He chuckled and turned away. “Women in the Army—whose bright idea?”
Ruth smiled, but May sighed.
“I hope we can fly soon. Remember, Ruth? Wasn’t it wonderful?”
The question knocked out her breath. Her memory of flying was tied to her memories of Jack, but every thought of Jack cast her to the ground in the fog. “I wish we could fly again and get above the gray days.”
“Do you remember that talk we had about gray days?” May asked in a quiet voice. “The Fourth of July, I think.”
Ruth nodded and fumbled with the strap. She could still see Jack stretched out on the blanket, goading her to take the ham and cheese, say his name, and accept his friendship. Her whole chest ached, missing him, knowing he didn’t miss her one bit.
May’s forehead creased. Denial protected her from grief, but not from worry.
Ruth knelt to insert the lowest litter. “We can’t get away from those gray days, can we?”
“No, we can’t.”
“What? You’re not going to rhapsodize about how prayer drives away the gray clouds?”
May frowned, her hands wrapped around the canvascovered pole. “Well, no. Prayer takes you above the gray. It doesn’t always take it away.”
Ruth’s head spun. All her prayers, all her life, had been for God to take away her problems, to snatch her from the valley of the shadow of death. She said the verse in her head, then heard it as if for the first time:
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
God never promised to take her out of the valley, but to be with her, guide her, and comfort her—
in
the valley.
Oh Lord.
Ruth’s prayer stumbled. She didn’t trust God because she thought he had abandoned her. But he hadn’t. She had rejected him.
Oh Lord, forgive me.
May nudged her. “Ruth? You strapped in your belt.”
Ruth was indeed well secured. She let out a shaky laugh and scratched at a tickle on her cheek. Her finger came back wet. She whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. All those years without a single tear, and now she’d turned into a fountain.
“All right. Class is over,” Sergeant Rawlinson said.
On her way off the plane, Ruth kept her head down to conceal any redness in her eyes, but a commotion on the ground made her look up. The chief nurse, Lt. Erma Shepard, stood with a list in hand. The 815th MAETS consisted of four flights, each with one flight surgeon and six pairs of nurses and surgical technicians. Today they’d find out who their partners were.
“Lt. Norma Carpenter, you’ll be with Sgt. Michael Dugan. Lt. Ruth Doherty, you’ll work with Sgt. William Burns.”
Ruth couldn’t even hear the rest of the list. Burnsey? She’d been teamed with Burnsey?
After the chief nurse finished, a private passed out mail, but Lieutenant Shepard headed toward the classroom building. Ruth trotted to catch up, and she offered the chief a salute. “Lieutenant Shepard? I put in a request not to work with Sergeant Burns.”
Lieutenant Shepard gave her a motherly smile. She had kindly brown eyes and a sharp nose with slits for nostrils. “That’s why I put you together.”
Ruth’s mouth dropped open.
The chief nurse laughed. “Everyone else wanted to work with him, for good reason. He’s distinguished himself as an excellent tech, our best. But he’s also handsome and popular, so to maintain professionalism, I paired him with the one person in the squadron who isn’t swayed by his charms—you, my dear.”
Ruth couldn’t close her mouth. She couldn’t say why she didn’t want to work with him, because she couldn’t put it in words. He’d never said anything inappropriate, never touched her, never asked her out. He just made her nervous. “There must be someone—”
“No. Haven’t you seen how the girls flirt with him? With you, I can be sure there won’t be any hanky-panky.” Her mouth drew up as tight as her nostrils.
“But—”
“My decision is final. Now, we shall all get along splendidly, shall we not?”
Ruth recognized an order when she heard one. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lieutenant Shepard walked away, and Ruth turned toward the group by the C-47.
May met her halfway. She’d lost all the color she’d earned from three weeks of calisthenics. “I got a letter from Jack.”
“Jack?” His name tasted strange in Ruth’s mouth.
“I gave him my address and asked him to contact me if he heard anything. Read it.”
Ruth hesitated, but she had no choice. She felt woozy at the sight of Jack’s firm hand with its confident, oversized capitals. She steeled herself to hear his voice in her head.
November 30, 1943
Dear May,
I have postponed this letter as long as possible, since I know how much you hope for Charlie’s return.
