by Sarah Sundin
“Oh dear.” Violet frowned at her tray. “This batch is spoken for. It’ll be a while.”
Griff flicked his chin toward the assembly line. “Say, why don’t you send bread and Spam and a knife? Mrs. Weaver can make the sandwiches there. Word is, the men are taking off again as soon as they finish interrogation.”
“That’s a great idea.” She gathered two loaves of bread and several tins of Spam, and she marked them off in the log. The log felt burdensome today, but she’d do her job to the end.
After she and Griff loaded both jeeps, Violet drove toward the runways. A few P-51s circled over the field, descending for landing, their colorful noses bright against the gray sky. At least the rain had stopped.
Not many men were out and about, and they didn’t meander and chat as usual. They strode with purpose.
Checking for traffic, Violet turned onto the perimeter track toward Adler’s squadron headquarters. If only she could have switched squadrons with Griff, but that would have been childish.
In the week since the hoedown, she’d only seen Adler a few times from afar in the mess. Maybe she could finish before he returned. Two of the squadrons, including Adler’s, had departed around two o’clock, and the third around five o’clock.
That meant the first wave had been flying for over seven hours, surely a record. They’d be very hungry and thirsty. Adler had far more important things to think about today than her, so she’d be mature and kind if she saw him.
But she still hoped she wouldn’t.
Violet pulled the jeep alongside the Nissen hut and carried in a tray of donuts. Only two pilots, plus staff officers. No Adler, thank goodness.
“Would you like some help?” one of the staff officers, Lieutenant Fenelli, asked.
“Yes, please.” She set down the donuts and gave him the most sincere smile she’d felt in days. With help, she could escape even sooner.
While Lieutenant Fenelli hauled in the urn of coffee, Violet set the box of smaller items on top of the sandwich tray and carried it inside.
At the refreshment table, Adler stood, picking out a donut.
Violet stopped in her tracks, her heart straining. His hair was tousled from the flight helmet, and his scarf hung loosely over his flight jacket. How she missed him—his smile, his voice, his love.
Lieutenant Fenelli set down the urn. “Here you go, Paxton.”
“Swell. Thanks.” Adler filled a cup. “Can’t tell you how much I need this.”
He’d want sugar, and Violet was carrying it. In fact, he searched the table.
Duty overrode her heartache.
Violet set down the tray, and she poured sugar from the box into a bowl and scooted it toward him. “Here’s the sugar, Captain.”
Mature. Professional. She dragged her gaze up to him.
He met it, and her heart seized.
In the gorgeous blue of his gaze lay all the chivalry she’d always admired in him, but none of the affection she’d cherished.
“Thanks.” He spooned sugar into his coffee and lifted the mug to her. “Appreciate it.”
Then he joined Lieutenant Fenelli at a table.
“Excuse me, Miss Lindstrom.” Theo Christopher stepped in front of her. “May I have a sandwich?”
Violet’s hands clutched the tray. She let go and handed him a sandwich. “Of course, Lieutenant. I hope you like Spam. We’ll have egg sandwiches later.”
A grin spread over his weary face. “At this point, I’d eat mutton and like it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She busied herself setting up the table properly, despite quivering hands and jumbled emotions.
How selfish to dwell for even one minute on her own heartbreak in light of what these men were enduring. For their sake, she’d hold herself together.
42
Over France
From right below the clouds, Adler followed the north-south course of the Mayenne River, matching landmarks to the reconnaissance photos he’d seen at the briefing and to the map on his lap.
Nick had let him lead the section of eight Mustangs on the squadron’s second mission, and Adler didn’t take the responsibility lightly. Since the Yoxford Boys hadn’t spotted a single enemy aircraft during the early-morning patrols, the fighters had been dispatched in groups of eight to bomb and strafe tactical targets one hundred miles south of the beaches.
Adler aimed across a green field, cutting off a hairpin bend in the river, and he checked his watch. Right on schedule—1138.
