Blue Skies Tomorrow Read online

  As a girl, you wrote stories about a knight with a ridiculous name. Improbable as it sounds, today I put on my shining armor—all right, my flak vest—and smote the dragon of cowardice with the lance of the Lord’s strength.

  Now, fair princess, I present you this token of my esteem.

  “Why did he send a leaf?” Betty asked.

  Helen fingered the gift, her heart warm and woozy. “This is no leaf. It’s the scale of a dragon.”

  22

  Bury St. Edmunds Airfield

  Friday, August 18, 1944

  Ray sat on an overturned crate facing the woods behind his Nissen hut, a luxury awarded by shirtsleeve weather and a late-afternoon training mission.

  He glanced down to the small Bible he always carried in his pocket, open to Psalm 19:9–10. “The fear of the LORD is clean, enduring for ever: the judgments of the LORD are true and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold: sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.”

  Ray fingered the plum blossoms he’d pressed in those pages in March, the blossoms he’d plucked from Helen’s hair. At the time it seemed appropriate for the references to gold and honey, but now the truth of the verse rang out. “I had it wrong, Lord. You’re the only thing that matters, for me and for Helen too. Forgive me for putting my selfish goals first.” Deep inside, hadn’t he hoped Helen’s love would prove his manhood?

  He sighed, closed the pages, and exchanged the Bible for her last letter. He leaned his elbows on his knees to reread the third page:

  Tonight over dinner, Mrs. Carlisle mentioned Jim, and I willed up wet eyes and a quivering chin. I’m tired of it. You’ll think I’m horrible, but I’m tired of acting as if I were mourning when I’m not.

  What if my marriage wasn’t idyllic? What if Jim was a less-than-perfect husband? What if my grief was never as deep as everyone thinks?

  I’m ashamed to admit I’m an excellent actress. My grief is necessary for Jay-Jay to admire his father as a boy should, and for Antioch to have a hero to rally around. So I keep on acting, faking, lying.

  You’ve already seen the worst side of me, and you’ve invited me to write openly to you. Perhaps you’ll regret the offer, but if I don’t let the truth out, all of it, what’s left of me will crumble and crack.

  “This is good, honey,” Ray whispered. “This is good.”

  Her revelation of Jim’s abuse, the fire, and the explosion at Port Chicago had burned up her pretenses, and now truth glowed like an ember among the ashes.

  Ray uncapped his pen and added to the letter he’d started the night before.

  I agree you shouldn’t reveal everything to Jay-Jay or the community. Honesty is important, but so is discretion. Your concern for their needs is kind and reasonable.

  What you’ve chosen—honesty with a confidant—is the best course, and I’m honored to be selected. Please know I’ll respect your privacy. Please also remember the Lord is your best, wisest, and most loving confidant, and he already knows every detail.

  A rustle in the brush caught his attention. A small brown bird hopped out and pecked at seeds.

  To Ray’s left, a cat flattened itself to the ground, a white cat with large black blotches, as if young Jack had spilled ink on the cat as well as on Mom’s piano top.

  The cat fixed gun-sight eyes on the bird, whapped his tail back and forth as if adjusting for range, and chattered, “Ack, ack, ack, ack, ack.”

  Ray grinned. The British word for flak was ack-ack, and this cat sure considered himself an antiaircraft gunner.

  The cat wiggled his backside and sprang. The bird darted away. After a few seconds of frantic search, the cat sat on his haunches and washed his hind leg.

  That would be a cute story to put in his letter for Helen to tell Jay-Jay. The cat looked about the same age as Grandma’s kittens would be now, the ones Jay-Jay loved.

  “There you are, Ray.” John Buffo ambled up, and the little cat skittered away.

  “Hi, John. What’s up?” He scooted to make room for his bombardier.

  Buffo perched his large frame on the edge of the crate, pulled off his garrison cap, and ran his hand through his wiry brown hair. “Being a man of intellect and sentiment is a liability in this profession.”

  Ray folded his letter. “Second thoughts about what we do over here?”

  “Second, third, millionth. We bomb from twenty thousand feet, and the brass is thrilled if we hit within two thousand feet of the aiming point. That’s half a mile, Ray. How many civilians do we kill down there?”

