A Memory Between Us Read online

  “Now let’s drive them from Europe. Today we’ll bomb just one airfield, but it’s Hitler’s airfield, where he sends up fighters to harass our planes and ships. Are we going to let him do that?”

  “No!”

  “Dead right, we’re not.” Jack’s grin swept upward. “He’s in for a surprise. Today we double the strength of the U.S. Eighth Air Force.”

  “Four new bomb groups, but we’re the best.” Lt. Bill Chambers looked as if he belonged on a rocking horse, not in the copilot’s seat of a massive four-engined bomber. At least he’d stopped twisting his fingers together as he had during briefing. Maybe the kid could handle combat after all.

  “Okay, boys, let’s show what the 94th Bomb Group can do.” The crew filed through the door in the waist section of the B-17. Jack clapped each man on the back—his radio operator and his flight engineer, his navigator and his copilot, two gunners to man the waist, one for the tail, and one for the ball turret bulging beneath the fuselage.

  Last came his bombardier, Capt. Charlie de Groot, who pulled his flight helmet over a shock of yellow hair. “What’ll it be, Skipper? ‘Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition’ or ‘The Army Air Corps’?”

  The first song memorialized Pearl Harbor. On December 6, 1941, Jack and Charlie had left Hamilton Field near San Francisco in a squadron of twelve Forts—at peace, unarmed. They arrived in Hawaii, surprised by war, by the zipping little Zeros with red meatballs on their wings, by Japanese bullets and American shells flashing past them. Jack could still see the roiling black smoke columns and flaming oil against tropical blues and greens, and still feel the confusion, helplessness, and rage.

  Jack and Charlie had flown many missions in the Pacific, but now they were in England. Jack winked at his best friend. “‘Nothing’ll stop the Army Air Corps.’”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.” Charlie took a drag on his cigarette and stepped up into the plane. “‘Off we go into the wild blue yonder,’” he sang, his bass incongruous with his round baby face.

  Jack sauntered down to the nose of the plane. He tugged the yellow Mae West life preserver into a more comfortable position under his parachute harness and reassured himself it was there. Yellow lettering on the nose of the olive drab plane read Sunrise Serenade, a great song and a fitting name for a daylight bomber.

  He set hands on hips and surveyed the airfield, the coordinated rush of men and trucks, the smell of aviation fuel and nervous excitement—boy, was it swell. At Thurleigh Army Air Field, two squadrons from the 94th had been training with the veteran 306th Bomb Group, while the other two squadrons took lessons from the 91st Bomb Group at Bassingbourn. The 306th was Jack’s younger brother, Walt’s, group.

  Former group.

  “Poor kid.” Jack couldn’t wait to get back in combat and take a few shots at the Nazis who had put Walt in an Oxford hospital with his right arm amputated.

  Jack scanned the thirty-six planes parked around the perimeter track, which circled three intersecting runways. As squadron commander, he was responsible for morale, and today it was pitch perfect. If his men performed as well in combat as they did in training, he’d be the next group executive officer. He couldn’t wait. He thrived on command—the electric charge of getting the best out of both man and machine.

  Jack reached his hands up into the nose hatch. With a jump and tuck, he launched himself inside. Most fellows used the door, but Jack preferred the challenge of the athletic maneuver.

  He leaned forward into the nose compartment, where Charlie adjusted his Norden bombsight, and the navigator, Norman Findlay, fussed over his maps. Norman, not Norm.

  Then Jack crawled back through the narrow passage that led up to the cockpit.

  He forgot to pray. Jack paused on hands and knees. He was his father’s namesake, his father’s image, except Dad wouldn’t forget to pray. Neither would Walt, and Walt was the only Novak man who wasn’t a pastor. His older brother, Ray, probably prayed whole psalms from memory, translated them into Hebrew for fun, Greek and Latin if he was bored.

  But Jack—fine pastor he was. He closed his eyes. Lord, please direct this mission. Guide these bombs straight to the target. Please keep us safe and get all 169 planes back intact. He opened one eye and glanced at his watch. Time to report to his station. In Jesus’s name, amen.

  “This is a milk run.” Bill Chambers’s brown eyes glowed over the rim of his oxygen mask.

  Jack smiled at his copilot. The kid had already picked up air base slang. “Ain’t over yet, buddy.”