Today we received a prisoner of war list containing more names of men lost on the Schweinfurt mission. Charlie’s name was not among them. May, I’m afraid not one man from his crew is on any of the lists. While the men must officially be classified as missing in action, the Eighth Air Force has contacted the men’s families. Given the circumstances, we are certain the entire crew was killed in action.
Please accept my condolences on your loss. I knew Charlie for three years and I never saw him as happy as he was with you. I hope you know how much he loved you and how much you enriched his life. Please take comfort in knowing he is home with the Lord he loved and served.
Ruth’s heart weighed heavy, so heavy she was surprised it still beat. Would May accept Jack’s statement?
May’s face was carved from marble, her chin high, her eyes dry. “Well, that’s that. I was wrong. Come along, Ruth. We’ll be late for class.”
Antioch
Sunday, December 19, 1943
In the faint dawn light, Jack sat cross-legged on the sand and stared at the greenish gray water in the cove. The San Joaquin River streamed west from the Sierras, through Stockton and past Antioch, joined the Sacramento River at Pittsburg, and then flowed into San Francisco Bay.
Jack knew the smell, the currents, and the tides, but he hadn’t swum in the river or anywhere else since he’d been pulled half-conscious from its grasp by some Portuguese fishermen. After that, at beach parties he stoked the campfires, entertained the beachcombers, and wooed the girls. His fear of water had little impact on his life. Until Schweinfurt.
He reached forward and let the cold liquid rush between his fingers. Such innocuous stuff, water, yet it was the stuff of life, the stuff of death.
A shiver ran through him. He’d never thought of himself as a coward, but only a coward would risk the lives of over a hundred men so he wouldn’t have to face his fear.
Jack slipped both hands under the water and onto the firm sand, then curled his fingers in. Dirt clouded the water as pride had clouded his judgment over Schweinfurt. Fear had sparked his fatal decision, but pride fueled it. He thought he could pull it off. He always had before.
“You’re too good, Jack. That’s your problem.”
Charlie was right. Even in seminary, when Jack should have failed, he’d squeaked by on charm and dogged hard work.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust God, but that he’d never had to.
Jack ran damp hands over his face and into his hair. “Lord, forgive me. I trusted myself more than you. Please don’t let Charlie’s death be in vain. Help me put aside my pride and learn to trust you.”
Before long, God’s forgiveness warmed him more than the pale sun could, but Jack had a long way to go. The sin of pride had hundreds of tentacles tunneled deep in his soul.
He wandered home through streets deserted except for boys tossing the
Ledger
onto porches, and Mr. Fortner in his horse-drawn milk wagon, pressed back into service. At home, Jack washed up, changed into dress uniform for church, and joined his family in the kitchen. His brothers and future sister-in-law had arrived the day before.
Mom smiled over her shoulder as she scrambled eggs. “Good morning, dear. Pull up a chair wherever you can.”
“Morning, everyone.” Jack squeezed a chair in place. Dad, Ray, Walt, and Allie sat around a table heaped with biscuits, jam, and eggs from Grandpa’s farm. For the first time in weeks, Jack felt hungry.
Walt grinned across the table at him. “We saved half a sausage link for you.”
“Nope,” Ray said. “Just ate it.”
Mom clucked her tongue at them. “Nonsense. I have plenty. Granted, I used a wad of ration stamps, but I wanted your first breakfast together to be special.”
Jack had joined the Air Corps in 1940, and Ray and Walt followed soon after. Training took them all over the country, and then Jack and Walt went overseas. The whole family hadn’t sat under one roof for three years.
Jack studied his older brother beside him. Ray still wore the single bars of a lieutenant since he didn’t have combat experience. Back in 1940, the Air Corps had been desperate for instructors and had tapped members of each graduating class to teach the next. Ray had gladly obliged. His job in pilot training would never lead to advancement, but Ray didn’t care about such things.
“So, Ray,” Dad said. “Have you met any nice girls down in Texas?”
Jack winced and stuffed a bite of sausage in his mouth.
“Haven’t been looking.” Ray had a rough recovery from his second broken engagement.
