A Memory Between Us (39 page)

Jack adjusted the throttles to keep his airspeed at 150 and tilted the wheel to keep his rate of climb at three hundred feet per minute. Assembly in the clouds, especially before dawn, required precise instrument flying.

Ralph Purcell, the newest pilot riding as copilot for training, let out a sigh. “About time.”

Jack looked up from the panel.
My Macaroon
had finally broken through the clouds. Moonlight spilled silver on the clouds below. As far as he could see, blinking lights and arcs of flares marked the assembly of the largest air force ever. Between the fighters and bombers of the Eighth Air Force, Ninth Air Force, and RAF, and cargo planes returning from delivering paratroops, eleven thousand planes were expected over southern England in the morning.

Every precaution was being used to prevent collision, from Bunchers and Aldis lamps and flares to searchlight beacons marking the boundaries of each division’s assembly area.

The clock read 0429, an hour since takeoff and at least another half hour in assembly.

“Zimmerman’s too close again,” Bob Ecklund said from the tail.

Jack groaned and flipped on his command radio. “Cedar lead to Agmer three. Adjust your position.” Ted Zimmerman was on his second mission and flew a tight formation. Too tight. The formations the kids learned over the plains of Kansas didn’t work in the tumultuous weather of northern Europe.

“Novak, pull up!” Ecklund cried.

Jack pulled back on the wheel.

“That was close,” Ecklund said. “He banked her, almost clipped us.”

Stupid rookie. Jack readjusted his wheel. “Cedar lead to Agmer three. Do not make sudden moves in formation. Never.”

“Ro—roger. I was—I was—”

“I know. Radio silence.” By now German radar had probably picked up the mass of planes approaching altitude over England, but the policy allowed him to cut off excuses. He’d placed Zimmerman in his three-plane element to keep an eye on him and avoid a repeat of May 19, when the 94th’s
Miss Donna Mae
strayed under another Fort at bomb release and went down when a bomb from above sheared off her horizontal stabilizer.

Thousands of flashing lights spiraled upward. When Jack arrived in England, only four bomb groups operated. As of today, there were forty. Jack was flying his fifty-fourth mission with the Eighth, and he’d also flown thirty-three from Hawaii and Australia.

He should have been dead many times over.

Jack wasn’t dead, although he had to burrow under the collar of his flight jacket to prove it. Yeah, he still had a pulse. In the last few weeks, he had to remind himself occasionally.

Jack made a turn in the continuing ring-around-the-Buncher until the 94th would be in formation.

Nope, God wouldn’t let him die yet, because he was still teaching him. Trust God, not Jack. Pride, pride, pride. When he proposed to Ruth, he thought he was so noble, so selfless, so concerned with her needs.

Baloney. Charlie was right again. How could it be for her if she didn’t want it?

If he hadn’t pushed for marriage, he could have kept her friendship, and that’s what hurt most, as if his heart had been carved up and splayed open.

To make it worse, worry for Ruth drilled like acid on the raw parts. He didn’t trust this Burns fellow one bit. Did Burns know Ruth would lose her position if she complained? Would he take advantage of that?

Powdered eggs and bacon and toast turned into chill slime in Jack’s stomach. If Burns forced himself on Ruth, would she report him? Could she?

51

In the back of the C-54, with a flashlight in hand, Ruth knelt before the medical chest to tidy it up. “‘I’ll think about it?’ What kind of response was that?” The drone of the four engines masked her groan.

Although it was almost five in the morning back in England, she still couldn’t sleep. She found a bottle of aspirin, popped a tablet in her mouth, and shuddered it down.

As bitter as the memory of telling Burnsey she’d think about it. What was there to think about? His business was illegal. She had to take the risk and report him. Even Lieutenant Shepard couldn’t deny those invoices, but neither that thought nor the aspirin stopped the throb in her temples.

Burnsey typed away, most likely adding items to his shipment now that he thought he had a partner. Of course, he thought he had a partner. She told him she’d think about it.

Ruth fumbled with the ampules, the vials, and the stupid syringe of Pentothal Burnsey had drawn up. What a shame to waste it. She set the syringe in the top tray. Maybe Surgery could use it.

