A Memory Between Us (29 page)

At the back corner of the building, she faced him and steeled herself against his forlorn expression. She would not pity him. Why? He’d shown her no pity.

“I—I came to apologize.”

She nodded, determined not to speak.

Jack looked down at a red paper bundle in his hands and pursed his lips. “Everything I said that day came from pride. Pride alone. Because you kissed them, but you wouldn’t kiss me. But now I understand why you don’t date, why you don’t kiss. It makes sense now.”

His understanding threatened her defenses, and she clenched her fists to stop the softening in her heart.

“I had a goal with you, and my pride wouldn’t let me give up. I tried so hard not to fail with you, but I did a far worse thing—I failed you. When I think of what I said to you, how I left you …” His face contorted.

Ruth crossed her arms across her blue wool flight jacket. No. No pity. He’d experienced only a fraction of the pain he’d inflicted.

“I condemned you when I should have shown compassion, compassion for being in a position where you felt you had to do such a thing. You were so young. And then what those rats—and then me. You’ve been through enough, and then I condemned you.”

No, Ruth would not be moved by his words or his emotion.

“What I said was wrong, every word. What’s past is past. You truly are a virtuous woman.”

Oh yes, he was good and he was smooth, but she knew better.

Jack lifted devastated eyes. “I know nothing can erase what I said that day. I’m not looking for forgiveness. For once I’m doing something for you, not for me. I came only to apologize, to let you know I was wrong and I’m sorry.”

How could she reply? Should she tell him in a fierce voice that he didn’t deserve forgiveness? Should she throw herself in his arms, have a good cry, and forgive him as God forgave her? Should she scream at him and beat him down as he beat her down?

She opened her mouth, unsure of what would come out. “Go catch your plane.”

He blinked, nodded, and turned away.

No, that wasn’t what she wanted to say, but she couldn’t move or breathe or speak.

Jack set the red parcel on the stoop for the side door. “Your Christmas present. It’s not—I can’t use it. It’s strange, I know. Please read the note.” He straightened up and met her eye. “Good-bye, Ruth.”

Her mouth was glued shut, and he was gone, and May and Dottie rushed around the corner.

May’s eyes stretched wide and frantic. “Ruth! Ruthie, are you okay?”

She nodded, her gaze fixed on Jack’s diminishing form. She should run after him, and scream or cry or hit him, but not let him walk away. Anything but that.

“What happened?” May wouldn’t be ignored.

“He apologized. He was—he was sincere.” And humble. She’d never seen him so humble.

“What’s this? A present?” Dottie asked. “Oh, a guilt offering. What fun.”

Ruth couldn’t see Jack anymore. Never again.

“Might as well open it. You can’t leave it here.” Dottie pressed the package into Ruth’s hands.

She couldn’t follow Jack. What could she say or do? She sighed and examined the package wrapped in red paper ridged from previous use. She tried to work off the string, but her hands shook, and May had to help her. They unfolded the paper to reveal peacock blue fabric.

Dottie lifted it. With a swoosh, the fabric cascaded almost to the ground. “Oh, isn’t it lovely?”

Ruth’s mouth hung open, and she reached out and fingered the silk. An evening gown? What on earth was she supposed to do with an evening gown?

“Here’s a note.” May dusted off a piece of paper.

Dearest Ruth,

I can’t explain why I’m giving this to you, but once I saw it, I couldn’t rest until I bought it. You may burn it, tear it to shreds, give it away, whatever you wish. I’m not even sure about the size. I just had to get it for you.

With eternal regret and highest regard, Jack

Ruth stared at the gown, the note, the gown again. Why on earth did Jack feel compelled to buy it? She’d gone twenty-four years without a fancy dress, and she hardly needed one now.

The silk caressed her hand, as cool and slippery as water. Jack knew she’d never owned anything this nice. He was trying to fill a hole in her life, Boaz lifting the corner of his robe to cover her.

36

Tuesday, January 11, 1944

“Can you verify that recall message?”

