by Sarah Sundin
Plans spun into Violet’s head. The dorm room had never been used, since Violet and Kitty had never persuaded any of the touring shows to veer so far from London. “The dorm room sleeps eight. We’ll get cots for the rest of you.”
Rosalind hugged Edna’s shoulders. “We can sleep tops to tails if need be. Everything will be tickety-boo.”
“It sure will.” Kitty grinned at the ladies. “It’ll be fun. A pajama party.”
“Without pajamas, but we’ll carry on.” Sylvia smoothed her apron. “You heard the gent—they’ll let us eat at the mess and buy soap at the PX. Won’t that be lovely?”
“Does the PX have . . . ?” Ann stepped right up to Violet and Kitty, her face crimson, her voice a whisper. “Do they sell . . . it’s my . . . my time.”
The poor girl. Violet patted her shoulder. “No, they don’t,” she whispered back. “But Miss Kelly and I have plenty. Our mothers mail the supplies to us. You can tell your friends.”
“Looks like we have extra duties today.” Kitty tapped Violet’s arm. “I’ll scrape up more cots and bedding. Why don’t you take the ladies to the PX?”
“In shifts.” They still had to staff the Aeroclub. “Did they say why the base is closed? Security has been tight lately, but—”
“Not a word. Something big is happening.” Kitty held Violet’s gaze, her brown eyes solemn and knowing.
Something so big they couldn’t let one word leak to the outside. Violet swallowed hard. “I think we might be very busy tomorrow.”
40
Leiston Army Airfield
Monday, June 5, 1944
Luis Camacho showed his ID card to the MP at the entrance to the group briefing room. “Did you hear what OBee said this afternoon?”
“No, what?” Adler showed his card and put on a cheerful face for Doc Barker, the group flight surgeon, who eyed him closely. This was no day to be pulled for signs of combat fatigue.
Cam slipped his wallet into his back pocket. “When he landed, someone told him we had a briefing at eleven o’clock. He said, ‘We get to sleep in.’”
Adler laughed with the rest of the men. He didn’t blame William O’Brien for the error. Who would have expected a briefing at eleven o’clock at night?
In the back of the Nissen hut, he and his friends gathered by a window with its blackout curtains drawn. Nick stood in the front of the room, chatting with the two other squadron commanders.
“A night mission. We’ve never done that before.” Adler inspected the dozens of men in the smoke-filled room. How many were good at flying on instruments?
“This is it, I know it,” Rosie said.
“Me too,” Cam said. “If we’re going to invade, we’ll do so at first light. They’ll need fighters overhead.”
Which meant taking off at night. Which also meant the ships were already streaming across the Channel.
Without a doubt, Clay was on one of those ships. The Rangers were commandos trained for special assaults like this. Was Wyatt at sea, or was he a staff officer safely in London?
Maybe Wyatt and Clay had been able to meet. They had nothing to keep them apart and mutual betrayal by Adler to unite them.
Adler huffed out a breath. He’d repented of his sins and apologized to both brothers. He refused to let shame weigh him down.
“Let’s grab seats.” He led the men down the aisle of the Nissen hut, and they sat in the second row of folding wooden chairs. The curtain was still drawn over the map on the arched wall at the end of the room. Wooden aircraft models hung from the ceiling, but Adler had the silhouettes memorized by now.
“Attention!” someone shouted from the back of the room.
Adler shot to his feet with the rest of the pilots.
The group commanding officer, Col. Donald Graham, strode down the aisle. Only a year older than Adler, but Graham had done a fine job.
“Be seated, please, gentlemen.”
Adler sat, crossing his ankle over his knee. Silence hovered in the room, tense and eager.
Graham held a brown envelope, his expression serious. “Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied naval forces, supported by strong air forces, will begin landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France.”
The tension exploded into murmurs. Adler glanced at Rosie and nodded. They’d guessed, and deep inside they’d known—but now it became real.
