by Sarah Sundin
Leiston Army Airfield
Violet pedaled down the road, her wheels and her stomach both wobbling.
It was worth it. Sacrificing her career, even her reputation, was worth it to help the English people. And choosing mercy was right. It had to be.
So why did it feel wrong?
Was she so accustomed to being a self-righteous Pharisee that mercy felt wrong?
“Griff isn’t hurting anyone,” she repeated.
Except for Violet and Kitty and the workers who would lose their jobs.
“No.” With so few eligible women in the region, Mr. Tate would have to hire them right back. Perhaps Violet could take the fall and allow Kitty to keep her job.
“Watch out, Miss Lindstrom!”
An officer held up one hand, his other arm in a sling.
She braked and planted her feet on the ground, glad she was wearing trousers. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He laughed, his face wide and friendly and pockmarked with acne. A pilot—Lt. Clement O’Dell. “That’s all right. Today we’re all kind of mixed up.”
Violet tried to smile. “It’s a hard day for you.”
Lieutenant O’Dell lifted a leather satchel. “Not me. With my wing in a sling, they have me carting papers. Doesn’t seem right. All those men fighting and dying, and I can’t do a thing to help.”
Violet’s heart careened from her problems to the men’s. “Nonsense, Lieutenant. How many missions have you flown? You’ve done your part. Because of those missions, today will be a success. Besides, the paperwork does need to be done.”
He gave her half a smile. “Red Cross improving morale again.”
“Thank you.” But her mouth quivered.
“I mean it.” His brows met in the middle. “I suppose you ladies don’t hear much other than ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ but it means a lot to us, what you do. It’s hard over here, watching our buddies die, having to kill or be killed. Can’t tell you how much it means to get a donut and a smile. It’s a touch of home.”
She worked up a better smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
He tipped his cap and continued on his way.
Violet stood at an intersection. Men strode along, working together to defeat Nazi tyranny and free the world.
Her chest caved in. Hadn’t she realized long ago that the airmen deserved help just as much as the locals did?
The American people donated to the Red Cross so that their boys would receive that touch of home. When Griff diverted food, he was stealing from the airmen and the donors.
She slammed her eyes shut and forced her mind to do math. Griff said the Red Cross wasn’t hurt. But if they purchased food from Banister’s at market price and Griff sold it back to Banister’s at wholesale, Griff would donate the wholesale cost to the Red Cross. So the Red Cross was indeed losing money.
That assumed Griff was actually donating his profits. She had no proof, only his word.
Violet gripped the handlebars, feeling woozy. She was judging him, when she was supposed to be merciful.
Something jolted inside her. Did mercy mean allowing sin to continue? Would it be merciful to allow Nazi Germany to continue enslaving and murdering?
“Of course not,” she whispered. “Lord, what’s the answer?”
Jesus—Jesus was always the answer. Jesus didn’t condemn sinners, but he never condoned sin either.
Mercy and righteousness, perfectly blended. Neither excluded the other.
Violet’s eyelids drifted open. The world righted itself, and the wooziness melted away.
Griff might have had noble motives, but stealing was a crime, and it needed to stop.
She scanned the road for the white helmet and armband of the military police, then she flagged down an officer. “Quick! Sir? Where can I find an MP?”
45
Normandy
Over the crackling flames, the sound of the Germans’ voices drew nearer.
Surrender was another way to put himself last, and he had to embrace it.
He could extract his silk scarf from under the bush to use as a white flag.
Stroking the cotton scrap one last time, his fingers bumped over the safety pin. He could still see Violet fastening that pin, tears in her eyes. “Your deep love for her—that’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.”
“I love you too, Violet,” he mouthed. He’d planned to have that long talk with her, but now he never would. She’d think he didn’t care for her, that he’d rejected her for judging him.
Not true. Adler gritted his teeth, and his fingertips met the stiffness of his son’s photograph.