“Just wait. God will send the right woman.” Walt had never looked so good. He’d even lost the nervous habit of shoving back the black curl over his forehead. Jack tried not to stare as Walt used the silver hook on his right arm to brace a sausage with a fork while he sliced. At first, Walt wanted nothing to do with prosthetics, but his recent letters described the tasks the artificial arm helped him with. Ever the engineer, he saw it as a fun toy.
Jack nudged Ray in the side. “If our ugly kid brother can find someone, so can you.” He shot Walt a grin, which was returned with interest.
“Oh my. I see where you learned to tease, Walt.” Those were the first words that morning from Allie Miller. She struck Jack as a long-faced librarian, a girl most fellows wouldn’t give a second look, but she did have the pretty green eyes Walt raved about.
“Say, Allie,” Walt said. “Tell the story about your arrival in Seattle.”
She gave him a withering glance.
Jack smiled and chewed his biscuit. She had some fire in that prim head after all.
“Come on, sweetheart. Jack hasn’t heard it. I couldn’t tell him in a letter. Loses its punch unless he sees how proper and ladylike you are.”
Allie turned to Jack with light in her eyes. “Did he tell you he abandoned me at the train station?”
Jack’s smile grew. Walt had met his match. Jack leaned forward on the table and gave Allie his most sympathetic look. “I can’t believe it. What a jerk.”
Walt laughed. “Hey, I had to work. I sent a taxi.”
Jack frowned and shook his head. “Horrible, just horrible. Please continue.”
Allie smiled back and forth between the brothers. “Horrible. I agree. Well, Bill Perkins was one of Walt’s crewmates, and his family offered to rent me a room. When I arrived at the house, a couple greeted me at the door, and I thanked them profusely for their hospitality. They brought me in and served me tea, but they seemed uncomfortable, which made me nervous.”
Walt dipped a spoon in the strawberry jam. “And when she’s nervous, she talks a blue streak.”
“Yes, I do. I chatted about how lovely Seattle was, and how happy I was to be there and to work at Boeing and to see my fiancé again. Then I glimpsed Walt coming down the sidewalk, except he went to the house across the street. So I looked at the address Walt gave me—number forty-two, or was it forty-three?”
“You know how bad my handwriting is now,” Walt said.
Jack nodded. Poor girl. Just the kind who would die of mortification.
Sure enough, Allie’s cheeks turned pink, but she smiled. “You see, I introduced myself but never asked their names. This sweet couple entertained a complete stranger.”
Jack joined his family in laughter. Allie laughed too, and any girl who could laugh at herself was okay in his book.
Walt gathered her hand in his. “May 6—we’ve set the date.”
“Congratulations.” Then Jack pointed at Allie. “I meant that for him, not you. I know what you’re getting stuck with.”
“So do I, and I couldn’t be happier.”
Now Jack smiled at Walt. “You’ve done well for yourself, kid.”
Half an hour later, Jack sat in the pew between his brothers, sharing a hymnal with Ray while Mom played Christmas carols on the organ.
Then Dad started his sermon with the mannerisms and intonations Jack had practiced in front of the bathroom mirror as a boy. His professors at seminary praised his delivery but not his messages.
Jack shifted in the pew. Good speaking skills didn’t make him a good pastor.
His sermons lacked depth and originality and insight, he knew that even as he wrote them. But sermons weren’t his only failing in the ministry. Pastors needed to be calm and strong in a crisis and offer solace from Scripture. Jack had faced four crises the past year and failed at all four.
First, he’d been in Texas with Ray when Dolores broke their engagement. Jack had fumbled, his words tangled in his own dislike of Dolores. Then he’d been in the hospital with Walt when he saw his stump for the first time. Once again, he fumbled.
He hadn’t done any better breaking the news of Charlie’s death to May. She didn’t even believe him. Good thing Ruth had been there for May—and for him.
Jack slammed his eyes shut, remembering his worst failure of all, but he couldn’t block the image of Ruth bowed under his condemnation. Condemnation? A good pastor would have offered compassion and forgiveness.
He squeezed the Bible in his lap. He could hear Dad telling him he just needed to try harder.
Is that it, Lord? Am I disobedient to your call? Do I need to accept your will and apply myself?