“Normandy.” As the curtain was opened, Graham pointed to the map, decorated with more blue and red ribbons than ever. “Our troops will land on five beaches between Cherbourg and Le Havre. Even now our paratroopers are about to set foot on French soil.”
Normandy? Adler leaned forward over his knees. Everyone expected the invasion in the Pas de Calais region where the Channel was narrowest.
Graham’s pointer slid from the Isle of Wight on England’s southern coast down to Normandy. “This is the shipping area. P-38 Lightnings will cover the fleet.”
That made sense. The Lightning’s distinctive twin-boomed profile would be easy for naval gunners to recognize.
“RAF Spitfires will provide low cover over the landing beaches, with the P-47s and P-51s of the Ninth Air Force providing high cover. Heavy and medium bombers will drop their loads on the beaches right before the first wave of troops reaches shore.”
He traced the blue ribbon’s U-shaped pattern for the bombers’ course, south to Normandy, west over the Cherbourg peninsula past the Channel Islands, then north to England.
“The P-47s and P-51s of the Eighth Air Force will patrol this area.” Graham traced a larger semicircle outside the bombers’ path. “P-47s to the east, P-51s to the west.”
He tapped a red rectangular box just west of Guernsey assigned to the 357th Fighter Group. Two squadrons would patrol from 0425 to 0830, covering the time of the first landings, and the third squadron would arrive later to relieve them.
If Luftwaffe opposition was heavy, in the afternoon the 357th would escort heavy bomber missions. If not, the P-51s would fly dive-bombing and strafing missions behind the invasion beaches to halt German reinforcements.
“The role of the fighters is to maintain control of the air over the critical area, to isolate the battlefield, and to support the ground troops.”
Adler studied the blackboards at the front of the room with takeoff times, wind information, checkpoints, and call signs, and he wrote the most important information on the back of his left hand.
The group intelligence officer, Maj. Alfred Craven, took the floor. Everyone expected heavy opposition by the Luftwaffe. With eleven thousand Allied planes in the air, the Germans would put out maximum effort. Craven also pointed out areas where flak was expected.
Then the station weather officer, Capt. Leo Miller, took his turn. No good news. Rain on takeoff and heavy overcast all the way.
Not one man grumbled. The soldiers and sailors were already out in that weather, and they needed air cover. Adler would fly in a blizzard today if he had to.
Graham returned to the front. After he had the men synchronize their watches, he encouraged them to turn in and then dismissed them.
Turn in? With takeoff at 0215, a squadron briefing before that, and the excitement of the pending missions, who could sleep?
Nick reached over the row of chairs and clasped Adler’s hand. “I’m glad you’ll be up there with me, buddy.”
“Me too.” Adler’s throat thickened, and he shook Nick’s hand hard. “You take care now, you hear?”
“You too.”
What would Adler have done without Nick’s friendship? Lord, keep him safe.
Why was it that the more Violet needed to sleep, the less she was able to do so?
She rolled over again on the cot in the chilly hallway. She and Kitty had given their room to four of the civilian workers and volunteers. Maybe their presence guarding the door to both bedrooms would reassure anxious parents and jealous husbands.
Violet folded the sheet over the top of the scratchy gray Army blanket and bu
rrowed deeper under the covers. How late was it anyway? It had to be going on two o’clock. With a busy day ahead, she needed her sleep, but how could she with the constant drone of planes—and the knowledge of what that sound probably meant?
“You can’t sleep either?” Kitty whispered.
“No.” Violet flopped onto her back.
“Worried about Adler?”
She hadn’t heard his name for several days, and it hurt. “All the men, really.” If the Luftwaffe fought hard on most days, what would they do on D-day?
“You still love him, don’t you?”
Violet squeezed her eyes shut against the pain of voicing the truth. “Very much.”
For over two weeks, Violet had been enigmatic about what had happened with Adler, but something about the darkness, the fatigue, and the magnitude of the day loosened her tongue. “It isn’t his fault. It’s mine.”