His little son. He stifled a groan. Death was just another way to run, wasn’t it?
Violet deserved the full truth, Timmy deserved a real father rather than a paper hero, and Wyatt and Clay deserved a chance either to forgive him or to beat him to a pulp.
Those things could only happen if he lived. And the best way to live would be to fight. Lord, if I die today, I want to die fighting, not giving up.
Adler freed his hand from his pocket and transferred the pistol back into his right hand. He refused to hide anymore—from his shame, from his feelings, or from the Nazis.
He lifted his chin just enough to see. The three Germans—one about twenty feet away and coming closer, one standing guard near Texas Eagle’s flaming tail, and the other out of sight, probably searching on the far side of the plane.
Adler raised his Colt so it aimed about chest high. He had seven bullets. As soon as the first German discovered him, Adler would shoot him.
Then he’d jump to his feet, fire twice at the soldier standing guard, dash around the tail, fire two more shots at the third soldier, and race for the bluff. He didn’t know if Allied soldiers waited on the beach below, but his chances had to be better down there than up here.
A series of booms rattled the ground. A whistling, roaring sound, and a giant fist punched into the cliff. Adler bounced into the air, fell flat, and almost dropped his gun.
He scrambled to get his knees under him.
Those had to be naval guns, and they were close.
The German by Eagle’s tail got back up to his feet, shouted to his comrades, and beckoned across the field. All three ran back where they’d come from—to their gun battery? An underground shelter?
Didn’t matter. Now was his chance.
Another salvo rammed the bluff, tossing chunks of earth and concrete skyward.
Now!
“Lord, help me.” Pistol in hand, Adler bolted to his feet and sprinted across the field, past Eagle, toward the bluff.
With all the noise, he’d never know if someone was shooting at him until he fell.
A dip in the brush at the bluff’s edge. A path? A ravine?
Hunkered low, he burst over the top of the bluff and scrabbled down on the other side.
A shallow ravine, a rough footpath, and he kept scrabbling down. A beach lay below, crammed with smoke and equipment and men in olive drab.
Breath huffing, feet slipping beneath him, branches scratching his shins, shells exploding to his left.
He stumbled and rounded a curve in the path. A bullet zinged past his arm.
Adler barged into the brush, pistol high, heart whacking his rib cage.
“Come out with your hands up, Kraut,” a man cried.
An American. His breath tumbled out. Thank you, God.
“Hendee hoke!”
Was that supposed to be German? “I’m an American, an American! Capt. Adler Paxton, US 357th Fighter Group.”
The barrel of an M1 rifle poked in his face. “You’re going the wrong way, Tex.”
Adler crawled out of the brush to find a line of GIs lying flat on the path, rifles pointing at him. Just to be safe, he set down his pistol and raised his hands. “I’m an American. A pilot.”
“A pilot?” The closest GI peered out from under his steel helmet. “Aren’t you on the wrong side of those clouds?”
The first GI glanced back to the second. “Hear that? Says he’s a pilot.”
“Looks like a private in the infantry to me.” The second fellow called down the hill. “Hey, Perkins, pass up your rifle. Flyboy here needs it. All he’s got is his pretty officer’s pistol.”
Adler outranked them all, but a quick assessment told him not to argue. A lot of gunfire and explosions on the beach and at sea, and the Americans were headed inland, not back to England.
Early that morning, patrolling over the fleet, hadn’t he wished he could have come down to help? This wasn’t what he’d had in mind.
“Here.” The first GI thrust an M1 rifle at Adler. “It’s got a full clip, eight rounds. Perkins don’t need it no more. Lost his foot to a mine back there on the slope. Know how to use it?”
Adler inspected the wooden stock and steel barrel. “Point and shoot?”
“Good enough. Follow us.” He knifed his hand uphill. “Navy destroyer shot up the gun battery at the top of the draw to our right. We’re going to take it from behind.”
