“Roger. Wait—I’m sorry. Excuse me.” Silence. “I have a message from de Groot. He says to—to trust in God, not in yourself. That was from de Groot.”
Jack’s lips pulled in tight under his mask. Good thing Charlie had broken up the friendship and saved Jack the bother. “Roger. You have your coordinates, your orders. See you at home.”
He flipped the switch back to interphone and guided his flock northeast. The tail fins bore letters from half a dozen bomb groups, but they were his now. He’d get them home.
Twenty miles after the turn, a plane from the 390th fell back. They’d have to bail soon, but they’d do so over solid ground. Eleven planes made the second turn into Dutch territory.
They had company.
Six Me 109s appeared to the southwest, then altered course to intercept. “Okay, men, here we go. Eleven o’clock low. Let’s hope they’re low on gas.”
“Better hope so,” Harv said. “‘Cause I’m low on ammo.”
Please help us, Lord.
Jack’s breath snagged on the thought. He hadn’t prayed much today, hadn’t prayed before he charged in a new direction. Could Charlie be right?
The fighters climbed above the bombers. Three of them careened through the formation, spraying bullets every which way.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Down the right side of the fuselage.
“Left waist to pilot. Fogerty’s hit again. For real. In the knee.” Screams in the background confirmed the words.
Levitski’s thick eyebrows drew together. “First aid has to wait. Man your gun, Souza. Here come the next three.”
“Tail to pilot. The first flight is heading home, not coming around for another pass.”
Jack eyed the second flight.
Lord, let this bunch do the same.
The first two spun for the low element, but the last plane headed straight at Jack. Head-on. “Get him, Vickers.”
Vickers did. The Me 109’s cockpit exploded. The plane’s carcass rolled to the side, still coming head-on. Collision course.
Jack cried out and shoved the wheel forward. The fighter wheeled toward him, flaming, breaking apart.
Sunrise
’s left wing jerked down and back. A shudder ripped through the plane and threw Jack’s hands off the wheel. He grabbed hold, wrestled the wheel up and to the right, Levitski with him. Couldn’t let her go into a spin. Could not.
“Come on, girl.” He stared at the flight indicator on the panel. With all his will and all his muscle, he forced it back to the horizontal position.
Levitski heaved a sigh. Jack pressed his hand to his forehead, but it slipped right off. His hands shook something fierce. He glanced out the window to an intact left wing. How on earth, with a collision like that? The wing should have been shorn clean off.
“Ha!” Harv leaned over Jack’s left shoulder. “Would you look at that? Lost our passenger.”
Passenger? What was he talking about? Then it registered. The triangular chunk of debris had been knocked out of engine one. Gone! He laughed, a strange sound, shuddering as the B-17 had only moments before. “Would you look at that?”
The loss of debris eased up some of the drag and allowed him to gain enough airspeed to climb back into formation. “
“Everett?” Jack called to the tail gunner. “How’s the formation?” “Fighters are gone. We lost another Fort. 96th Bomb Group. Two chutes.”
Jack let out a sigh. Still ten left. “Manny, how’s Fogerty?”
“He’s with me,” Rosetti said from the radio room. “Gave him some morphine, so he ain’t whining as much now. Ordered him to stop bleeding over my clean floor. It took me this long to get your blood scrubbed out.”
Jack laughed. “I’ll put your name in for the Army Nurse Corps.”
His laughter stopped. Black puffs ahead. Despite the undercast, they’d been spotted. “Findlay, what’s our position?”
“I tried, sir. I tried.”
“I know, but where are we? How far from the coast?” Jack looked through a hole in the low clouds to buildings and roads. Oh no, a city.
“I think—I think it’s Rotterdam.”
Dear Lord, help us.
They had ten to twenty miles to the coast, and Rotterdam was famous for its flak batteries.
Five bursts to his rear. Jack massaged the rudder pedals under his feet to control the yawing.
“Silverberg’s hit,” Manny said. “Get out. Get out, you guys.”
Oh no. Charlie. Jack rocked back and forth to see around Levitski. “What’s going on? Manny, what’s going on?”
“They—they lost most of the tail. Hole in the nose. Oh no.”
Jack slammed his fist into his leg, made his foot jump. “Come on, Silverberg.”
“Oh no, they’re in a flat spin. Get out, you guys.”
