“Me? I have no choice but to follow the blasted memo.” He stood, pulled his overcoat off the coatrack, and slipped it over his olive drabs.
“Just ignore it.”
“Can’t do that.” Jack belted his coat against the rain tapping on the windows of the Nissen hut. “I know it’s unenforceable and futile, but I’ve got to go through the stinking motions.”
The men left the office, hunkered against the rain, and headed down the rock-edged pathway past the sign for Squadron HQ. Mounted on bomb casings, the sign displayed the squadron emblem, a winged bomb against a blue background with lightning bolts in a
V
for Victory.
Victory? No victory over mud in weather like this. He wanted to hurl a glob of mud at the ground exec’s jeep. “Power’s gone to Babcock’s head. Thinks he can control the weather.”
Winchell shook his finger at the dripping sky. “Hear that, Lord? Babcock’s going to put you on KP.”
Jack laughed for the first time in weeks, but the good feeling didn’t last. He could still hear Charlie’s reprimands for his rivalry with Babcock. Did Jack dislike the memo because it was stupid, or out of jealousy? Maybe both. He sighed over the aching lump in his chest. He strained to hear Charlie’s voice in his head—the pitch and cadence, but mostly the words. Winchell was fun, but no moral compass.
Charlie kept him in line. Jack hated to admit it, but the night after Marienburg, Charlie had spoken the truth about a lot of things. Not everything, but a lot.
At the Officers’ Mess for dinner, Jack picked over the shepherd’s pie and made a halfhearted attempt at conversation. Then he walked to the Officers’ Club. The piano bench beckoned. He pulled change from his pocket and looked around for Charlie’s yellow hair and round pink face.
Jack sank to the bench, his chest crushed. Not only had he killed his best friend, but he’d mistreated him when he was alive. Jack the hero, Charlie the sidekick. Jack the major, Charlie the captain. Jack the charismatic leader, Charlie the cheerful follower.
He plunged through the circle of men gathering for a song and joined the crowd at the bar. His impatience with lines was no excuse for always sending Charlie. What was he thinking? Too important a man to get his own drink?
At least fifteen minutes passed before he returned to the piano with a hot cup of coffee. The young lieutenant at the keyboard jumped to his feet. Because Jack was a better player, or because Jack outranked him? Didn’t matter. Jack wanted to play, needed to play.
The men called out requests, and Jack took the young lieutenant’s—“Tonight We Love.” He had learned the piece in junior high at Mom’s side before Tchaikovsky’s “Piano Concerto in B-Flat” became a big band hit.
The powerful chords drummed out his grief and anger.
Anger at Ruth. No matter how hungry she’d been, how could she sell herself?
Now he understood why she hated kissing. It had lost all meaning for her, just a business transaction. And if she felt bad about what she’d done, as she should, Jack’s kisses would have dredged up shame.
They probably also dredged up memories of what those men did to her.
Jack tripped over his fingers, and he stopped to find his place. He wanted to hammer the images out of his mind. Two images intermingled—Ruth screaming, pinned down by three men—and Ruth sobbing, pinned down by Jack’s wrath.
Guilt strangled his heart. No one deserved rape, and no one deserved to be abandoned weeping on the ground. He could still see her with her cape spread over her crumpled, violated body. “Clothed in shame”—he’d seen that phrase in the Bible, and it certainly applied to Ruth.
Jack pounded the final chord but found his anger unresolved. A cloak of shame? She’d earned it.
Bowman Field, Louisville, Kentucky
Sunday, November 28, 1943
Ruth pointed to the orientation material as she and May walked from the barracks to the classroom building. “Talk about expecting the worst. Crash procedures, ditching procedures, field survival, the use of side arms.”
“Because the Japanese don’t follow the Geneva Conventions. At least those subjects are practical. What about military customs and courtesy?”
“We’re in the Army Air Force now.” Ruth still smarted from the morning bunk inspection. The hospital corner on her cot was one-quarter inch off, and she had to start all over. The Army Nurse Corps hadn’t put her through these boot camp hoops when she joined. This was like the first months of nursing school before she got capped, but with calisthenics.
“And look at these academic subjects: aeromedical physiology, neuropsychiatry …”
“I don’t know what will hurt more—our brains or our bodies.”
About twenty feet behind Ruth, a nurse belted out “Oh,
What a Beautiful Mornin’.” The roar of a twin-engined C-47 cargo plane overhead couldn’t drown out the girl’s big voice.