Adler hadn’t even seen that gun position. “There are at least three Germans—a machine-gun nest maybe—on the top of the bluff about two hundred yards to the left.”
“Thanks.” He hurried up the path, hunched over.
Adler flipped his pistol’s safety into place and returned the weapon to its holster.
Ten soldiers eyed him as they passed. Some gave him a smile or a joke, some gave him barely a glance, their eyes vacant or terrified or determined. Their uniforms were soaked, ripped, streaked with sand, splattered with blood. And they stank—some odd chemical smell from their uniforms, plus the stench of vomit and other bodily functions.
Gripping the rifle, Adler fell into the column toward the end. What on earth had these men seen on the beach? What had they gone through? What were they about to go through?
Adler made his way up the path, careful to keep his head down and his rifle off the ground. “Which unit is this?”
The man in front of him snorted. “Which unit isn’t it? We’re all with the 16th Infantry, I think, but the companies are mixed up. Lost half our men down there, all our officers. Sarge up there’s in command.”
Half their men? Adler thought the 357th had taken hard losses.
At the top of the ridge, the sergeant made arm motions to the right and left, then he charged over and to the right.
Adler followed the pack, sweat on his upper lip and warm in his armpits. What on earth am I doing here?
At the top, the GIs peeled off right and left. Adler followed the guy in front of him to the right and raised his rifle to his shoulder as the others were doing.
Texas Eagle lay smoking in the distance, nose buried in the burning brush. The soldiers ignored her and dashed toward chunks of concrete in the brush closer to the bluff, shouting, “Hendee hoke!”
Figures in field gray emerged from the wreckage and raised their rifles to shoot.
Before Adler could even find the trigger, shots rang out, and the Germans fell, crying out.
Adler gasped.
A GI tossed a hand grenade into the battery. An explosion, a rumble, more cries. Two Americans jumped in. More shots.
Behind him, still more shots.
Adler swung his rifle around, his breath chuffing. One American lay writhing on the ground—and three Germans sprawled lifeless. The fellows who had searched for him.
A squeeze of grief. He almost felt as if he knew them. Of course, he’d planned to shoot them too.
“All clear!” someone shouted from the machine-gun nest.
“All clear!” the sergeant yelled from the battery.
Adler lowered the rifle. His hands shook. He’d been fighting for months. He’d seen friends die, and he’d killed in aerial combat. But nothing like this.
Leiston Army Airfield
Sylvia Haywood scrubbed a tray in the sink. “I can’t believe it was Griff. Such a nice bloke.”
“I know. We all trusted him.” Violet leaned back against the icebox, her legs aching from the long day and her head aching from the ordeal with Griff.
The MPs had found him loading the last of the Red Cross goods into the truck and had arrested him. They’d discovered a hidden compartment Griff had built in the floor of the truck. When he picked up groceries at Banister’s, he stashed away a portion of the food—then sold it right back to Banister’s.
After the base was opened again, the MPs would work with the local authorities to decide if Mr. Banister needed to be charged as well. Mr. Tate would soon learn the truth, and all the ladies would keep their jobs.
With a sigh of relief and sadness, Violet pushed away from the icebox and made plans for the evening. The 357th had finished flying for the day, and men filtered into the Aeroclub to unwind and reflect. The latest BBC announcement said the landings were successful and the Allies had driven several miles into France in some places, but details were sparse.
Ann Brewer entered the kitchen with empty trays, and the young girl grinned at Violet. “There she is! Our own Miss Marple.” Then she blanched. “You’re younger, of course. Much younger.”
Violet chuckled, the first she’d laughed all day. “That’s all right, Ann. I know what you mean.”
“What I meant to say—you’re my heroine.”
While she hated to burst enthusiastic young bubbles, Violet didn’t deserve praise. “Thank you, but you would have done the same thing.”
And probably without dithering as Violet had.
