Blue Skies Tomorrow (35 page)

Evening light streamed through the cellar window and illuminated the Me 262 manual on Ray’s lap and the dictionary open on the deflating potato sack.

Translation of technical terms stretched his language skills. Each term required looking up several words and piecing them together. He couldn’t write anything down. If caught with the manual, English notes in his American-style handwriting would betray him faster than his accent.

Ray traced a finger over the cockpit diagram and imagined himself behind the stick of a Schwalbe. Some days the idea didn’t seem so ludicrous—the hungriest days. He had flown many kinds of planes, and he held the blueprint for the little jet in his hands.

Wouldn’t it be something to turn over an intact jet and a manual to Allied intelligence? He could picture Walt’s delight, Jack’s shock, and Helen’s adoration.

“No. It
is
ludicrous.” Ray closed the manual. He had no experience with jet engines, and how on earth could he get into a plane undetected and take off without clearance?

He wound his watch and dog-eared Leviticus chapter ten for March 10. The Allies had better come soon, because Leviticus had only twenty-seven chapters. And Ray had only nine more potatoes.

He flipped to the nineteenth Psalm. Carefully he lifted a plum blossom and pressed it to his lips. A year ago today, in another life, he’d pulled the flower from Helen’s honeyed hair.

“Lord, I miss her so much.” Loneliness surged through him, a pain as raw as the cramps in his intestines.

He puffed out a breath. “No. I’ll be thankful, Lord. I have you and I have a plan for tonight.”

In moonlight diffused by cloud cover, Ray twisted his arm to read his wristwatch. Midnight.

He waited in the woods another five minutes until cigarette smoke wafted by and shoes swished in the grass.

A lone sentry patrolled the perimeter of the field at night, a boring job. Who would suspect enemy activity deep in the Fatherland?

Ray grinned and marked off another five minutes. The Luftwaffe hadn’t counted on the presence of Capt. Raymond Novak—pastor, pilot, saboteur.

He filled his lungs with cool night air and headed toward a plane dispersed to the north.

His sabotage had started with taking tools to slow down aircraft maintenance and to build his arsenal. Each night he hit a different spot with varying acts of sabotage, only a couple a day so they wouldn’t suspect a saboteur.

He ducked inside a mechanic’s hut and poked around. One blessed night he’d found a tin of flight rations. After he pocketed a box of matches, he caught a glint of glass—a half-empty bottle of brandy. Could be useful for cleaning wounds. He’d used up the antiseptic from his escape kit. He stuffed it in his pocket.

Ray headed two hardstands down to an Me 262. Sometimes he punched holes in the fuel tanks, other times he disabled the electric ignition for the cannons so they couldn’t shoot down bombers.

Tonight he ducked under the nose, reached high into the well for the nose wheel, and disconnected the hydraulic line used to retract the landing gear. That would force the pilot to abort his mission. Ray didn’t want to hurt anyone; he just wanted to protect Allied airmen.

He crossed the dark, quiet field and chewed his lips as he approached a cluster of buildings. Far down, one of the buildings shone with a faint light. Muffled laughter rose, and men sang “Lili Marlene.”

Ray’s heart lurched, caught in a tug-of-war between the fear of detection and the longing for companionship. Now he understood why solitary confinement served as effective punishment.

He passed a hangar and held his breath, but no one worked late. The next building, square and squat, held his objective—the scramble siren. His boldest idea yet.

Ray studied the siren about a foot over his head. If he could disable it, the next time the Allies bombed Lechfeld or the Me 262s were called to attack bombers, their response would be delayed. With one act, he could save dozens of American lives or increase the damage when the Mustangs or Thunderbolts strafed.

After he glanced around, Ray dragged over a crate. He dug in the tools in his overcoat pocket, pulled out a screwdriver and wire cutters, and tucked the cutters between his lips.

He removed four large screws and stuck them in the breast pocket of his service jacket. He eased the siren down onto his left shoulder. Wires snaked from the wall. A few snips, and he wrestled the siren back into place and lined up the screw holes. One screw, two screws, three.

The last screw slipped from his fingers and bounced off his boot.
Oh, swell.

Ray eased his grip on the siren. It stayed in place and looked straight. He scooted the crate aside, squatted, and patted around in the dirt.

A flashlight flipped on, right in his face.
“Was ist los? Was machen Sie hier?”

Ray froze, his hands splayed on the ground. This was it. Today he’d die. He had a gun, Johannes’s gun, but he refused to use it.

Lord, give me strength.
He dragged himself to standing, and his left hand bumped the liquor bottle in his pocket. He had a sudden image of King David feigning madness before the gates of Gath.

“Was machen Sie?”

Ray stumbled to the side and offered the bottle to the man.
“Wollen Sie?”
he said with as great a slur as he could muster. He grimaced and shielded his eyes with his forearm.

The man groaned.
“Sie sind betrunken. Gehen Sie ins Bett.”

Go to bed? Hallelujah! King David was brilliant.

“Ja, ja. Bett.”
Ray set a weaving course past the man. Then he remembered the old German drinking song his professor had taught at Cal.

“Du, du liegst mir im Herzen, du, du liegst mir im Sinn,”
Ray sang, slurring and mumbling his way around his accent.

He stumbled toward the living quarters. Once he was certain the man with the flashlight was out of sight, he’d head to the safety of the woods.

Tremors raced through him as fear and relief battled for control of his muscles.

Sabotage was not a job for cowards.