  But he had to admit it had the makings of the milkiest of runs—perfect weather, only thirty miles over enemy territory, no antiaircraft fire, and no sign of the Luftwaffe. Charlie had done a masterful job bombing the Longuenesse Airfield at St. Omer in Nazi-occupied France. The rest of the squadron made the rookie mistake of bombing short. Once at home, Jack would review procedures.

  Technical Sergeant Harv Owens, the flight engineer, leaned over the back of Bill’s chair. “Hey, Billy-boy. Novak ever tell you what happened to his last three copilots?”

  “Harv …” Jack warned.

  “Shot dead right in front of his eyes. All three of ’em. This is the jinx seat, I tell you.”

  Jack groaned. High morale was vital, not just for peace of mind but for teamwork, efficiency, and success. “Back in your turret, Harv.”

  The engineer grumbled, stepped onto the gun turret platform in the back of the cockpit, and stuck his head into the Plexiglas bubble in the top of the plane.

  “Is—is that true?” Freckles stood out stark on Bill’s ashen forehead.

  Jack gave the instruments a quick check and set his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m not superstitious, and you shouldn’t be either. If you have to be, remember bad things happen in threes.”

  “So I’m in the clear?”

  No one was in the clear, but Jack patted Bill’s chair. “Want to trade seats?”

  “No, sir.”

  Jack smiled and looked out each window to keep the eight other B-17s in his squadron in sight. The coastline wiggled in front of him. Soon he’d exchange dangers, from flak and fighters to something worse—the English Channel. “The Army Air Corps Song” played in his head—“If you’d live to be a grey-haired wonder, keep your nose out of the blue.” Jack kept his eyes off the blue as well.

  An antiaircraft shell exploded in a black puff about a thousand feet above them.

  “Oh no. Flak,” Bill said.

  “Inaccurate and meager—best kind.”

  Harv spun his turret with its twin .50 caliber machine guns. “Hey, Adolf, you call that shooting? Send some of your boys up here, I’ll show you some shooting.”

  “Can the chatter,” Jack said. “Keep the interphone free.”

  Twin black trails of smoke streamed up about fifty yards in front of him. Jack held his breath and urged the shell higher. Worst thing about flak—you couldn’t fight back.

  Flurry of noise, smoke, flame. He snapped his head to the left. Glass cracked. The nose dipped. Jack pulled the control wheel back until the flight indicator was level, then eyed the gauges for all four engines—looked good. Frigid air whistled through the right overhead window, now an open mouth with glistening clear teeth.

  Jack jiggled shards of Plexiglas off his lap. “There, Bill, that wasn’t so bad, was—” The words floated in his mouth and turned to bile.

  Bill stared at him, eyes wide, glassy, unblinking. A jagged chunk of shrapnel jutted from his right temple. Jack’s chest sank. Dear Lord, not again. Poor kid. He thought he was safe.

  Bill’s body slumped onto the control wheel and sent Sunrise into a dive.

  Jack planted his feet, yanked on the controls. Futile. He had to get Bill’s weight off the wheel.

  He tore off his seat belt, scooted over, and pushed Bill against the seat. With his back firm against Bill’s body, he put all his weight into the control wheel. “Harv,” he called, his headset cord and oxygen hose stretched to maximum length. “Get Bill back to the waist section. And Charlie? You won’t believe this.”

  “Coming, Skipper.” Even through the interphone’s scratchiness, Charlie’s voice sounded heavy. Jack sympathized, but mourning had to wait for later.

  Jack struggled with the wheel. He had to pull Sunrise up. The coastline was sneaking under the Fort’s nose, and only 28 percent of airmen survived a dunking in the Channel. Jack wasn’t going into the drink. Not today, not ever.

  “Harv!” Where was that man?

  Harv hunched over, oxygen mask to the side, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. How come the biggest, toughest-talking guys were the first to lose their lunch at the sight of blood?

  Jack’s ears rang, exploded. His body arched and pitched forward, as if someone had whacked his backside with a giant paddle.

  He pushed himself off the instrument panel. The sting in his rear end changed to warmth, to heat, to scorching daggers. Jack groaned and sagged backward.

  Someone grabbed him from behind. “You’re hit, Novak.” Harv’s voice cracked.