A few miles ahead lay the town of Château-Gontier and its bridge, soon to be targeted by the two 250-pound general-purpose bombs hanging under his wings where the drop tanks usually hung.
Adler waggled his wings to signal his section. On the armament switch panel to his left, he checked that the safety switch was still set to “safe,” then he shifted the bomb control handle from “locked” to “selective.” He flipped switches to arm the bombs’ nose and tail fuzes and made sure his gunsight was on.
“Here we go.” Adler pushed the stick forward until Eagle went into a sixty-degree dive, lined up the bridge in his gunsight, and flipped the safety switch to “ready.”
The rest of the P-51s trailed behind him single file.
With his speed climbing, he eyed the altimeter and the bridge and the river, rising before him between creamy slate-roofed buildings.
“Now.” He pressed the red button on top of the control stick, and the two bombs plummeted from beneath his wings.
Adler pulled up and to the left, and now his stomach did the plummeting.
No sounds of ground fire, thank goodness, but the “tail-end Charlies” at the end of the formation took the greatest risk as German antiaircraft gunners got their bearings.
About a mile outside of town, Adler turned north. Seven P-51s fell back into formation. Hadn’t lost anyone. Good. He had one complete rookie and two pilots with only a few missions under their belts.
Now that they’d unloaded their bombs, they were free to strafe as long as fuel and ammunition allowed. Adler had no desire to hurry back to Leiston.
The pilots’ room. Violet. Staring at him with wide, devastated, questioning eyes, as if she wanted to talk to him. As if she wanted him back.
Adler groaned. Why would she want that? Didn’t she know what was good for her?
Railroad tracks lay a few miles north. If they couldn’t find trains, they could at least shoot up some track.
He had no idea how the invasion was going. After the first mission, he’d been interrogated, briefed for the second mission, and shuttled back to the hardstand. Takeoff took place less than an hour after landing. Beck and Flores and Moskowitz had done an incredible job preparing Eagle.
No war news. Just told to get back over the Channel and help.
So he was helping.
An artificially straight line slashed through the patchwork terrain, and Adler dove toward the railroad tracks. His men spread out behind him.
Now to find targets of opportunity. A train would be best, but he didn’t see any telltale smoke.
A junction—say, not bad. With Eagle in a shallow dive, Adler pumped out bullets. If he could damage the switches or signaling equipment, that could delay German troop trains.
A siding, some train cars. He sprayed bullets, and debris flew off a car.
Adler gained altitude and swept the sky and his instruments. All looked good.
Where was the Luftwaffe?
Satisfaction swelled inside. All those costly and dangerous missions had earned air superiority for the Allies just when they needed it most.
Now he’d do everything he could to stop the Germans from sending reinforcements.
Adler followed the railroad tracks, strafing anything that caught his eye.
Maybe his brothers would forgive him one day. They were good men, kindhearted. For a second, he pictured the three of them in their Gringo Mariachi outfits, laughing and teasing and making music together.
But reality washed that i
mage away. Even if they forgave him, there would always be a wedge between them, a cautious distance. They would never be close again.
His chest tightened. He wanted his family back the way it had been, but it could never be.
Adler spat bullets into another railroad switch.
Was it greedy to want more than forgiveness? Because he did. He wanted to sit down with his brothers and answer their questions and listen to their experiences, no matter how painful it might be. He wanted reconciliation.
Forgiveness without reconciliation would be like barbecue without the sauce—nourishing, but not the full savory delight.
Adler guided Eagle over a rise. Violet’s expression flashed in his mind again, and his breath hitched.
Wasn’t that what he’d given her? Forgiveness à la carte? I forgive you. Gotta go. Thanks for the donut.
But that was different. They couldn’t reconcile. She knew that, and she knew why.
Didn’t she?
A road crossed the railroad tracks up ahead, and gray German army trucks lumbered north.