She massaged her pounding forehead. An hour had passed since takeoff, but guilt would keep her awake more than the headache would.
Forgive me, Lord, for even considering it. You always provide. Shouldn’t I know that by now? I can’t believe I was tempted. Please forgive me.

The Lord would take care of her family. Fifty-seven dollars a month was plenty for Chuck, Bert, and Anne, and plenty for Maggie too. In a few weeks Chuck would join the Navy, and Ruth would put his portion in a college fund. If Aunt Pauline threatened to send Maggie away, Ruth had other options. Perhaps Uncle Nolan would take Maggie in Chuck’s place, or perhaps Aunt Peggy would let her share Anne’s room now that her daughter had joined the WACs.

God always provided. Why, oh why did she consider Burnsey’s deal?

If she hadn’t let temptation worm a slimy tunnel into her head, she could have reported him at Harmon Field. Now she had to wait until they landed at Prestwick in the evening.

“Hi there.” In the fuzzy glow of the flashlight, Burnsey sat on the floor beside the chest and propped his forearms on his bent knees. “Figured out how to spend that two hundred?”

Ruth straightened a pile of bandages. “I’m thinking about it.” She despised the lie but she didn’t dare tell the truth.

“What are you thinking about? Jewelry? Perfume? The London theater?”

“I’m thinking about my decision.” Yeah, thinking how stupid she was to consider it.

“What’s there to think about? You said it yourself—that’s a whole lot of money.”

So was ten cents for ten minutes. Ruth shivered and pushed aside a coil of IV tubing. Compromising morals for money? “Never again.”

“What was that?”

Ruth sucked in her breath. The flashlight clunked to the floor.

The beam of light pointed at her knees. She reached for the flashlight, but it drew away. Burnsey pointed it at her, not in her eyes, but she could no longer see his face.

“What exactly are you thinking about, Ruth?”

Now was not the time to remind him of military courtesy. She glanced into the medical chest, away from the revealing light. “I’m thinking about whether I should take your offer.”

She rearranged piles, although she couldn’t see past the beam of light. She tried to relax her face, but every nerve jittered.

“Might as well,” he said in a slow, cool voice. “You should get some reward for not snitching.”

Her face twitched. She couldn’t help it.

Clothing rustled. The beam rose and angled down at her. “You won’t snitch.”

Ruth wrapped her hands around the open edge of the chest and pushed herself to standing. She had to keep her voice as cool as his, although her breath came too fast. “I never said I would. Now, may I please have my flashlight back?”

“You never said you wouldn’t, either.” He aimed the beam right at her.

She shielded her eyes and walked down the aisle. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

“You’re not sleeping until I know you won’t snitch.”

Ruth whirled around and let all the past months’ frustration show on her face. “Who on earth would believe me if I did? Tell me. Would any single person believe me?”

Burnsey’s chuckle bounced down the beam of light. “Remember that. Remember that when you think you can play Little Orphan Annie, girl detective.”

She turned down the dark canyon of crates and boxes toward the seats at the front of the cabin, past the lantern and typewriter. Little Orphan Ruthie only had to convince the authorities to compare the phony invoice with the carbon copy of the original at La Guardia.

Then they’d see she’d told the truth all along.

52

“Say, Skipper, if you get a chance, look down.”

In the dawn light, Jack made a quick sweep of the instrument panel and glanced out the window. Through a ragged hole in the cloud blanket, the English Channel glinted steely gray eighteen thousand feet below, studded with hundreds of ships.

He whistled. “Say a prayer for your brothers down there, boys. They’ve got a rugged day ahead. Let’s do our job and make theirs a little easier.”

The clock read 0534. They had to bomb by 0555 and clear out before British Commonwealth soldiers landed at 0700.

“Mickey operator to crew,” Nick Panapoulos called. “I’m getting beautiful pictures of the coast, the Orne River.”

“Good,” Jack said. “Close to the IP?”

“About five minutes.”

Jack had flown historic missions before, but the sight of all those planes and ships bearing down on the Normandy coast made his chest swell under the layers of flight gear.

Instead of flying in trail as usual, the groups flew line abreast so they could bomb simultaneously. Jack felt as if he marched to the fife and drum with his trusty musket over his shoulder, except he marched to the beat of Wright-Cyclone engines and carried 500-pound general purpose bombs. Still he found himself whistling “Yankee Doodle.”

