Defiant Heart (35 page)

Silently, he took inventory of all the things he’d managed to lose in that short period of time. His dream of national office and all the status and respect that went with it. Check. His standing in the community. Check. His hardware store, the birthright from his father. Check.

It was, he reflected, with bitter self deprecation, quite an impressive collection of things to lose. He decided that merited yet another drink, and he took a large sip.

What more, he asked himself, could he possibly manage to lose?

A door opened upstairs, and he heard footsteps. Someone began descending the stairs, and he turned to look.

Sam Parker appeared. He hadn’t known she was here. Behind her came Mary. It took him a moment to realize that Mary was carrying a suitcase. He thought carefully. Had he known Mary was going somewhere? He mulled it over and then came to the conclusion that, in fact, he had
not
known Mary was going anywhere.

Having solved that mystery, he asked the obvious question. “Where are you going?”

“Sam is driving me to the train station. She’ll bring the car back and drop it off later.”

Dahlgren considered the new information. It didn’t seem adequate. He tapped his glass for a few seconds. Then it dawned on him. “You’re catching a train?”

“Yes. I’ve joined the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps, and I’m on my way to Georgia for basic training.”

Dahlgren wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to say, but he was certain that wasn’t it. He shook his head, realizing, belatedly, that he needed to be thinking a bit more clearly. He reluctantly set down the glass of scotch.

“Hold on a second. I never said you could do that.”

Sam spoke up quickly. “You know what? I think I’ll just wait in the car.” She went to the door, opened it and stepped out. She turned, pointed with her finger and said, “I’ll be right over there.” Then she closed the door.

“That’s right, Dad,” Mary said, when Sam was gone. “You never said I could, and you never would have if I’d asked. That’s why I didn’t bother.”

“Now wait just a minute, young lady,” Dahlgren said. “You’re still my daughter.”

Mary considered that. Then she said, “Yes and no.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Softly, Mary said, “Dad, you’ll always be my father. But you no longer have control over my life. You’ve forfeited that right.”

He started to say something, and she stopped him cold.

“I got my memory back. All of it.”

His bluster evaporated.

“I know what you did after I was attacked. Those boys tried to rape me, and you let it all get swept under the rug. You let them send Jon off to the army, and you just forgot about it.”

Dahlgren quickly cast about for a rejoinder, but she didn’t wait for a response.

“I called Dr. Hudson,” she continued. “I know he told you I should get back to my normal routine. You told me the exact opposite. Why was that, Dad?”

He tried to come up with an answer.

“Don’t bother. We both know why. Your campaign was more important to you than your daughter.” She fixed him with a direct look. “That’s why you no longer have a daughter.”

Mary bent to pick up the suitcase. “Oh,” she said, almost as an afterthought. “I paid a visit to Mrs. Wilson. And guess who I found out never went to see her in October, like he said he did?”

He knew he had no reply to that, and he didn’t bother to try to come up with one.

She walked to the door, opened it, and turned one last time to face him. “I’ll always love you, Dad. I can’t help that. But I’ve lost my respect for you. Good bye.” She closed the door behind herself.

Dahlgren stared at the door a long time after she’d gone. Finally, he reached down and picked up the glass. You had to ask, didn’t you, he said to himself. Then he took another drink.

#

“You’re in luck, sarge,” the duty sergeant said, holding out a pair of envelopes. Jon had made inquiry regarding his mail, concerned that, in the three weeks he’d been at Stanbridge, he’d yet to receive any correspondence. The quartermaster had told him he’d look into the situation, that there might have been a foul up with his APO address. “Should be more coming. It looks like they got things straightened out.”

One of the letters was from his grandmother. She’d posted it shortly after Thanksgiving. It contained the usual news, nothing of import.

The other letter, Jon was surprised to discover, was from Walt.

“Dear Jon,” it began, “I bet you never thought you would get a letter from me. Do you remember your old English teacher, Agnes Tremaine? Oops. I do not mean that she is old. I mean that she used to be your English teacher. Agnes is helping me write this letter. I finished the book you gave me. It was good. Agnes gave me another book to read. I like it very much. I hope you are safe. Do not let the Germans get you. I hope I see you soon. I have a big surprise for you. Well, I guess I will finish now and mail this letter tomorrow. Your friend, Walt.”