“Lord, no.” A flat spin? Almost impossible to pull out of. Worse, centrifugal force built up and pressed the men to the sides. “Charlie, get out of there. Get out!”
Whatever he’d felt in his stomach the last few days was nothing. This—this was true sickness—vile, green sickness.
“Manny?” Jack forced the word out.
“She’s still in a spin, heading north.”
Jack pressed his fist against his steel-plated stomach. He had to ask, but he couldn’t, couldn’t say it.
Levitski asked for him. “Any chutes?”
Jack knew the answer. None. Charlie, his best friend, was hurtling five miles down to his death. Terrified. Trapped.
Redgrave Hall
Friday, October 15, 1943
“You’ve got to wear my dress, Ruth.” Rosa Lomeli held up a slinky black number and sashayed around.
Ruth sat on her cot in dress blues and smiled at her roommate. “Dress uniform is appropriate for formal occasions.”
“But this is a pawty.”
Ruth laughed at Rosa’s Bostonian accent. “Would you like me to loan you an
R
?”
“What? So I can sound like you and warsh up for the party?” Rosa’s mouth twisted over the extra consonants. “Now, the dress. Think how you’d make the major’s eyes bug out.”
Part of Ruth wanted to wear the dress, and watch Jack’s eyes bug out, and dance in his arms all night, but it wasn’t fair to Jack. She cared for him too much to toy with his affections. Besides, she’d never worn a party dress or bared her shoulders.
May adjusted the straps of her gown, in a soft shade of pink that brought color to her cheeks without overwhelming her.
“You look lovely, May.”
Rosa stepped in front of Ruth. “Don’t change the subject. The dress.”
One of the nurses poked her head into the room. “May, Ruth, you have company.”
“Sorry, Rosa. Too late.”
When they left, Ruth’s military uniform didn’t swish and sway like May’s gown, but Ruth needed to dispel all romance from the evening. She’d only accepted because Jack said she didn’t have to dance. Still, the thought of the party, the music, and the time with Jack made her heart flip around.
Then she reached the top of the stairs, and all flipping ceased. Jack was alone. He stood with his hands at his sides, and his fingers worked the hem of his service jacket. She’d never seen him in that posture. Each step brought his face into clearer focus—pale, haggard.
Oh no. Ruth’s breath caught, and she stopped on the stairs. She’d heard the talk all day—sixty planes lost on the Schweinfurt mission. Six hundred men hadn’t come home.
May trotted down the stairs. “Hi there. Where’s Charlie?”
Jack looked up at Ruth, his eyes so hollow she saw through to something wretched in his soul. Charlie was one of the six hundred. “Oh no,” she whispered.
“He—he didn’t make it.”
Ruth clutched the banister, but she had to be strong for May as she had for her brothers and sisters. She forced her feet down the steps.
May glanced toward the front door. “Is he meeting us there?”
“He didn’t make it. Yesterday. The mission. His plane was—was shot down.”
May gave a thin little laugh. “Don’t be silly. You’re here.”
Fresh pain ripped through Jack’s face. “He wasn’t—he didn’t fly with me. He flew with Silverberg. We hit flak over Holland. They went down.”
May covered her mouth. “Oh no. Poor Charlie, a prisoner. Unless—unless he’s evading. He could do that. Holland? He speaks Dutch, you know.”
Jack shot Ruth a devastated glance, and her chest caved in. Charlie was dead.
“No.” Jack’s eyes flicked back and forth, one moment engaging May, the next avoiding her. “He couldn’t have—he couldn’t have made it. He didn’t survive.”
Another laugh, thinner and tighter. “He can’t be dead. It’s impossible.”
A silent plea from Jack, and Ruth set a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “May …”
“No.” She stepped away and glared at Ruth, then Jack. “You don’t understand. I’d know. When Thomas died, I knew, I felt it.” She thumped her fist over her heart.
Jack took her by the shoulders and struggled to control his face. “May, he couldn’t—”
“Yes, he could. He bailed out. I know it.”
“He couldn’t. There was a hole in the nose. He probably didn’t—but even if—they were in a flat spin. A flat spin. You can’t get out. Centrifugal force presses you to the sides. You can’t get out. There were no chutes. None. We watched until they dropped through the clouds.”
May wrenched out of his grasp. “So you didn’t see. He still had time.”
“No time. Low clouds, and he couldn’t. There’s no way.”
“There’s always a way.” Her voice rang fierce and strong.