Recall? Jack glanced to his right. Lt. Col. Louis Thorup, the air executive of the 94th, sat in the copilot’s seat, leading not just the group, but the Fourth Combat Bombardment Wing and the whole Third Division. Jack appreciated Castle’s vote of confidence, the bold move to let Jack fly the command ship.

Thorup had the faraway look men had on the radio. “I need to verify that recall.”

Jack shook his head. A recall message when they were only twenty-five miles from the target? Likely a bogus signal sent by the Germans.

The Nazis would love to call off the 663 bombers bearing down on them. First Division headed for the Fw 190 plant at Oschersleben and the Junkers plant at Halberstadt. The Third Division, with the B-24s of Second Division right behind, aimed for three aircraft plants at Brunswick.

“Weather is worsening,” Thorup said to Jack. “They think we can’t make a visual attack.”

Jack frowned at the clear sky. “Even if it clouds over, we have the PFF planes.” The Pathfinder Force bombers of the 482nd Group carried either British H2S radar, or H2X, the improved American version. Two of these planes flew with Fourth Wing.

Thorup sighed. “I know, but Second Division is turning back, and so are the other wings in our division.”

“Oh boy.”

“If Fourth Wing goes, we go alone and without escort. That’s the other reason for the recall. The weather grounded the P-38s. They won’t meet us over Brunswick.”

If the seats were reversed, what would Jack do? Only moderate flak dirtied the sky, but scores of enemy fighters lined up, ready to strike after the bomb run. If they turned back, they might not locate a target of opportunity in worsening weather, and the day’s efforts would be in vain. But if they ignored the recall, they could take heavy losses.

Jack studied the instrument panel.
Lord, help Thorup make the right decision.

“Fifty-four unescorted B-17s.” Thorup’s tone said he was considering it.

A sense of lightness rose in Jack’s chest despite layers of flight gear. Walt had never had escort over the target, and Jack had only enjoyed it a handful of times. “No escort? When has that ever stopped the Eighth Air Force?”

“A year ago fifty-four planes would have been considered maximum effort.” Thorup fiddled with the radio knobs overhead.

“Bombardier to pilot.” Lt. Ogden Drake’s nasal voice came through the interphone. “We’re over Wolfenbüttel. Target coming up.”

“Roger. How’s the formation, Bob?”

In the command ship, the copilot rode in the tail gunner’s position to monitor the formation. “High element of the low squadron is too far out, and the other wings are heading home.”

Jack snorted. “Bunch of yellow-bellied, lily-livered—”

Thorup cocked an eyebrow.

Jack chuckled. “They’re following a recall order, but we can’t verify. Besides, the 94th has never turned back in the face of the enemy, and we’re not about to start now.”

A whoop rang in his ear. “That’s the way to tell ’em,” Bob Ecklund said.

When Jack returned to Bury St. Edmunds, he had received a new crew, men with no memories of Schweinfurt. Sure, it would take time to regain respect in his squadron, but his men would get a better version of him now that he was determined to let God run his life.

“Bombardier to pilot. I’m having difficulty locating the target.”

Jack frowned and glanced down through the whirring propellers. “Why? No undercast.”

“I must have missed a landmark.”

Jack winced. The briefing slides showed subtle landmarks leading to the factory where twin-engined Messerschmitt 110s were produced. Charlie would have found it.

“I know where I went wrong. If I had another shot …”

Jack and Thorup exchanged a glance. Another shot? A 360-degree turn and a second bomb run under fire?

Jack’s stomach contracted. Pride demanded another chance at success, but how many lives would be lost? No. Too much like Schweinfurt.

Or did he have it backward? Was pride telling him to play it safe and protect his reputation at the expense of the mission objective?
Oh Lord, give us wisdom. But I’m glad this isn’t my decision to make.

“Roger.” Thorup turned to Jack. “The 447th thinks they’ve got it.”