With rudder and stick, Adler turned toward the convoy. Soldiers spilled out of the trucks and sprinted away. Good. Adler didn’t want to kill them—he just wanted to immobilize them.
Adler opened fire, but guilt clung like an unwanted passenger on his canopy and threw off his aim.
He peeled away and circled to the end of the queue while the rest of his section strafed the convoy.
Adler had to get rid of that guilt, not by ignoring it but by confronting it. He hadn’t told Violet the many reasons they couldn’t reconcile, because he’d assumed she’d never want to.
Apparently his assumption was wrong. That meant he had to talk to her, offering her all the questioning and listening he was willing to give his brothers.
Adler dove at the line of trucks, most engulfed in black smoke and bright flames. He squeezed the trigger on his control stick, and each bullet hit its target.
Tomorrow he’d offer Violet the sauce along with the barbecue and show her the toxic ingredients in that sauce. Then she’d see. Then she’d understand.
And then she’d let him go.
Leiston Army Airfield
The ground crewman waved Violet’s jeep onto the perimeter track, calling out thanks for the donut and coffee.
Planes were constantly taking off and landing, in no order that she could discern. It was almost noon, and the men had been flying for ten hours already. Rumors were they’d keep flying until dark—which wouldn’t come until ten o’clock with Britain’s wartime double summer time.
Violet drove up the track toward the squadron headquarters where Rosalind was working today. The busyness kept her mind off Adler and off her upcoming dismissal from the Red Cross—although they lay like lead on her chest.
She parked the jeep and carried a tray of donuts into the Nissen hut.
Around the pilots’ room, men snoozed on cots and dozed in armchairs, snatching a few minutes of rest before their next missions. Such a tiring but crucial day, and her heart reached out to them.
Serving others meant more to her now. At first she hadn’t considered the airmen needy enough to be served. Then she’d seen them as needy and had served them, but as a lofty benefactress looking down from on high. Now she served them as equals, as fellow sinners.
“Hi, Mrs. Weaver.” Violet set the tray on the table and studied Rosalind’s face for signs of exhaustion. She found none. “How are you doing here?”
“Fine, but I’m out of bread and meat.”
Violet frowned at the meager pile of sandwiches. Half an hour earlier, Griff had left the Aeroclub with a full load. He’d only had one stop before this, while Violet had stopped at each hardstand to serve the ground crews. What was taking him so long?
“Hiya, ladies.” Griff sauntered in with a coffee urn.
“Oh, thank you.” Rosalind helped him set it in place. “Bread and meat?”
“Next load.” He brushed his hands together. “Just coffee this round.”
Violet’s frown deepened. “But I helped you load bread and meat in your jeep.”
Griff chuckled and headed for the door. “That was an earlier run, not this one.”
“It was only half an hour ago.”
“You’re mistaken.” He tossed a grin over his shoulder. “Completely understandable on a day like this. Don’t worry, ladies. I’ll bring out sandwich fixings in a jiff.”
“Thank you.” After the door shut behind him, she turned to Rosalind. “When did you last receive bread and meat?”
Rosalind smoothed her apron and studied the clock on the wall. “I don’t know. Oh yes, it was right after General Eisenhower’s announcement on the wireless. I remember because I told Griff about it.”
Two hours ago. The lead pressed heavier on her chest.
Violet wasn’t mistaken. Half an hour earlier she’d loaded six loaves of bread and a dozen tins of Spam into Griff’s jeep along with the coffee.
Brewed coffee wouldn’t have any value on the black market, but bread and Spam would.
Her heart folded in on itself. Was that why he’d taken so long? Had he run the food into town?
No, he couldn’t have. The base was closed.
Perhaps he had a stash somewhere on the base.
Violet found a smile for Rosalind. “Anything else? Do you need a break?”
“Not at all. Other than sandwiches, I’m fine.”
“Good. I’ll be back later.” Violet headed outside into the gray day and climbed into the jeep.
