A Memory Between Us (15 page)
“Not yet. We’ll walk by the lagoon, and you can skewer me with that harpoon.”
“Harpoon? Jack—I don’t—”
“Because I’m a buffoon, that’s why. A jerk.” He stopped under a broad-spreading tree and faced Ruth with eyes filled with regret. “I came here to apologize.”
“Apologize?”
He tilted his head toward the lake and released her arm. “Let’s walk.”
Ruth followed, but her mind spun. Why was he apologizing? She was the one who should apologize.
Jack sighed and put his hands in the pockets of his flight jacket. “Listen, Ruth. From the day we met, you made it clear you wanted nothing to do with romance.”
She stared at his lowered face in the fading light. Nothing? Had he forgotten how she acted in the abbey?
“The friendship was going great, and—well, you’re a beautiful woman, and I thought maybe—well, I got carried away.”
He got carried away? He wasn’t the only one. Why did he take all the blame?
“I will never try to kiss you again. I promise.”
Again? He sounded as if they’d continue to see each other. Ruth couldn’t speak; she could only watch the strange scene unfold.
“Can you forgive me? If I promise to be the gentleman you thought I was?”
Her breath caught. Chivalry—that’s why he took the blame. To avoid an awkward talk about her behavior, he was pretending the whole thing was only an unwelcome kiss.
“Ruth?” He glanced over at her.
“Of course, I forgive you, but can you—”
“Good, because this week was miserable. I messed up a great friendship and I missed you.”
Leaves rustled overhead, their shoes swished in the grass, and warmth filled the hollowness in Ruth’s chest. “Jack?” she said. “I missed you too.”
“Can’t imagine why you’d miss a goon like me.”
A laugh bubbled off the last of the dampness. “I didn’t miss those rhymes.”
One black eyebrow arched.
She laughed again. “Okay, maybe I did.”
“Good, because I had a dilemma. If I left you alone as you asked, how could I keep my promise never to leave you alone?”
“Mm, that is a dilemma.” Pinpoints of light pricked the indigo sky.
“And now Charlie and May are a couple. He’s my best friend, she’s yours, and if you couldn’t stand the sight of me … well, it’d be a lot easier if we could be friends.”
Ruth’s chest tightened again. “Can we?”
“Yes.” He faced her, a respectful three feet away. “I won’t lie to you. I find you extremely attractive, but I can control myself.” A note of humor rang in his voice.
Ruth studied his extremely attractive silhouette. Jack’s control was only half of the problem.
A whining scream, and Ruth jumped. “The air raid siren? Again?”
Jack turned back toward the hospital complex. “Where’s a shelter?”
“I haven’t gone in a shelter in ages,” she shouted over the blare.
“You’re going tonight.”
“Nonsense. They’re all false alarms.” Nonetheless, Ruth followed.
“Not always. Sometimes they break through and do some strafing. Just last night the RAF shot down four Me 110s around here.” He beckoned. “Come on, slowpoke. I talked you into being friends again. I’m not about to let you get perforated.”
“Perforated?” She laughed and led him through the complex, to an earthen lump of a shelter, and down the steps. One nurse, the new girl, sat wide-eyed on a cot while half a dozen of her ambulatory patients played poker.
Ruth leveled a glare at Jack. “See? Almost deserted.”
“Fine by me.” He sat on a cot, leaned back against the tin wall, and patted the canvas beside him.
Ruth sat with a humph.
Jack pulled his legs up and set his heels on the frame of the cot. “Feels good. I’m beat.”
The single lightbulb illuminated the fatigue and weathering of his face. “Hard day?”
“Mm-hmm.” He opened his eyes, even bluer against a deep tan. “Reveille at 0400. We stayed up late removing sand from engine parts and pumping 2,400 gallons of gas by hand from 55-gallon drums.”
“Oh my. And how was today?”
Jack draped his arms over his knees. “Good. Dropped a load of presents on an airfield in Bordeaux on the way home. Not much opposition, but a long flight.”
“Then you came up here.”
“Showered first. Be glad. A week without laundry or showers—boy, I tell you.”
“I am glad.” She smiled and relaxed against the wall. “And—and I’m glad you came here, especially after a long mission. Goodness.”
He turned his eyes to her, a bit too close and much too warm, but he’d keep his promise. “How was your week?”
Ruth crossed her arms over the stationery box on her stomach. Should she be as honest as he’d been? She raised half a smile. “Miserable.”