Jack turned off the AFCE and took control of the ship. He needed to peel off, either to lead the wing home or to circle for another run after the 447th and the 385th Groups bombed.

“Sir, I’d like another chance,” Drake said from down in the nose. “Before I joined up I was a mailman, and I’ve never failed to make a delivery.”

Jack smiled. “Neither rain nor snow nor flak nor Me 109s?”

“Yes, sir. Those bombs are addressed to Herr Goering at Brunswick and must be delivered.”

They’d already come through heavy rain on takeoff and assembly, flak over Amsterdam and Hannover, and the fighters would attack whether they bombed or not. “Why are we here anyway?” he whispered.

“To deliver those bombs,” Thorup said. “Take us around, Novak.”

Jack snapped his gaze to the right. He hadn’t meant for that comment to be heard, but Thorup’s look told him the decision had already been made. After the command went through to the other planes, Jack put the Fort into a neat turn.

He had a new plane, since
Sunrise Serenade
had been shot down with another crew while he was on furlough. “You know, Drake, I haven’t named this bird. How about we call her
Special Delivery
?”

“I’d be honored, sir. The mail must go through.”

The 94th Bomb Group did the intricate dance of turning in formation, and Jack adjusted the throttles to compensate for a strong headwind. In the distance, Me 110s approached from nine o’clock, but Jack felt warm inside. Even if he gained a reputation as a dangerous man to fly with, he knew they’d made the right decision.

Strange thing about swallowing pride—it tasted nasty and went down hard, but once digested, a sweet, nourishing strength resulted.

Jack noticed it when he visited the de Groots in Maryland on his way back to England. Boy, was it hard to knock on that door, see those faces, and admit his role in Charlie’s death. But they had long since accepted their son’s fate and they assured Jack of their forgiveness. They even shared laughter over family pictures and pineapple upside-down cake.

His visit to Bowman Field made him feel even better. No forgiveness, no laughter, no upside-down cake, but that wasn’t why he’d gone. His only purpose was to apologize and offer a hand to lift Ruth from the grass. To his relief, she already stood strong.

Rockets exploded outside, fighters dived, and the Fort shook from her own guns, but Jack didn’t care. If he died today, he’d die at peace.

Jack walked around the B-17. No doubt about it,
Frenesi
was Category E, damaged beyond repair—one wingtip shot off, number two engine out, horizontal stabilizer ripped to shreds, and so many holes she resembled a cheese grater. The destruction of the interphone and oxygen systems had led five crewmen and a photographer to bail out over the continent, while the pilot and copilot wrestled the Fort home with three wounded gunners aboard. Pilot William Cely was sure to earn a Silver Star.

Jack mounted his bicycle and pedaled to HQ in a light rain.

The 94th had lost eight of twenty-five planes, and all but one were damaged, yet the mission’s success elevated morale. Ogden Drake had been true to his word, and on the second run he delivered his packages straight into Goering’s mailbox.

Jack waved to his men, and sent out words of praise and appreciation. He passed a small group. One fellow spread a hand wide to mimic a swooping fighter, while the other hand vibrated a bomber’s .50 caliber response. “Outnumbered three to one … ninety-mph headwind … shot that Jerry right out of the sky.”

Two gunners walked past Jack. “Me 110s, Fw 190s, Me 109s, Ju 88s. Even took a shot at an Me 210. They hurled everything at us, but you can’t stop the Big Square A.”

Jack smiled and leaned his bike against the wall at HQ. The building buzzed with men talking, teletypes printing, and phones ringing. Jack breathed in the postmission adrenaline and went to the room where Colonel Castle and the senior officers pored over the strike photos.

“Outstanding,” Castle muttered, his eyes pressed to a magnifier over a photo on a table.

“Best I’ve ever seen.” Jeff Babcock wore a smug smile as if his mud memo were responsible.

Jack shoved aside the peevish thought. “Do we have a percentage?”

Thorup glanced up. “We dropped 73 percent within a thousand feet of the MPI and 100 percent within two thousand feet.”