Below his signature, Walt had scrawled a postscript.

“PS. Agnes dont know I am writing this part. She is great.”

Jon smiled to himself. He pictured big, affable Walt, then thought fondly of his former English teacher. He’d give a month of his meager salary to see the two of them together.

#

On Jon’s fifth mission, the squadron was ordered into Germany for the first time. Their target, the railroad marshalling yards in Hamm. With their homeland being attacked in broad daylight, the Germans took umbrage, and they sent up waves of fighters to challenge the bombers.

From the moment the formation crossed the coastline, they were subjected to fire from enemy fighters. During a particularly intense part of the aerial assault, a Messerschmitt Bf 109 launched a frontal attack on the Deuces Wild. Closing at a speed of almost 400 miles per hour, the German pilot just barely avoided a head-on collision, passing a few feet over the top of the bomber. The fire from his guns overshot the cockpit, where he appeared to have been aiming, and instead traced a pattern down the left side of the aircraft, beginning in the bomb bay and continuing aft. Fortunately, none of the bombs had been ignited.

The spray from the Messerschmitt’s guns tore through the radio compartment, destroying Jon’s radio and shredding the chair Jon would have been sitting in had he not been manning the Browning. Jon was lucky. Calvin Rogers was not. At least five bullets slammed into his body, one of them taking off the top third of his skull and depositing bits of bone, hair and brain matter amid the spent shells that lined the floor of the fuselage.

Jon came back to see if there was anything he could do to help, but it was immediately obvious that Rogers was dead. The sight of his destroyed head nearly caused Jon to be sick, and he had to fight back nausea. Gooch did likewise, but without the same success, and he barely managed to get his oxygen mask off before vomiting his breakfast all over the blood and gore.

When Gooch finished voiding his stomach, he and Jon dragged Rogers’ body back toward the rear of the plane so Jon could man the left waist gun.

The flak over the target was exceptionally heavy and accurate, knocking several of the planes out of formation. The Deuces Wild, fortunately, avoided damage from the anti-aircraft fire. After dropping their bombs, the planes fought their way home, sustaining attacks by what seemed to be an endless supply of German fighters. The onslaught did not let up until they were well out over the North Sea. A squadron of British Hurricane fighters finally appeared and drove off the last of the Germans.

When they landed, there was none of the banter that had accompanied prior completed missions. Each of the crew members seemed to retreat into himself, and it was a somber group that made its way back to Hut 51.

The day after that mission, Jon lay on his bunk, staring at the rounded ceiling of the hut. The rest of the crew were out. Jon didn’t know where, nor, for that matter, did he care. There had yet to be any new occupants to take the beds that had belonged to the men of the Silver Bullet. He was alone with his thoughts, and they were bleak.

He heard the door to the hut open, and Shim called out, “All right, Jon, let’s go.”

Jon sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. “What’s up?”

Shim walked in and waved a couple pieces of paper in the air. “You and I have overnight passes.”

“We do?”

“Yep,” Shim said with a smile. “And I’m going to get you drunk. Or laid. Preferably both.”

Despite himself, Jon felt his face flush.

“Oh, buddy,” Shim laughed, giving him a knowing look. “Time’s a wasting.”

With a mixture of misgiving and anticipation, Jon packed an overnight bag, and he accompanied Shim to the main gate of the base, where they showed their passes to the guards on duty. A forty-five minute bus ride brought them to the city of Norwich, the home, Shim explained to Jon, of the Mustard Club, where they would be spending the evening.

Leaving the bus station, they walked past a huge marketplace, then down a series of ancient streets that Jon found fascinating. Shim stopped the first few times Jon lingered, studying an old structure or marveling at an architectural detail. Finally, however, Shim said, “You do understand, this is just an overnight pass, right?”

Jon nodded sheepishly, and they continued on.

Eventually, they arrived at an impressive brick structure occupying almost an entire block of the city. Above three stories of an intricately detailed facade, a series of gargoyles held up a steeply pitched roof lined with massive dormers.

“Home, sweet home,” Shim said. “At least for tonight.”