  “Figured as much.” Jack got his balance and rolled back over the copilot’s seat. His left leg drooped, his foot wet and warm. A scream escaped his guard, but he had no time for pain. He had a plane to fly, a squadron to lead. He hefted up his arms and forced rubbery fingers to coil around the wheel. “Bombardier? Still with us?”

  “Shook up,” Charlie said on the interphone. “No time to show off with loop-de-loops, Jack.”

  “Come ’ere.” His tongue and brain felt thick, but he could do this. His kid brother, Walt, had landed a Fort with his right arm almost severed.

  Jack clamped his mouth against the screams and blinked hard at the controls. Number two engine was losing manifold pressure, oil pressure—he needed to shut it down a
nd feather the propellers, rotate them parallel to the slipstream to decrease drag. First he had to level the plane, but pain shook his body, his arms, the wheel.

  Charlie crawled up into the cockpit. He wasn’t great with the controls, but he’d managed as copilot three times before. Charlie looked at Jack and Bill, flashed alarm, and quenched it. He scrambled into the pilot’s seat, plugged in his headphone, and grabbed the wheel. “We’re at eight thousand feet, Skipper. What do you want to do?”

  “Keep her there.” Jack fumbled with his mask. “Okay, men, we’re below ten thousand. You can go off …” What was it called? The stuff you breathed?

  “Go off oxygen, men,” Charlie said. “Norman, why don’t you come up here?”

  Oxygen. That was it. “Eight thousand. Gotta turn on the carburetor air filters.” How come he could remember “carburetor air filters” but not “oxygen”? He reached for the switch on the panel to his right, but his hand wouldn’t go in that direction.

  “Harv,” Charlie said. “You and Norman get the skipper some first aid.”

  “No.” Jack shook his head. The controls blurred before him. “I can—I can do this.” But his voice climbed, and his vision darkened.

  “We’ll get you some morphine, bandage you up, then you can come back and fly.”

  “As long as—as long as I can come …” His lips tingled. His body drooped back.

  Pressure on his backside—red hot, ripping, digging. He lifted his head and cried out. Worse than Dad’s spankings or Grandpa’s whippings, and he’d had plenty.

  “Sorry, Novak. Got to stop the bleeding.” Joe Rosetti’s Brooklyn accent.

  Rosetti? The radio operator? Jack opened his eyes. He lay on his stomach in the radio room, the icy aluminum floor under his cheek. How had he gotten back there? He must have passed out.

  That left Charlie at the controls. And Norman? Oh no. How much flight training had Norman completed? “Engine two. Rosetti, they’ve got to feather engine two. Tell them.”

  “Radio to pilot. Novak wants you to feather engine two. Okay, I’ll tell him.” Rosetti kneeled beside Jack. “Already done.”

  Jack’s breath came rapid and shallow, and he tasted sweat on his lips. “How’s she look?”

  “Not good. Engine one is losing oil. Charlie says we may have to ditch in the Channel.”

  “No!” Jack pushed himself up, screamed at the pain, and collapsed on his face. “Tell Charlie no. Don’t ditch. That’s an order.”

  Rosetti relayed the information. A long pause. “Understood.”

  No, Charlie didn’t understand. How could he? Jack had never told him the story. Never would.

  Jack’s eyes closed, and he slipped under the waves, cold and gray and impersonal.

  Fourteen years old. Just wanted to impress the girls, with their fresh young curves stretching their bathing suits in enticing new shapes. He could swim across the San Joaquin River. Sure he could. Couldn’t be more than half a mile.

  Nothing could stop Jack Novak when he put his mind to it.

  Nothing but the current flowing from Stockton. Nothing but the tide sucking him toward San Francisco Bay. Nothing but the cold Sierra melt-off draining his strength.

  He drifted past downtown Antioch, his shouts for help lost among noise from the shipyard, the canneries, and the paper plant.

  Jack slipped under the waves, cold and gray and impersonal.

  Don’t ditch, Charlie. Whatever you do, don’t ditch.

  3

  12th Evacuation Hospital, Botesdale, Suffolk

  May 14, 1943

  Ruth scraped mud from her shoes, entered Ward Seven, and hung up her cape. Whoever picked white for nurses’ shoes while serving in England needed a psychiatric discharge.

  The night nurse, Lt. Florence Oswald, sat at the nurses’ station. “Well, Ruth, you look fetching as always.” Venom colored Flo’s voice green.