35

Antioch
Saturday, March 17, 1945

“Oh, Allie, he’s beautiful.” Helen held two-week-old Francis Raymond Novak on her shoulder, rubbed her cheek on the soft dark fuzz on his head, and inhaled the smell of milk and talc and baby goodness.

“I can’t get enough of him.” Allie’s face glowed, and she eased herself down onto the couch.

Helen sat next to her and cradled Frankie. He stretched long, skinny fingers and groped the air around his face. One hand smashed onto his cheek. Helen laughed. “I’d forgotten how funny newborns are. Look at his little hands.”

“And that serious old man face.” Allie scrunched up her forehead in imitation.

They laughed together. Over the last few months, Helen had come to see why Betty liked Allie so much.

Jay-Jay leaned over the baby. “I look like dat?”

“Yes, but you didn’t even have fuzz. You were completely bald.”

Blue eyes rounded. Jay-Jay patted his head and sighed in relief, then returned to the toy soldiers on the parlor floor.

Helen gave Allie a hesitant look. “Your parents—have they . . . ?”

Allie shook her head and tucked in her lips. “I sent a telegram, but they haven’t responded. They can’t forgive me, but I’ve forgiven them, and that’s all I can do.”

Helen gazed into Frankie’s large, wise eyes. “Their loss.” Then she raised a smile. “Walt must be thrilled.”

“I know. I wish he could be here. But he’s where he needs to be, doing his part for the country and being there for Jack.”

Frankie’s fingers rolled around Helen’s pinky as grief rolled around her heart. “How are they doing?”

Allie let out a long sigh. “Walt’s holding up, I think, but Jack feels so guilty. He determined the order of the B-17s that day.”

Helen frowned. She never thought anyone else might feel responsible.

Allie picked up a receiving blanket draped on the arm of the sofa. “Plenty of guilt in the Novak family right now.”

“How so?”

Allie folded the blanket. “Pastor Novak wanted all three sons to follow him into the ministry. Walt was the first rebel when he chose to be an engineer. Then Jack decided to stay in the military, which upset his father. Now the only son who wanted to be in ministry is gone. Poor Pastor Novak thinks he’s being punished for his pride.”

“Oh no. But that doesn’t make sense.”

Helen sucked in her breath. Her guilt didn’t make sense either.

She wasn’t responsible for Jim’s death, and she wasn’t responsible for Ray’s. His internal struggle drove him to combat, and he chose to fly a second tour. Besides, he’d grown in confidence and courage and strength. Maybe he did need to go. At least he died at peace.

Helen stroked the baby’s soft cheek. Her shoulders felt lighter without the load of misplaced blame. For Ray’s sake—and hers—she needed to continue healing, to find the contentment Ray had. Once she married Vic, she’d have more time to rest at the Lord’s feet.

“Good morning, Helen. Hi, Jay-Jay.” Mrs. Novak slipped into the parlor and sat in the wing chair. She’d aged several years in the last two months, but a smile brightened her face as she gazed at her grandson. “He’s darling, isn’t he?”

Helen smiled. “Absolutely precious.”

“The Lord knew what we needed.” Mrs. Novak gazed to the window where the family service flag hung, with two stars of blue and one of heartbreaking gold. “ ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ ”

Helen’s throat clamped shut.

Mrs. Novak jerked back her gaze and smiled. “And the Lord is giving once again. We’re looking forward to having your friend Esther stay with us. She arrives Monday.”

“She’s so thankful you’ll have her. The housing shortage made it hard to find a room in the area, and discrimination made it even worse.”

“She’s gathering evidence for another appeal?”

“For Thurgood Marshall with the NAACP. He’ll take it straight to Washington DC. This job is good for her. She can use her skills and help her husband as well.”

Mrs. Novak nodded and gazed around as if distracted. “I—I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

“Jack sent a box of—of Ray’s things. A while back. I couldn’t bear to go through them.” She picked her way over Jay-Jay’s battlefield to the piano, where a stack of envelopes sat beside Ray’s service portrait.

Grief hit Helen in the breastbone and stole her breath. She’d avoided looking at the portrait until now. Never again would she bask in his smile or graze the stubble on his cheek.

Mrs. Novak faced Helen with her mouth in a puckered line. “These are the letters you wrote him.”

Helen drew in a ragged breath.

Allie took the baby out of her arms, and Mrs. Novak set the letters in the hollow, warm space Frankie had vacated.

Helen hugged the letters to her chest. “I loved him, Mrs. Novak.” She gasped from the pain, the release of saying it out loud for the first time.

Mrs. Novak’s eyes glistened. “He loved you too.”

Helen ducked her head so she wouldn’t voice disrespect by disagreeing. Ray hadn’t loved her in a romantic way, but he’d shown the best kind of love—the open, giving love of a true friend.

Lechfeld
Monday, March 19, 1945

“Have you heard whether we’re moving?”

“
Nein,
but soon we must.”

Ray eased behind two officers as they walked between buildings on the airfield. Something big was happening, with several air raids and missions recently, big enough to coax him onto the base for information, a stony expression on his face to discourage conversation. He felt like Gideon infiltrating the Midianite camp before battle.

“We must move and hide our planes,” the taller officer said. “They know we have not enough fuel, and the cowards shoot our planes on the ground.”

The shorter officer smacked him in the arm. “
Ach,
we also shoot their planes. And we destroyed the bridge over the Rhine at Remagen.”

“That was an Arado 234, not a Messerschmitt, and the next day the Americans built a
Ponton
bridge.”