“What do you mean?”
She chose her words with care. “A few years ago, he did something bad. I never knew about it. That day in the office—he received a letter. He found out people were . . . hurt because of what he did. He showed me the letter.”
“And you—”
“I was awful, Kitty. Just awful.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I judged him, as if I were better than he is, which I’m not—not in the least. And I rejected him and abandoned him when he needed me most. At the hoedown I apologized and he forgave me, but . . .” Her throat muscles strangled her vocal cords.
Kitty murmured in sympathy.
Violet sniffed and hauled in a breath. “He doesn’t want me back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” If only God had chosen another way to teach her humility and compassion, but she hadn’t learned from her earlier lessons, had she?
“Look on the bright side.” Kitty sounded chipper. “In about a week, you’ll get to escape all this and go home.”
Something about that struck Violet as ridiculously funny, and a wet giggle bubbled up. And another.
Kitty joined in.
Oh no, they were going to wake the ladies! Violet rolled over and buried her laughter in her pillow.
Muffled sounds down the hallway told her Kitty was doing the same.
In a few minutes they stilled. Violet turned onto her side, with a strange sense of cleansing and refreshment. Yes, she’d go home to an unknown future, but she’d go home a changed woman. Surely, God could find a use for her now that she had a proper view of herself and others.
“Do the planes sound different?” Kitty whispered.
They did. Louder and throatier and closer. “I want to see.”
“Me too.”
Violet flung off the covers, dug her feet into her oxfords, and pulled on the wool overcoat she’d draped over her cot in case she needed to use the latrine in the middle of the night.
She and Kitty headed out the side door into the cool night. Raindrops hit Violet’s head, but only a drizzle.
Overhead, aircraft engines droned. RAF bombers passed over Leiston more nights than not, but this was much louder.
Violet shielded her eyes. In the inkiness above, lights flashed, muted by the overcast. “I think they’re signaling each other.”
“There must be hundreds. Thousands. We must have put up anything that can fly.” Kitty pressed her shoulder to Violet’s arm.
In the dark and the rain, Violet watched history fly above her. Lord, give them strength and courage and victory.
The throatier, more distinct sound that had drawn them outside . . . it came from ground level. From the runways at Leiston. “Our boys,” Violet said.
“They’ve never taken off at night before, have they?”
“Not that I know of.” A faint green and red glow rose from that direction, the source blocked by the buildings. They must have broken the blackout to illuminate the runways for the pilots.
“It’s today,” Kitty murmured.
“Today.”
Kitty dropped to her knees on the walkway, pulled out rosary beads, and crossed herself. “In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti. Amen.”
Violet didn’t know the rosary, and she’d forgotten most of her high school Latin, but the ancient prayer sank into her soul, the repetitive urgency feeling right.
“Pater noster, qui es in cælis.”
Violet dropped to her knees too, the concrete cold and rough and damp through the fabric of her pajamas. “Our Father which art in heaven.”
Kitty peeked at Violet.
Violet dipped her head, motioning her friend back to her rosary.
“Pater noster, qui es in cælis, sanctificétur nomen tuum.”
“Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”
“Advéniat regnum tuum. Fiat volúntas tua, sicut in cælo, et in terra.”
“Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.”
Violet linked arms with Kitty, linked prayers with her. Tens of thousands of men, maybe hundreds of thousands, were flying and sailing and marching into battle. They could use every prayer they could get.
41
Over the English Channel
Tuesday, June 6, 1944
Low on the center cockpit console, Adler flipped the fuel selector control from the left drop tank to the right. On long flights, he had to conserve fuel. First he’d drained the auxiliary tank behind his seat since it threw off the plane’s center of gravity. Now he was draining the drop tanks, and soon he’d switch to the main tanks.
Not much else to do. Morning twilight brightened the wooly layer of clouds below him, chasing away the moon that had kept him company since takeoff.