Griff had always been so kind and helpful, picking up groceries in town and delivering refreshments on base. How easy it would be to pilfer.
And he’d dated Millie, the grocer’s sister-in-law. Were they all working together from the start?
Violet rested her head on the steering wheel, sick and betrayed and overwhelmed.
“Why today?” Why did she have to figure it out now, when she didn’t have the time, the energy, or the heart to investigate?
43
Over France
Hills and châteaux and rivers and farms flowed beneath Adler. His section had broken up after strafing the truck convoy, each pilot seeking targets of opportunity. Once again, Adler was alone.
Movement on the ground, and he descended to investigate. A farmer ran in front of his barn, waving his beret with one hand and making the V for Victory symbol with the other.
Adler grinned and put Eagle into a slow roll so the Frenchman could see the stars on his wings. “Won’t be long, monsieur. The Yanks are coming. And the Redcoats too.”
At least he hoped so. It was noon. How far had the Allies marched—or had the Germans driven them back into the sea?
Adler leveled off and studied the landscape for roads, railroads, or airfields to shoot up. In half an hour he’d head back to Leiston, leaving plenty of fuel in case he had the opportunity for a dogfight.
That talk with Violet would have to wait until tomorrow. In the afternoon he’d be sent up on another mission or two. Today he needed to reserve his energy for flying and fighting—not his personal life. Besides, if he talked to her when he was exhausted, who knew what stupid words might come out of his mouth?
A dark speck against the overcast—what was that?
It was moving to the southwest, and the long nose identified it as a Focke-Wulf 190.
Adler whistled. Wouldn’t it be something to make ace on D-day?
He winced at his old self, but honestly, it was his job to keep the Luftwaffe out of the sky. If he made ace in the process, so be it.
Adler pulled back the control stick and adjusted his course to the northeast so he could bounce the enemy from above and behind.
Another fighter plane, above and ahead of him. A Mustang with a red-and-yellow checkered nose. Adler pushed the “A” button on the radio box and the microphone button on the throttle. “Dollar leader here.”
“Dollar red four here.” That was Ray Schneider, who had two whopping missions u
nder his belt. A good pilot with the cockiness that would make him either an ace or a corpse.
“Bogey at ten o’clock,” Adler said. “He’s yours.”
“I see him. Rog—no, he should be yours.”
By all rights, the victory should be Adler’s as the section leader. But that wasn’t the leader he wanted to be. “You’re closer. Climb into position, then dive onto his tail. I’ll be your wingman.”
“Roger.” Schneider’s voice rang with enthusiasm.
Adler gave Eagle more throttle and climbed to meet Schneider. “Get at least a thousand feet above him before your dive, as high as you can. He hasn’t seen us, so we have time.”
“Roger.” Lining up on the Focke-Wulf, Schneider climbed toward the cloud base about a thousand feet above him. Suddenly he dove.
Too soon. Adler shook his head and followed. With more altitude he could have built up more speed in the dive. “Get on his tail, as close as you can, under three hundred yards is best.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
Had Adler sounded that cocky on his first missions? Most likely. He took up position behind Schneider and to the left, scanning the sky, ready to swoop in if Schneider overran the enemy.
“Closer . . . closer . . .” Adler muttered.
At six hundred yards, Schneider fired. And missed. And alerted the German.
The Focke-Wulf jinked right and left, and Schneider matched his moves.
“Stay on his tail, red four. Get closer.”
“I am.”
Adler would have rolled his eyes if they weren’t otherwise occupied.
The German dove for the deck, wheeling to the north.
Adler and Schneider gained on him. No German fighter plane could match the P-51 on the deck in level flight.
The Fw 190 darted side to side but maintained his course. Over a rise, down into a gentle valley, over another rise.
Schneider shot a few bursts but missed, too impatient to set up his attack. Adler would have shot him down by now. The Luftwaffe pilot was clearly inexperienced. But so was Schneider.