Sympathy and amusement flowed between them. The friendship was restored. What a blessing. Yes, a blessing.
Ruth opened her eyes wide. “Oh, I passed my physical.”
“The Form 64? Wow. Lots of men can’t pass that. So, now you wait to hear?”
“Well, no, I still have to do … um, a test flight.” How awkward.
“Yeah?” Jack laced his fingers behind his head. “Do they take you up in a C-47? C-54?”
“Any plane will do.” She rubbed her thumb over the stationery box. “But I have to—I have to arrange it myself. I have to find a—a pilot.”
He laughed. “I may be a buffoon, but I’m a mighty good pilot. If you’d like—”
“Oh, would you? Could you?”
“Sure. I’ll clear it with Castle, take you on a local practice mission. Say, you think May would like to go?”
“Would she?” Ruth almost crushed the box. “If she were five pounds heavier, she’d apply too.”
“Okay, I’ll get back to you with the details.” He nodded at her box. “Now, you seem eager to write letters, and I’m beat. I’m going to nap until they sound the all clear.”
“Good idea.” How thoughtful he was to want to save the friendship, and how clever to figure out a way.
Jack pulled his cap over his face and crossed his arms.
“That doesn’t look comfortable.”
One corner of his mustache edged up. “After a week sleeping in a blanket on the ground under the wing of my ship, this is heaven, believe me.”
“I’ll wake you if the siren doesn’t.” She pulled out a gossamer sheet. Stationery and ink consumed a great deal of her spending money, although she wrote in tiny script. Today she wanted to fill many sheets. She’d write Bert first. Her youngest brother would be thrilled with the news of her test flight.
Ruth pulled her pen from her purse and started to write “Dear Bert,” but she was out of ink. “Oh dear.”
“Wassa matter?” One blue eye peeked from under the service cap.
“I forgot I was going to refill my ink cartridge tonight.”
“Here. Use mine.” Jack reached inside his shirt pocket and handed her a silver pen.
“Thank you.” When she removed the cap, it made a gritty, scraping sound. She took out a new pen wipe she’d bought at the PX. What a strange war this was. A Chicago slum girl sat underneath English manor grounds, wiping Sahara sand from the pen of a war hero pilot from California.
Once she’d wiped the pen cleaner than it had probably been in years, she wrote her letter. She would ride in an airplane. Not just any airplane, but the famous B-17 Flying Fortress. Not just any pilot, but a man who’d flown over Pearl Harbor, New Guinea, and now Regensburg and Tunisia. Not just a good pilot, but a good friend.
Ruth gazed at Jack. Soft snores rumbled from his drooping mouth. She smiled at the sound, familiar from his hospital days.
She had two friends now, two good friends who liked her just as she was.
Ruth’s heart seized up. No. No, they didn’t. They didn’t know who she really was.
Bury St. Edmunds Airfield
Monday, August 30, 1943
Thousand-pound general purpose bombs lay stacked under camouflage netting in the grass under a gnarled oak, but Jack paid them little attention.
“How are things going out here?” he asked.
Lieutenant Mulroney wore a testy expression. As a new ordnance officer, he wasn’t accustomed to Jack’s visits to dispersal sites. The bomb dump was isolated at the far northeastern corner of the base to minimize damage in case of an explosion. They didn’t get visitors.
Jack set one foot on a crate and rested his arms on his knee. “Have enough personnel?”
Mulroney glanced around and switched his weight from one leg to the other. “Yeah, sure.”
“How about supplies?”
“Fine.” Then he frowned. “Except—well …”
“Go ahead.”
“Pencils. Seems we never have enough. We have so many forms to fill out and—”
“I’ll let Quartermasters know. Of course they’ll make you fill out more forms to get them.” Jack pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and scribbled a note. Then he grinned and handed Mulroney his pencil. “Here. Not much, but a start.”
The lieutenant’s eyes lit up as if Jack had given him a whole case. “Don’t you need it?”
“Nah, I’ve got a pen.” He patted his chest pocket. A very clean pen.
It didn’t take much to win over Mulroney. Jack stayed at the bomb dump for half an hour to talk to the men about work and life. He’d never learn the names of all three thousand men at Bury St. Edmunds, but he’d try. Flight crews came and went and took all the glory, but ground personnel stayed for the duration without accolades. Any discontent on base affected morale, but to be content, most men just needed notice, appreciation, and response.