His only company. Adler scanned the purple-gray sky, but not one airplane came into view, friendly or hostile. After taking off in the rain, the 357th had climbed through thick clouds in the dark with only puny wing navigation lights to guide them. Adler had lost his entire group.
Some leader he was without a single follower.
He pictured little Timothy sitting on his lap . . . “What did you do on D-day, Daddy?”
“Me?” Adler put on his deepest daddy voice. “Just stooged around all alone above the clouds all day.”
He checked his watch—0545, and he tilted Texas Eagle into another left-hand turn, patrolling in a rectangle somewhere over the Channel or France or South America, for all he knew. Flying by time and compass heading, with no visual landmarks, was an imprecise science.
He’d been stooging around for over two hours, and he had almost three more hours to go.
Deadly dull. If he weren’t careful, dull could indeed become deadly. Letting his mind wander and lowering his guard were dangerous temptations.
Practicing the trumpet fingering for “Las Mañanitas” on the control stick kept his mind from straying toward Violet or Timmy or anything personal. He needed to stay alert for the sake of the soldiers and sailors eight thousand feet below.
“Here I am, gallant fighter pilot, singlehandedly fending off the Luftwaffe.”
Where was the Luftwaffe anyway? The paratroopers had landed, the heavy bombers had started bombing at 0530, the naval bombardment was supposed to start at 0550, and the landings were scheduled in the American sector at 0630.
Surely the Germans had figured it out by now.
The sun cast a pink glow from below the horizon, enough to allow Adler to turn off the little fluorescent cockpit lights that shone on his instruments and gunsight.
He patted the gunsight. “Sorry to disappoint you, darlin’.” He hated to return to Leiston with his muzzles still taped, but he had nothing to shoot.
The clock read 0555, and he made another turn. Ahead of him, the clouds thinned.
“Swell.” He headed for that thinning. Maybe he could see something on the ground and get his bearings.
He got his bearings all right.
Framed by the ragged hole in the clouds, the gray ocean below teemed with ships. A big fat battleship aimed its guns to
the south, and brown smoke belched out. Smaller warships heaved shells in the same direction—right over dozens of tiny landing craft. Everything aimed for the golden stretch of beach dividing gray sea and green land.
“Wow.” Was Wyatt on one of those warships? Was Clay on one of those landing craft?
“Here I am, flying in circles, doing nothing.” If only he could help down there. His hand tightened around the stick, longing to tilt it forward and strafe behind the beaches.
But that wasn’t the plan, and that wasn’t his job. He was supposed to keep the Luftwaffe at bay.
And not in this region.
Far, far from this region.
His face went cold and tingled. Anywhere but here. Texas Eagle looked nothing like a twin-boomed P-38 Lightning. Even with black-and-white invasion stripes, he could still be mistaken for a Messerschmitt.
Adler wheeled up above the protective layer of clouds.
The vision of that great armada didn’t leave his mind. “Lord, protect those men. Protect my brothers.”
Leiston Army Airfield
The Aeroclub kitchen had never been so busy. Sylvia fed dough into the donut-making machine, while Edna and Mabel brewed giant vats of coffee, and three ladies ran a sandwich-making assembly line.
“Great job, ladies.” Kitty patted Mabel’s shoulder. “We’re doing our bit today, throwing coffee in Hitler’s face.”
Violet arranged rows of Spam sandwiches in a wire tray. In a way, that’s exactly what they were doing—pouring coffee down the pilots’ throats so they could fight Hitler.
She and Kitty were dressed for today’s battle, wearing their new gray-blue trousers.
Violet swigged some coffee. Not a wink of sleep last night, but the airmen and sailors and soldiers probably hadn’t slept either.
It was official. Just past nine thirty, the BBC had read General Eisenhower’s announcement that British, Canadian, and American troops were landing in northern France.
The side door opened, admitting a swirl of cool air and Cpl. Tom Griffith. He gestured toward the airfield. “The first wave is returning. Mrs. Weaver says she needs more sandwiches in her squadron pilots’ room. Lots more.”