They entered through the large front doors into a reception area. A pleasant woman in a Red Cross uniform greeted them, and, when Shim told her their names, she stepped behind a reception desk and located their record in a reservation book. She gave them a key and directions, and they made their way to the third floor, where they found a small but comfortably furnished room with two beds and a wash basin. A communal bathroom was just down the hall.

They washed up. Then Shim led Jon back down to the first floor and into an immense, gaily decorated room with a large stage in front of an even larger open area that was obviously for dancing. A band was playing a Tommy Dorsey tune, and there were several couples out on the dance floor. Numerous tables and booths surrounded the dance area, and Jon could see they were filling rapidly.

They found an unoccupied booth, and Shim excused himself. He returned a couple minutes later with two large glasses full of a dark amber liquid topped with white froth. He set one down in front of Jon.

“Have you had a lot of beers?” Shim asked.

Jon shook his head.

Shim looked at him a moment, then asked, “Have you ever had a beer before?”

Again, Jon shook his head.

Shim smiled. “Ok, here’s the drill. You’ve got to drink the whole thing. You can’t just take a couple of sips and decide whether you like it. Wait until you’re done before you draw any conclusions. Got it?”

Jon nodded.

Shim held up his own glass. “Here’s to the 96th.”

Jon picked up his glass and touched it to Shim’s.

Jon was surprised to find the beer at room temperature. He’d always heard beer referred to as being cold. It tasted a little bitter, but not terrible.

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” Shim said. Jon nodded, and Shim stepped away, blending into what was now turning into a fairly good-sized crowd as the room filled up.

Jon took another sip of the beer. He knew, of course, about its alcoholic properties. He’d seen people tipsy before and, on a couple of occasions, downright drunk. He wondered what it would feel like. This beer, however, did not seem to carry with it the same potency as other alcoholic beverages. He concluded it was unlikely he’d be much affected by the drink.

He looked around the room. There were more men than women, but, he noticed, there were still a lot of women. It suddenly occurred to Jon that it had been weeks since he’d last seen a female. That struck him as funny.

With the exception of the members of the band and a handful of waiters, all of the men wore uniforms. He saw several in brown Class A uniforms similar to his, with insignia indicating that, like Jon, they were in the U.S. Eighth Air Force. Many of the men, he saw were officers. There seemed to be no distinction being paid between officers and enlisted men.

He saw quite a few men wearing the blue uniforms of the Royal Air Force. There were even a few naval uniforms. The mood of the crowd was exuberant, a far cry from the environment he’d left a couple of hours before. He was glad Shim had arranged this. He began to feel himself relaxing.

He took another drink from his beer and was surprised to discover he’d already consumed most of it. He’d obviously done so without thinking about it. The taste was beginning to grow on him.

Shim reappeared, and, somehow, two young women had attached themselves to either side of him. Speaking above the music, Shim said, “May I present Miss Olivia Hendley.” He nodded to the dark-haired girl on his right arm.

“Livvy,” the girl said quickly.

“Of course. Livvy,” amended Shim, and he gave the girl a quick peck on the cheek.

She giggled. Jon thought that was very nice.

“And,” Shim continued, “Miss Victoria Addington.” He indicated the blond girl on his left arm.

“Ladies,” Shim announced with great formality, “this is Sergeant Jon Meyer of the United States Army Air Force.”

With friendly smiles and nods, the two girls slid into the booth, one on each side, Shim following Livvy, so that, once they were settled, the two girls were sitting to either side of Jon. It was a small table, and Jon realized with a start that their knees were touching. He wondered if anyone else noticed.

Shim leaned forward and tapped Jon’s beer glass with a finger. Looking directly at Victoria, he said, “This beer is Jon’s first,” he said. Then, with emphasis, he added, “Ever.”

Victoria arched her eyebrows and asked, “First ever?”

Shim nodded solemnly and said, “First ever.”

“First ever,” Jon repeated, agreeably.

Still talking to Shim, but looking at Jon, Victoria said, “He’s awfully cute, but he’s a bit young.” She reached out a hand and brushed back some hair that had apparently fallen across Jon’s forehead. Jon found the touch of her fingers thrilling.