Jack mounted his bike and headed south on the road to the living sites. As a squadron commander, he could use a jeep, but he preferred the exercise. Besides, Major Babcock whizzed around in a jeep with his adjutant at the wheel, like a president on parade. Ridiculous. Jack refused to abuse the privileges of command—or his adjutant.
He stood on the pedals to build speed down the quiet road. He planned to hit five sites in the interval between his daily squadron meeting and the lunch meeting with Castle and the other squadron commanders. Then this afternoon …
He smiled and coasted down an incline. This afternoon, Ruth would meet him on the base for her test flight while he checked out his newest pilot.
His plan was back on target, now that he’d figured out her problem. Her dad had been paralyzed when she was twelve, which took Ruth from carefree girl to responsible young woman. About that time she’d last had a boyfriend—eighth grade, she’d said—probably a fumbling kid of thirteen. No wonder she hated kissing.
Jack could change that.
Once they were crazy in love, he’d arrange another intimate moment like in the abbey. Then he’d remind her of his promise not to kiss her, and she’d beg him to break it, or maybe she’d break it for him.
Jack grinned and hit the brakes at the crossroads to let a GMC truck pass. For now, he’d pull back, keep his hands to himself, and let the friendship grow to trust, then love.
Charlie said Jack’s plan was driven by wounded pride because he couldn’t stand a strikeout on his batting record. Baloney. Now that Charlie finally had a girlfriend, he acted as if he were an expert on women. Nothing but baloney.
When Jack reached the enlisted men’s mess, he leaned the bike against the wall and went inside. The smell of oatmeal lingered in the air, and men on KP duty wiped down the tables. Jack walked up to a hulking man with thin blond hair. “Corporal Boyd, back again?”
Boyd’s thick face broke into a smile. “Hiya, Major. Listen, you gotta talk to my sergeant. It’s my wristwatch, sir, I swear. It blinks out on me. Only reason I’m late.”
Jack leaned his hip on a table. “You know I can’t do that. Get it fixed, get a new one, or at least throw the old one away. We rely on you being on time.”
Boyd slapped a rag on the table. “Oh yeah, the great Quartermaster war hero.”
“That’s right. You are—when you do your job.”
An eye roll.
Jack laced his fingers together in front of him. “Don’t you see? We’re all linked together. It takes ten men on the ground to put one in the air. I can’t bomb Germany unless ordnance loads bombs, and guess what? Ordnance is low on pencils. They can’t do their jobs unless you do yours.”
A slow smile cracked Boyd’s face. “Then you’d better get me off KP so I can go to work.”
Jack laughed and clapped him on the back. He spotted Pvt. Ed Reynolds, another regular on KP. Reynolds swished a rag in languid circles on a table. When he saw Jack, he raised a grin that made him look about ten years old.
Jack opened his mouth to ask what he was in for but then caught a whiff of the private’s breath. The kid had shown up for duty either drunk or hung over. Again. Jack gave him a nod. “How are things at the laundry?”
Reynolds swiped brown hair off his forehead, but it flopped back over one eye. “Same as here, sir. Warsh, warsh, warsh, all day long.”
Jack smiled at how he said
wash
with an
R
, as Ruth said it.
“Never have time to relax, have some fun.” The private dunked the rag in the bucket, gave it a token wring, and flung the dripping mess onto the table. “Least I’m not up to my neck in jungle muck, getting shot at.”
“Remember that.” If he kept up the boozing, he’d find himself in that very position.
Jack headed into the kitchen, greeted the staff, and sampled the mashed potatoes. Sticky, but passable. Nothing brought down morale faster than bad grub. No matter what, he always included one of the messes on his rounds.
Next he proceeded to the parachute packing plant, where dozens of white silk parachutes hung from the fifty-foot ceiling for inspection. He never took for granted his parachute or the men who packed it.
After a while he retrieved his bike and pressed through the mud on the path to Hangar One, where he would check out progress on repairs and spend time with the maintenance men.
A horn tooted behind him. Maj. Jefferson Babcock Jr. rolled up in his motorcade. The jeep stopped beside Jack. “Good morning, Novak.”
“Morning.” Jack planted his feet.
Babcock draped his arm along the top of the windshield. “Out pressing the flesh?”
“Making my rounds.”
“You should use a jeep, get out of this mud.” Babcock threw in several profane adjectives before
mud
.