  Ray looked into Buffo’s deep-set brown eyes. He had the same thoughts and discussed it often with William Miller, the base chaplain. “After every mission, I ask God to forgive me for hurting or killing anyone. But I get in my Fort the next day and do it again. I wonder how genuine my remorse is, if I’m as callous as the others.”

  Buffo shifted his weight, and the crate creaked. “Sometimes I wish I were a dullard who could quaff a few beers and say, ‘They started it.’ ”

  Ray’s gaze traced the border between verdant trees and blue sky. “Perhaps that’s enough reason after all.”

  “What? That’s nothing but simplistic training film propaganda.”

  “Is it?” He turned his pen in his fingers. “This is one conflict in which negotiation failed. Germany overran continental Europe and keeps attacking Britain. They aim for nothing and hope to kill civilians. Couldn’t a rational man argue the Allies act in self-defense?”

  “Yes, but we’re attacking, not defending.”

  “If we stopped attacking, they would grow stronger until they ran over our defenses.”

  Buffo squinted and twisted his lips. “There must be a better way.”

  “Maybe someday there will be, but now the only path to peace is through the land of conflict.” Ray tapped his pen on his knee. Hadn’t Gideon noted the irony too? When the Lord called him to war, Gideon built an altar called Jehovah-shalom—“The Lord is peace.” That was true not only for Gideon and for the Allies, but for Helen and for Ray.

  They had to fight to find peace.

  Treasure Island Naval Station, Yerba Buena Island

  Wednesday, September 13, 1944

  “Mutiny! How can they charge my husband with mutiny?” A black woman slammed the door of Vic’s office in an old Marines’ barracks. She wore a nicely cut dark blue suit with sleeves and trim of butter yellow, and when she marched to Helen’s desk, the same yellow flashed in kick pleats in her skirt. She glared at Helen. “Mutiny?”

  Helen gave her a reassuring smile. “Remember, Lieutenant Llewellyn is on the defense team. He’s on your husband’s side, Mrs. . . . ?”

  She sighed and held out a gloved hand. “Jones. Mrs. Carver Jones.”

  Helen stood and shook her hand. “I’m Mrs. Carlisle. I’ll let the lieutenant know—”

  “Esther, what a pleasure to meet you.” Vic popped out of his office. “I’m a great admirer of your husband. Please come in.”

  Helen took a legal pad and led Mrs. Jones into Vic’s office.

  “What’s going on with my husband?” Mrs. Jones sat with her butter yellow pocketbook on her lap.

  “Well, Esther, everything’s going to be fine.”

  “He’s been charged with mutiny. That carries the death penalty.”

  “Nothing to worry about. None of these men will be convicted, especially not Carver. He has a medical excuse for refusing to work.”

  “How did he get mixed up in this in the first place?”

  Vic slid his fingers along his pen as if stretching it. “On August 9, when the men were told to load ammo, 258 of them refused. Two days later, they were asked again under threat of a charge of mutiny, and 50 men still refused.”

  “But Carver—”

  “I know. But when asked whether he was willing to load ammo, he refused.”

  Mrs. Jones turned to Helen with indignation all over her face. “His arm’s broken. He’s wearing a cast.”

 
Helen nodded. She remembered his injuries too well.

  “This will all come out in the trial tomorrow,” Vic said. “All we need is the documentation from Dr. Thompson at Port Chicago.”

  Mrs. Jones sat up even taller. “I talked to him. He says he’ll get it out when he has time. He used the most condescending tone, as if I didn’t speak English, much less major in it.”

  Vic turned to Helen. “Carver and Esther both have degrees from Howard.”

  Helen, the only one in the room without a college degree, gave a thin smile.

  “He’s been subpoenaed, hasn’t he?” Mrs. Jones said. “He has no choice.”

  “Correct.” He tapped his pencil on a stack of paperwork. “I need to warn you this trial won’t be pleasant. The Navy wants to make an example of these men. But justice will prevail. Carver’s case will be dismissed, as will those of two others with medical excuses. And the rest will be acquitted. At worst, they’re guilty of insubordination, not mutiny. There was no conspiracy, no attempt to overthrow the officers. All seven of us on the defense team have worked hard, and the men will be freed and cleared.”