  “Thank you,” Ruth said with a forced smile. “How were the men last night?”

  Flo picked up a clipboard. “Lieutenant Ryan was discharged, and Lieutenant Flanders spiked a fever. And we got a new admit.” Her tiny brown eyes lit up. “Took a flak burst in his backside. Lucky us. He’s a major and he’s gorgeous. Of course, none of us stand a chance with you around.”

  Ruth took the clipboard and scanned it. “You know I don’t date, Flo.”

  “Yeah, you’re just waiting for the right one.”

  Ruth let the clipboard slap against her thigh. “Listen, I am a nurse. I’m here to care for the men, not flirt with them. Need I remind you, this is a hospital, not the USO.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Flo’s lip curled.

  Ruth sighed, but it didn’t matter if the women liked her. She joined the Army Nurse Corps to feed her family, not to make friends.

  She opened the door to the officers’ surgical ward, where only three beds were occupied.

  Ruth offered up a prayer for the men’s recovery, nothing more than a habit, but a precious habit because Ma taught her, and maybe if she prayed enough …

  Lord, I know you’re there. I’m not good enough for you, but Ma always said you loved everyone—everyone. So why don’t I see it? I wish—I wish you’d give me some sign—

  “Ah, Lieutenant Doherty, like a breath of fresh air.”

  Ruth snapped from her thoughts to Lieutenant Flanders’s flushed face. She smiled. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Understand you have a little fever. How do you feel this morning?”

  “Better.” He glanced to the closed door. “Now that you’re here, and Oswald’s gone.”

  Ruth put a finger to her lips. “Lieutenant Oswald, and she’s a fine nurse.”

  “No, you’re a fine nurse. You care.” He coughed, deep and liquid and rattling. “Got a letter from my girlfriend yesterday.”

  Ruth dipped a compress into a bin of cool water on the bedside table. “Doris? How is she?”

  “Good. Busy with her Red Cross work. I’m so proud of her. But … well, she doesn’t know about my pneumonia yet.”

  Ruth wrung out the compress and smoothed it over his forehead. “I can help you write a letter today. We’ll tell her she has nothing to fear because these sulfa drugs work wonders. And she may actually be pleased. Your pneumonia kept you home from today’s mission.”

  The man in the next bed raised himself on his elbows. “Another mission? Life isn’t fair. The other fellows are flying, and I’m stuck here.”

  “Not fair?” She quirked an eyebrow at Lieutenant Jones, whose leg hung in traction.

  Lieutenant Jones dropped back down to his pillow and groaned. “All right, I know. Pubs and jeeps don’t mix.” He cussed.

  “Watchyer language.” A voice rose from a bed across the aisle. “S’a lady present.”

  Ruth glanced at the long figure stretched on his belly on the cot. “It’s all right. I can take care of myself. I’ve done it all my life.”

  “No ’scuse,” he mumbled. “Rude, ’n a sign of a poor ’cabulary.”

  Ruth gave Lieutenant Jones a nod. “Work on that vocabulary.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a grin.

  She crossed the aisle to the newcomer and read his chart. “Maj. John Novak Jr.—welcome. It’s nice to have a gentleman around here.”

  “Jack,” he said. “Name’s Jack.”

  She smiled down at him, but his eyes were shut. Flo was right—he appeared to be a handsome man, with broad shoulders, wavy black hair, and a trim mustache. But gorgeous faces had long since ceased to affect her.

  Ruth pulled down the blanket and removed the major’s dressings. According to the chart, he’d had extensive surgery the day before to remove steel from his backside and left thigh. She sighed at the sight of all the stitches. Combat produced the nastiest wounds.

  Despite her gentle motions, Major Novak moaned a few times as she worked. “Won’t sit down f’ra while.”

  “No, sir, you won’t. You’ll keep us company for a month or so.”

  “A month? Uh-uh.” He shook his head on the pillow and pushed himself up with his hands. “Gotta go back. Gotta fly.”

  Ruth pressed on his shoulders, and he collapsed on the pillow. “No. You have to rest. You have to heal. You can’t fly a plane if you can’t sit.”

  He groaned in acknowledgment, his jaw slack.

  Ruth checked the bottle of plasma flowing into his veins to replace the blood he’d lost. “How’s the pain, Major?”