Yes, it was a beautiful day, crisp and cool, without England’s smothering dampness and grief, without Chicago’s biting cold and shame. What a blessing.
A new trace of pink colored May’s pale cheeks. Would the taxing eight-week program help her come to terms with Charlie’s death? With Charlie listed as Missing in Action, she might deny his fate indefinitely.
“Charlie loves to sing,” May said with a sigh. “I sure miss his voice.”
Ruth looped her arm through May’s and gritted her teeth. Time for another push. “What if—what if he doesn’t come home?”
For once May didn’t reprove her, which was progress. “Then I won’t hear his voice until I get to heaven, but oh, how lovely it’ll be then.”
“But how will you manage?”
“Same as now, by leaning hard on God’s arms.”
Every one of Ruth’s facial muscles tightened. “How can you trust him? He took your parents. He took Thomas. He took Charlie.”
May stopped on the concrete walkway and turned those penetrating eyes to Ruth. “He let you be raped? He let Jack find out your secret?”
Ruth clamped her lips together and gave a sharp nod. “I know why I was punished, but you—”
“Punished? You think the rape was punishment?”
“I know it was, and Jack, and everything.”
May closed her eyes and pressed her hand over Ruth’s for so long that the alto passed them singing about Oklahoma corn.
“Oh, honey,” May whispered. “A child playing with fire gets burned, but that’s not punishment.”
Ruth’s stomach simmered. “The Lord could have stopped it. I prayed.”
“Yes, and he could have kept Charlie’s plane aloft, but he didn’t. I don’t know why, but he has a reason—to teach us to rely on him alone, to get us to change direction.”
Ruth curled her free arm around her roiling stomach. “Well, he certainly got me to change direction, but why did Jack have to find out? I’ve changed.”
“Mm-hmm. Have you asked God to forgive you?”
“So many times I’ve lost count.” Her mouth puckered. No, she would not cry her first day at the School of Air Evacuation.
“Then he’s already forgiven you. Now you can heal.”
Ruth’s head shook from side to side. As a nurse, she knew of no procedure or medication or surgery to remove shame.
“God can heal you. Trust him.” May patted Ruth’s hand. “The first step was taken for you. Your secret’s out in the open.”
She rolled her eyes and tried to laugh. “Oh yeah, that helped.”
“Didn’t it?”
Ruth held her breath. Hadn’t she told whiny Lieutenant Baker how a closed wound festered? Her wound had been closed for eight gangrenous years, but now it had been lanced, now it was exposed to oxygen, and now perhaps it could heal.
Footsteps and laughter sounded behind them, and a group of five nurses approached across the green lawn. “Hi, ladies, are you going in?”
Ruth’s watch read five to nine. If they were late, they could end up with push-ups or KP or who knew what. “Yes, we’re coming.”
Still they lingered and let the group pass. “Ruthie? I’m praying for you,” May said.
She squeezed May’s arm, her heart full. “I’m praying for you too.”
They entered the classroom building. Ruth stole one more glance at her watch and stroked the soft russet leather. A quick, sharp pain dulled to the familiar, unrelenting ache. She slid the watch up her wrist. It didn’t cover her scar. It never would.
Her mind reeled at the thought. Just as Jack’s watch didn’t cover her scar, his love hadn’t healed her wounds. Wasn’t that what she had wanted, even if she’d never admitted it? For Jack to be her Boaz, to heal her?
That wasn’t Jack’s role, nor was it Boaz’s role. Although Boaz spread his cloak over Ruth and accepted her, she came to trust under the wings of the Lord, not Boaz.
Ruth wrapped her hand over the watch and closed her eyes.
Oh Lord, I don’t know if I can. I want to. I want to trust you. Help me.
“What size, Lieutenant?”
She opened her eyes. A clerk sat at a desk, bored and impatient. Ruth had followed the line unaware. She stammered her size to the clerk, and he handed her a stack of clothing, including jackets, trousers, skirts, and a garrison cap, all in gray blue wool, and white undershirts with black trim that read “U.S. Air Forces” over a caduceus, representing the medical services.
Behind the clerk stood a nurse with a matronly figure and a smile to match. Silver bars glinted on her shoulders—a first lieutenant. “I hope you’re more attentive on the job, Lieutenant … ?”