  “I pray you’re right, Lieutenant.” Mrs. Jones stood. “Thank you for your help.”

  “My duty and honor. That’s my motto over there.” He nodded to a cross-stitched sampler on the wall that read, “Let justice be done though the world perish—Saint Augustine.”

  Mrs. Jones shook his hand. “A fine motto.”

  Helen saw Mrs. Jones to the door, then returned and leaned against the doorjamb to Vic’s office. The sampler had been stitched in blue and red—blue for the truth Vic would bring to light in the trial, and red for the courage he’d need to stand for justice.

  He had been assigned to defend ten of the accused mutineers, and his desk teemed with thick file folders. He leaned over an open folder and scratched down notes.

  “You’re doing a good thing,” she said.

  “Hmm?” He took a few seconds to focus on her.

  “I appreciate what you’re doing. It takes courage to stand up for what’s right, even when it’s unpopular.”

  Vic’s gaze honed in on her, and he opened his mouth. But then he squeezed his lips shut and returned to his notes. “Thanks.”

  She smiled. He hadn’t proposed once since the explosion. Back at her desk, she straightened a pile of papers in Vic’s compact script to type up.

  “Say, Helen,” he called. “How do you know I’m not like my dad, angling for connections and currying favor in the black community?”

  She laughed and rolled a form into the typewriter. “At the risk of losing favor in the white community? I don’t think so. I’m afraid your motives might be pure.”

  “Yeah.” His voice was quiet and distracted. Buried in his work.

  Something Helen knew well. She pecked at the typewriter keys, the kind of loud busywork she used to love to keep her memories at bay.

  Work didn’t comfort her the way it used to, not even her volunteer work.

  Oddly, what comforted her most was what she’d avoided for years—confronting the truth. In each letter to Ray, she opened her memory bin a little further, released a few more ugly memories, and stilled their demonic dance by pinning their leathery wings to paper.

  She swung the carriage return, flipped the paper release, and aligned the next part of the form.

  In increments, Ray was receiving a catalog of Jim’s abuse, but he encouraged her disclosure and reciprocated by telling of his own fears and doubts. The distance between them provided safety, as did his confidentiality as a pastor. He’d even promised to have Jack return her letters if anything happened to him.

  A chill scurried up her spine. But with the Allies on the Siegfried Line at the German border, the war in Europe promised to wrap up by the end of the year. Even if it didn’t, Ray would finish his tour and come home with his compassionate eyes and strong arms and sweet kisses.

  No. Not for her. Helen zipped the paper out of the typewriter, set it to her right, and picked up the next form.

  She drew an uneven breath. The deeper their correspondence grew, the more she loved him, but the more she had to be scaring him away.

  23

  Bury St. Edmunds Airfield

  Friday, September 15, 1944

  Glenn Miller’s orchestra blasted out the opening chords of “In the Mood,” and three thousand men in Hangar One whistled and cheered.

  Ray had heard the song many times on the radio and phonograph, but it had never sounded as clear, crisp, and vibrant as it did live at the party celebrating the 94th Bomb Group’s 200th mission.

  In olive drabs, Maj. Glenn Miller played his trombone to the side of the stage—a musician, not a showman. Ray admired the humility that led him to give up his popular civilian orchestra and enlist in the Army Air Force to entertain troops abroad.

  England was no safe haven, what with rumors of a pending poison gas attack and with V-1 buzz bombs flying overhead with fiery tails.

  Still, Walt came as well. Ray glanced out the corner of his eye at his youngest brother, the only man in civilian clothes. No one grumbled about the presence of the air executive’s brother, a veteran of the Eighth Air Force before the 94th Bomb Group even arrived.

  Boeing had sent Walt as an engineering advisor to some classified unit of the U.S. Strategic Air Forces, most likely analyzing intelligence on German jet fighters.

  After the applause for “In the Mood” died down, the orchestra played “Moonlight Serenade,” Miller’s signature number.