Ruth and Jack exchanged a look, full of mutual grief and worry for May. Ruth recognized this reaction. Her brother Bert had denied Ma’s death for days. She gave Jack a slight shake of her head to tell him no logic would convince May tonight. She needed time.
Jack turned to May again, his face etched with pain. “I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes shot silver darts at Jack. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ll miss him, but I’ll be fine. Feel sorry for Charlie. He’s in a German prison camp or hiding in Holland, all alone, and even more so because you’ve given up on him. Well, I won’t. He needs me. Now, I’m going off to pray for him.” She pulled her wrap tight and headed for the door.
Jack went after her. “May—”
“No.” She spun around and pointed a finger at him. “No more of your lies.”
Ruth set a hand on his shoulder, which twitched with tension. “I’ll go with her.”
May turned a softer gaze to Ruth. “No, stay and talk some sense into him. Besides, he needs you more than I do.”
Ruth glanced between her friends, one almost mad in denial, the other shattered in grief. They both needed her, Jack more so tonight. Oh, how could she leave England? In three short weeks she’d be gone, but they would still be mourning.
“All right,” Ruth said. “Go pray. I’ll see you later tonight.”
After May left, Ruth studied Jack’s face—the tics in his cheeks and around his eyes. What did he need in his grief? To talk, to rage, to contemplate, to cry, to be distracted? She’d seen six children through two deaths. She’d find Jack’s needs and guide him through.
Clusters of women stood in the entryway, wide-eyed with concern. Ruth needed to take Jack somewhere private. She put her arm around his waist and led him out the front door. To her left in the twilight, a figure in pink turned behind Redgrave Hall. Most likely, May was headed to Charlie’s favorite spinney of trees near the orangery. Ruth led Jack south to the park around the lake and tried to rub out the spasms in his back.
When they reached a wooded area far from prying eyes, she asked in her gentlest voice, “Do you want to tell me about it?”
He grimaced. “It’s my fault, all my fault.”
“Oh, Jack, don’t say that. The Germans—they’re the ones who shot him down.”
“He shouldn’t have been there, not with Silverberg, not over Rotterdam. My fault.”
Could she help him unravel the guilt from the grief? “Tell me what happened. Why was he with Silverberg?”
Jack groaned, pulled away from Ruth, and slammed back against a massive oak. “It’s me, my pride. He said he couldn’t fly with me again, not even for two measly missions. He couldn’t stand it, said my pride would make me do something dangerous some day. He was right.” He let out a cry and pressed his palms to his forehead, his fingers coiled as if to dig out the memory.
Ruth couldn’t bear to see him like that. She wrapped her hands around his and eased them down from his face.
“Shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have.” He directed tortured eyes to the branches above. “It was longer, more flak. Should’ve stayed with the group, but no, thought I was so smart, so clever. Wouldn’t listen to anyone, wouldn’t even pray. For heaven’s sake, I’m a pastor, and I didn’t pray. Charlie was right—nothing but filthy, stinking pride.”
She gripped his hands, unsure what had happened. “Please don’t do this. I’m sure you had good reasons.”
He lowered his gaze to her—a flash of what looked like fear, then more pain. “My reasons don’t matter. I didn’t pray. Pride, nothing but pride. I lost four planes over Rotterdam.”
She rolled his hands in hers, trying to loosen all those muscles. “They might have been lost if you’d—if you’d stayed with the group. Isn’t that possible?”
Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is Charlie’s dead.”
“There really is no way?”
“None.” He stared hard into her eyes. “You have to understand. A flat spin, it’s a pilot’s nightmare. You can’t pull out, and you can’t escape. The centrifugal force—you can’t get to the hatches. You’re trapped. Charlie was trapped.”
Ruth released one of his hands and stroked his hair. “Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he was—maybe it was instant. You said there was a hole.” Her voice choked. Was death in an explosion better than death from a fall?
His face scrunched up. “Two minutes, Ruth. It takes over two minutes from that altitude. You know how long that is? Knowing he was trapped, knowing he was going to die, knowing it was my fault.”
“Oh, darling, please don’t. You know Charlie wouldn’t blame you. You know that. He was probably worried about you, that you’d blame yourself. You mustn’t. For Charlie’s sake, you mustn’t blame yourself.”
Jack’s face contorted. He buried his face in her shoulder and clutched her tight around the waist. Although he almost lifted her off her feet, she had to adjust her footing to bear his weight.