She headed out into the dining area. Why had she fallen for Griff’s self-serving justifications for even a single moment? It didn’t matter that she was exhausted, overwhelmed, and brokenhearted. Lord, forgive me.
The front door opened, and Nick Westin headed her direction.
Violet gave him a tired smile. “Good evening, Major.”
“Good evening.” He looked even more exhausted than she felt. “Do you have a minute?”
“For you? Absolutely.”
Nick led her to the library, which was deserted.
Violet chewed on her lower lip. She’d already thanked him profusely for directing her to Luke 18. Did he have more to say?
Nick sat in an armchair, his expression serious and drawn. Hesitant and concerned.
Violet’s heart dropped, her legs buckled, and she sank into the couch. “Oh no. Adler?”
The concern deepened. “His plane didn’t return from our second mission.”
Didn’t return? What did that mean? She shook her head as if she could settle all the thoughts into better positions and sort out the ones she didn’t like. But she didn’t like any of them.
“He was strafing an airfield, flying wingman to a rookie.” His face reddened and twisted, and he clenched his hands together. “Isn’t that just like him?”
Strafing an airfield . . . she could picture him in his plane, shooting up German airplanes. Alive, whole, grinning. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—picture him any other way.
“He shot down two Focke-Wulfs, protecting Schneider. He made ace, by the way.”
Ace? That didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Adler’s life. She crossed her arms over her chest, gripping her shoulders.
“He took some damage, couldn’t make it back to base. He made a belly landing in France. The plane was—it was on fire. Schneider saw an explosion. We—we don’t know if Adler got out.”
Violet’s breath hopped around, out of control. He had to have gotten out. He had to.
Nick’s head swung back and forth, slow and heavy. “Even if he did—it was in the invasion area. Don’t know if it was Allied territory or German.”
It was Allied territory. Of course it was. It had to be.
Nick’s eyes turned dark and bleak. “I helped Schneider fill out the Missing Air Crew Report. That’s ev
erything we know. But Violet . . . it doesn’t look good. You need to be prepared.”
Violet moistened her tongue. “When will we know?”
Nick’s cheeks puffed full of air. “Depends. If he survived and evaded capture, we could know in a day or two. If he was taken prisoner, it could be weeks. But if . . .”
If he was dead, how long until they found his body?
Violet’s stomach crumpled in, and she stifled a moan. She didn’t care if he never looked at her again. She just wanted him to live.
“I wanted you to hear it from me. I know you two—I know you still care for him.”
Sweet Nick, thinking of her on a day like this. Her heart reached out to him. “You care for him too.”
Nick ducked his chin, and his cheek muscles worked. “I’ve lost a lot of friends in this war, but this . . .” His voice broke.
“Oh, Nick.”
He stood, raised one hand to stop the sympathy, gave her a close-lipped smile, and headed for the door. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thank you.” She pressed her fingers over her mouth and shut her eyes.
Adler couldn’t be dead. God wouldn’t let him die now. His parents had forgiven him, but his brothers hadn’t, not that she knew. And he had a little boy who needed to know his daddy.
A sob gulped up, trapped in her throat. But how many men had died today—sons missing their parents, brothers estranged from loved ones, fathers who hadn’t met their babies?
“Oh, Lord.” Adler’s great need to survive was no guarantee that he’d done so. “Lord, please let him live.”
46
Normandy
With the M1 rifle slung over his shoulder and someone else’s steel helmet on his head, Adler trudged along the beach. Omaha Beach, the GIs called it.
The sun was falling and the tide was rising, but the day seemed unending.
A whistle overhead, and he hit the ground. German artillery—by now, he could tell the difference. His reaction was pure reflex. Not even a bump in his heart rate anymore.
Adler pressed up next to the tall grasses at the bottom of the bluff, his belly flat against the small stones and his rifle away from damaging dirt and sand.
Tank and naval fire blasted overhead, concussion waves pulling on his helmet and uniform. Noise or no noise, he could fall asleep right there.