  “Allie loves this song,” Walt whispered.

  Ray murmured his understanding. Playing with engines and visiting his brothers wouldn’t compensate Walt for missing his wife, especially now that she was expecting.

  When the concert concluded, Ray and the other officers rose to leave. The enlisted men would stay for a dance led by Glenn Miller’s orchestra, but the officers’ dance was in the Theater Building with the Griffiss Airacobras, the band of the U.S. Strategic Air Forces.

  Ray looked in vain for Jack among the top brass, and then he and Walt walked out into the damp night, careful to stay on the path and out of the mud.

  “Amazing.” Walt glanced around. “When I flew, we had no more than six bomb groups, and we were glad to dispatch a hundred planes for a mission. Now we have forty groups and can put up two thousand planes. Can’t fathom it.”

  “Is it hard to be back here?”

  Walt tipped his head to one side. “Difficult memories, yeah. But some good ones. Nothing like the camaraderie from going through rugged times together.”

  “Hiya, Pops.” Leo Goldman jogged past with Buffo, Radovich, and Sig Werner, the new radar operator on the crew. “Free drinks. You’d better hurry if you want good bar position.”

  Ray grinned. “Pick me up a cup of coffee, would you?”

  Buffo clapped meaty hands to his chest. “A dagger to my heart. This grand celebration calls for the imbibing of a copious volume of liquid cheer.”

  “All right, all right. Make it two cups of coffee.”

  Ray’s officers groaned, waved him off, and continued on their way.

  He nudged Walt in the arm. “You miss that?”

  “Sure do. My men called me Preach.”

  The brothers passed a truck filled with local girls brought in to dance, and entered the Theater Building. The band sat on a stage draped with red, white, and blue bunting. Overhead hung a banner emblazoned with “200” and the image of a squadron of B-17s.

  “There’s Jack.” Walt pointed to a table not far away.

  “Good, Ruth made it,” Ray said. “Say, so did Charlie and May.”

  Everyone greeted each other. Walt had met Charlie and Ruth on his tour, but not May.

  While May wore a subtle pink gown, Ruth turned heads in peacock blue. Most women seemed to resent Ruth’s type of knockout beauty, but May didn’t.

  When Walt leaned his elbows on the table, his prosthesis thumped. “So, Charlie, Jack told me you were shot down ove
r the Netherlands. You must have stories.”

  “Not many,” Jack said. “Most of his experience is classified to protect the Dutch Maquis.”

  Charlie sipped his coffee. “Once we liberate Holland, I’ll bore you to death.”

  “What was the hardest part?” Ray asked.

  Charlie stuck a coffee spoon in his mouth, gazed at the ceiling, and made the spoon bob up and down. “The helplessness. Everyone at home thought I was dead, and I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even help the Resistance. If I got caught as a downed airman, I’d be a POW in a Stalag Luft, but if I committed sabotage, I’d be shot as a spy.”

  May snuggled close to her boyfriend. “You made the right choice.”

  “Make another good choice,” Jack said. “Give up testing radar and come back as the best bombardier in the Eighth.”

  “Jack Novak!” Ruth’s eyes flashed fire. “Don’t you dare meddle.”

  He grinned and sang “Pistol Packin’ Mama” with a western twang.

  She laughed and whacked him lightly in the arm. “You goon.”

  Jack turned to his brothers. “Mind if Charlie and I take the ladies out for a dance?”

  “Not at all.”

  But when they left the table, a dark blanket settled over Ray’s mind. Dancing held no appeal, partly so he wouldn’t abandon Walt, but mostly because of memories of his last dance—with Helen at Walt’s wedding. If only he could dance with her now, let her cry her hurts onto his shoulder, kiss her honeyed hair, and speak words of comfort rather than writing impotent letters that took weeks to arrive.

  Her bridesmaid’s dress had been yellow, a rich golden yellow.

  “Too bad things didn’t work out with you and Helen.”

  Ray blinked and glanced at Walt. “The man gets married and suddenly he’s a mind reader.”

  “It’s a survival skill.” Walt nodded sagely. “I was right?”

  Ray sighed. “Yeah.”

  “Are you in love with her?”