Swell, the chief nurse. Ruth snapped herself up straight. “Lt. Ruth Doherty, ma’am, and I’m very attentive on the job.”
“Good.” The chief swiveled her gaze to the next in line.
Ruth groaned, clutched her pile of clothing, and stepped aside to join May. How long would it take to overcome that first impression?
“That’s the color I wanted.” Someone touched Ruth’s hair—the alto, her brown eyes as big as her voice. “I wanted auburn.” The nurse’s garrison cap and snood couldn’t hide the green streaks in her brown hair.
“Oh dear,” Ruth said. “That’s too bad.”
“I dyed it before my last audition.” She heaved a sigh. “No roles on Broadway for mousy brunettes, only for flashy redheads and sunny blondes and raven-haired beauties. Of course, they don’t want green-feathered songbirds either. So I came here instead.”
For Ruth flight nursing was a dream, but for this girl it was a consolation prize.
“Isn’t this exciting?” The actress looked around the room filled with the twenty-four nurses and twenty-four surgical technicians of the new 815th Medical Air Evacuation Transport Squadron. “My hospital job was so dull. Paid the bills between auditions, but so dull. I need drama. This—this has drama.”
May exchanged a glance with Ruth. “We’ve had enough drama, haven’t we?”
“Why are you gals here? Adventure? Glamour?” She winked. “Handsome pilots?”
Ruth laughed, surprising herself. “We’ve also had enough of flyboys, thank you.”
“Glad to hear it,” a male voice said behind her. “How about a handsome technician?”
She turned. The speaker was indeed handsome, with a square jaw and blond curls that fell over his forehead in a studied way. He draped his arms over the shoulders of two other men, but he looked at Ruth, only at Ruth.
“Don’t forget the nonfraternization rules—Sergeant,” she said with a sweet smile. At least the prohibition on dating between officers and enlisted men kept half her suitors away.
“Ah, you’ll change your mind once you get to know me.” He still looked only at Ruth, although May and the actress stood next to her. “Staff Sgt. William D. Burns at your service, but you can call me Burnsey. Everyone does.”
“You can call me Lieutenant Doherty.” To break his bold gaze, she turned to the other women. “This is Lieutenant Jensen and Lieutenant—”
“Dorothy La Rue.” She darted forward and stuck out her hand. “Call me Dottie.”
Sergeant Burns untangled his arms from his friends’ necks to shake Dottie’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you. And this is—what’s your name, pal?”
“Sergeant Morrison.”
“Sergeant Dugan.”
They seemed uncomfortable with their new buddy’s flirtation, so Ruth gave them genuine smiles. To her relief, the classroom doors opened. The nurses filed into one room and the techs into another.
Dottie sat at a desk next to Ruth and rested her chin on her stack of clothing. “That Burnsey’s a real looker, isn’t he? I wouldn’t mind him for a partner.”
“I would,” Ruth said.
Dottie’s eyes grew even rounder. “But why?”
“Ruth and I like to keep our professional distance,” May said. “Remember, the nonfraternization rules are for our protection.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dottie said. “Think how awkward it’d be to date someone you bossed around. Still, he’d be awful nice to look at on those long flights.”
Ruth frowned. The evacuation leg of a flight would be crowded with patients, but not the cargo leg. She’d better get a tech who could act like a gentleman.
Antioch, California
Thursday, December 9, 1943
Jack closed his eyes and let Mr. Noia do his job with shaving cream and razor.
On his last furlough home in February, he’d picked the busiest time to get a haircut so he’d have a big audience for his stories. Today he went midmorning when most men were at work. Still, word spread that young Jack Novak was home, and Antioch’s old-timers packed the Central Barber Shop.
Jack didn’t need a haircut as much as he needed an escape. His train had arrived yesterday, and he chafed at how Mom clucked over him and made his favorite meals as if he’d lost a ball game. Why did it bother him? Hadn’t he longed for Mom’s pampering back in England?
“So, boy, were you at Schweinfurt?”
Jack murmured his reply.
Expressions of awe bounced around the barbershop and drowned Jack’s groans. He didn’t deserve this. He was no hero. Mr. Noia slapped aftershave on Jack’s cheeks, and Jack wished he’d slap harder.
“Tell us about it, son.”
What could he say? He was supposed to assure those on the home front that their hard work would lead to a victory parade any day now, but he couldn’t lie. For every Nazi they shot down, two more met them the next day.