  Allie glanced out the sewing room window to the Victory Garden below, where tomato, corn, and pea plants folded in the fading light. Would Walt come home to see spring flowers or the summer fruit he loved? He’d come home soon. The mission list tucked under the model of Flossie’s Fort grew faster than the tomato seedlings.

  She leaned over the cutting table and marked blue chalk lines across the sleeves of a white blouse. The elbows had worn thin, and she was converting it to a summer blouse.

  With censorship, could Walt tell her the date of his homecoming? She couldn’t ask Betty, since she’d promised not to tell her of their correspondence, but somehow she’d find out and be there, even though travel was discouraged for civilians.

  Allie cut through the fabric with her best shears. She’d tell her parents how Betty needed help setting up the nursery and how lonely Louise Morgan was in San Francisco. Both statements were true, and they needn’t know about Walt.

  She pinned a tissue pattern piece to the cast-off fabric to create cuffs for short, gathered sleeves. She’d meet Walt at the train station where he’d kissed her cheek and told her she was lovely and special. All his family and friends would be there, and she’d stand to the back of the crowd. The hat would keep her inconspicuous. She’d peek around the brim, watch him, and love him.

  Allie cut around the pattern piece. When she stood before him, she’d study his reaction. He’d be pleased to see her, but how pleased? Their friendship had deepened as the letters increased in frequency, length, and intimacy, but could he return her love?

  She sat at the sewing machine and threaded it with light pink thread to distinguish the gathering threads from the white stitching threads. Today she’d allow herself to dream.

  When she tilted up her hat at the train station, perhaps Walt’s confusion would burst into joy, and he’d hug her so tight she’d melt, and she’d burrow a kiss in the warm, rough stubble on his cheek. He’d remember she was engaged, release her, look around in embarrassment, and politely ask where Baxter was.

  Allie smiled. “I broke my engagement. I don’t love Baxter. I love you.”

  She gasped when she heard those words out loud. Oh, she could never tell him—not like that.

  She ran pink basting stitches around the hem of a sleeve. Better to tell him only that she’d broken her engagement. Walt would understand. He’d be happy for her, proud of her as Cressie and Daisy were.

  They wouldn’t have time to talk at the depot, but they’d be swept apart by family and friends, swept away to the Novak home. Throughout the evening he’d gaze at her over the crowd, and she’d try to go to him but be waylaid by well-meaning friends. Eventually he’d find her and lead her outside to walk under the stars.

  They would discuss how
meaningful their friendship had become. She’d reach into a tree for an orange and tell him all the things she loved about him, and maybe she’d let too much slip, and he’d be delighted, and all their emotions would tumble out, and he’d gather her into his arms and kiss her, really kiss her, like in the movies, like people in love.

  “You said you were coming up here to sew.”

  Allie jumped and turned to see Father lean against the doorjamb. “I—I was—I am.” She groped for the fabric on the sewing machine. How long had she been daydreaming and staring into space?

  He flipped on the light. “In the dark?”

  “I—I have enough light by the window.” She knew her cheeks were a brilliant shade of pink.

  “Every evening you come upstairs after dinner or go out. How long are you going to hide from your family?”

  Allie turned in her chair to face him. “Until everyone accepts my decision.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Then I’d rather be alone.”

  Father stepped into the room, his lips a narrow line. “What kind of gratitude is this? I always gave you everything you wanted, even sent you to college over your mother’s objections. Maybe I let you have your way too often. I know I shouldn’t have let you go to that wedding last summer. That’s when this began. You were always such a sensible, loyal daughter, but now this. This is how you thank me?”

  She gripped the white fabric, and her throat swelled. Mother’s love was limited by her disappointment in Allie’s looks, but Father always stood up for her, took pride in her, and gave her a love to rest on. “I’m sorry, but I can’t marry Baxter.”

  “You will. The wedding is three months from today, and you will be there.”

  “I—I won’t.” She couldn’t suppress the quiver in her voice. “I love you, and I hate to disappoint you, I really do, but I can’t marry a man I don’t love.”

  Father’s eyes darkened to a terrible indigo. “Whom do you love?”