“Novak, we’ve got a problem.” From back in the tail, Bob Ecklund’s voice sounded strained. “Zimmerman—he’s drifting underneath us. He’s not responding to the radio. I don’t know if the problem’s with my set or his.”

In the copilot’s seat, Purcell cussed and not like a rookie.

Zimmerman was supposed to fly behind, below, and to the right of
My Macaroon
, but the noses were lined up, with Zimmerman’s left wing directly under Jack’s right wing. Jack flipped the overhead radio switch to command. “Cedar lead to Agmer three.”

No response.

More cussing. “His wingtip’s under our fuselage.”

Jack edged the wheel back, but the rookie followed. “Cedar lead to Agmer three.”

“He’s not even looking our way,” Purcell said. “He’s playing with the radio overhead.”

“You’d better be turning it on, you fool.” Jack gave the Fort a little left rudder to slip to the side.

“Ah! He saw us! Watch—”

The plane bucked. Metal screeched on metal, and men yelled.

A collision! The B-17 pitched left. Jack fought the wheel and pulled into a slight climbing turn to get away from the formation and avoid further collisions.

“He turned,” Purcell said. “The idiot plowed his wing through our undercarriage.”

“Call through the stations, Purcell. Damage report.” Jack looked out the window. Engine four’s propellers were bent so badly they could never be feathered, and manifold pressure was falling. “Swell. Shut down four.”

Purcell moved the mixture control to “off.”

Jack leveled the plane, then turned off the ignition to number four and closed the throttle, while Purcell called through the stations. Thank God, no one was injured except
My Macaroon
.

“Agmer three to Cedar lead.” Panic scrambled Zimmerman’s voice. “Oh no. I’ve lost number one. My wing’s chewed up.”

“What on earth were you doing?” Jack eased the plane back into formation.

“The radio. Command wasn’t working. Morrie and I were switching to liaison.”

“Swell. Next time watch where you’re going.” He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice, even though he kept a gentle hand on the aileron trim wheel beside his seat.

Purcell tapped Jack’s arm. “Nick says the Mickey’s working. The collision missed the radome. He says we’re at the IP, and Gus agrees.”

“Good.” The formation consisted of six-plane flights, with a Pathfinder plane in every third flight. If his H2X failed, eighteen B-17s would return with their bombs. “Tell Cox to fire flares and tell Charlie to open bomb bay doors.”

Purcell relayed the messages. Underneath the plane, metal ground on metal. A motor whined and strained.

Jack moaned. Zimmerman’s wing must have mangled the bomb bay doors. “Mel, better check on that. See if you can crank them open manually.”

The flight engineer hadn’t waited for Jack’s order. He stepped out of the top turret with a portable oxygen bottle in hand.

“What do I do? What do I do?” Zimmerman again.

Jack didn’t have time to hold the kid’s hand and teach him how to fly. “Shut down number one, transfer fuel, keep that wing up, stick with the flight plan as briefed, and watch—where—you’re—going.”

He switched to command radio and told his group to bomb when he fired flares. Whether or not
My Macaroon
could drop, the target was too important to be missed.

The 94th aimed for machine gun installations and antitank emplacements in the crucial communication center of Caen behind Sword beach, the easternmost site. H2X didn’t produce pinpoint bombing, but that didn’t matter. The objective was to demoralize the Germans and disrupt communication.

A heavy hand on his shoulder. “Can’t get those doors open,” Mel yelled over the engines. “They’re buckled up. Won’t budge.”

Jack sighed. “Thanks for trying. Now I need you to transfer fuel from engine four to one.”

Mel tipped his big hand to his flak helmet and squatted in the back of the cockpit.

Jack wiped his forehead, surprised by the chill coating of sweat. As the Eighth Air Force mushroomed, so did collisions. Thank goodness no one had been killed.

“There she is,” Nick said on the interphone. “Target 16C2 confirmed, clear as can be.”

“Good job,” Jack said. “Marvin, wait thirty seconds, then fire those flares.” The delay was required to prevent short-bombing. Better to miss the target than to hit friendly troops.

“Double red flares fired.”

“They got the signal,” Bob said from the tail. “All seventeen are dropping.”

“Great.” Jack put the plane in a sharp left-hand turn to loop away from the target area before shooting west over Normandy.