The Sky Above Us Page 27

  “Get close, get his tail right in your sights, fire short bursts.”

  “I heard you,” Schneider snapped.

  And the kid was going to hear more from him back at Leiston.

  Adler checked his instruments, the gauges, the clock, the compass. The German was headed straight north, right toward the invasion beaches. At their current speed, only about fifteen minutes away.

  He pulled up over a grove of trees. With each minute it became more important to shoot down the Nazi before he could strafe Allied troops. But with each minute the danger of Germans on the ground shooting down Adler or Schneider increased too.

  “Red four, two more minutes, then we’re breaking off the attack.”

  “I can get him. I know I can.”

  “Two minutes.”

  Over another rise, and a flat broad space opened before them.

  “An airfield,” Schneider said. “He’s going home, and he led us right to it. We can get in some good strafing.”

  Adler smelled a rat. “He’s leading us into a trap. Those flak guns will be ready for us. Break off.”

  “Nah, I’ll get him before he sounds the alarm.” He fired a burst. Too low.

  “Break off, red four.” Adler’s hand tightened on the throttle. “Head west.”

  “I almost . . . I got him.” Another burst, far to the right.

  On the airfield, two Fw 190s raced down the runway aiming southeast. They’d been alerted, all right, and they were coming up to fight.

  Adler pressed the microphone button. “Red four, stay with the bogey. I’ll fend off the other two.”

  No time to set up a good attack. He peeled off to the right, coming in at a thirty-degree angle to the leading Fw 190. “Lord, let my deflection shot work. Please.”

  The first Fw 190 was airborne, folding up its landing gear, and the second Fw 190 took off right after it.

  Adler squinted into his gunsight, calculated the amount of lead, and opened fire. Bullets winked down the length of the fighter plane.

  In flames, it cartwheeled to the side, collided with the second airplane, and they spun together, leaving a fiery trail of debris along the runway.

  “Two! Two in one,” Ray Schneider said. “That gives you six. You’re an ace!”

  He was. And two men had died. Adler yanked the stick back and to the left, his stomach taut and queasy.

  Flashes of light on the ground. The Germans fired at him.

  Too low for acrobatics, Adler gave Eagle full throttle and hightailed it away from that airfield.

  A knocking sound. From the nose toward the cockpit.

  Adler ducked and drew up his feet by instinct, then put head and feet back where they belonged.

  No holes in him. How about Eagle?

  More altitude, more distance, and he checked the gauges. Everything was steady. He’d been hit, but the bullets must have missed the important equipment.

  “Thank you, Lord.” A single bullet to the radiator or coolant system would mean the difference between landing in England and crashing in France.

  Adler searched the skies. “Red four? Where’s your bogey?”

  “Lost him. I think he went south. But that airfield will be out of commission for hours.”

  The engine temperature nudged higher, and Adler frowned. Had his coolant system been hit after all?

  But then he was still climbing hard at a low speed after the strafing attack. That could strain the engine. “Time to head home. I’m leveling off.”

  “Roger. I’ll stay with you.”

  Adler didn’t like the note of concern in Schneider’s voice. The man might be a rookie, but he had a better view of Eagle’s beak than Adler did.

  He leveled off and headed northwest. “Lord, get me home.”

  Leiston Army Airfield

  Violet skimmed the logs in the Aeroclub kitchen, but exhaustion, grief, and self-doubt muddied her thinking. So many supplies had been sent out this morning, and she was in no state to decipher the mess.

  At least the Aeroclub was almost empty. Occasionally, men would grab coffee and a sandwich, but no one had time to lounge and chat and read.

  “Eat something, Miss Lindstrom.” Mabel Smith poked a sandwich in Violet’s face. “You look famished.”

  “Thank you.” She knew better than to argue with the older woman, so she took a bite, but it stuck in her throat. She wouldn’t take a second bite.

  “Hiya, ladies.” Griff breezed through the side door. “Now I can take a round of sandwich fixings.”

  Violet smiled, more from the idea that was brewing than from pleasure at seeing him. “Thank you, Griff.”

  She pulled out loaves and tins and marked them off in the log. Lord, please let me be wrong about him.

  Griff loaded the goods in the jeep.

  Violet grabbed some cheese from the icebox and took it out to him. “A block of cheese for each squadron. Bet the boys would like this in their sandwiches.”

  His face lit up. “They sure would.”

  So would the villagers.

  “Where are you off to next, Miss Lindstrom?” He set the cheese in the backseat.

  “Group headquarters and the control tower.”

  “Great. I’ll see you later.” He hopped into the jeep.

  Instead of loading the other jeep, Violet marched through the kitchen, out the front door, and grabbed a bicycle from the stack leaning against the brick wall.

  Griff’s jeep turned down the road through the communal site. Violet waited a minute and pedaled after him, as far away as she could get without losing sight of him.

  At the main road, Griff turned right.

  Away from the airfield, and Violet’s heart sank. “No, no, no. I don’t want to be correct.”

  Griff made another right turn, onto the tree-lined road Violet used to stroll along with Adler.

  She pedaled close to the trees to stay inconspicuous.

  At a clump of trees, Griff stopped the jeep.

  Violet veered off the road and peeked around a tree, her heart thumping.

  Griff walked into the woods. Metal doors squeaked open. A truck. A truck was parked there.

  Oh no. Violet clutched her stomach. Griff was indeed the thief.

  Any relief that she would now keep her job was doused by the knowledge that she’d been deceived and betrayed.

  Griff returned to the jeep, grabbed an armload of food—and looked down the road in her direction.

  Violet cringed and tried to merge with the tree. Why did she have to be so tall? So very blonde?

  “Who’s there?” he called. “Miss Lindstrom?”

  She groaned. She was bigger than Griff and she was fast, but the men had all been ordered to carry sidearms recently.

  “Miss Lindstrom?” Footsteps approached.

  Lord, help me. She stepped out, leaving the bike behind. She could run faster than she could ride. “Don’t come any closer.”

  He stopped about a hundred feet away, dug his hands in his pockets, and dipped his chin. “You saw what I was doing. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

  Violet took a few steps backward, blinking hard. “Don’t mind?”

  “Sure.” He grinned and gestured toward town. “Everyone knows how you feel about helping the English.”

  “Not like this, not by selling on the black market. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

  He chuckled. “You make it sound bad, but it isn’t. I sell to a local grocer, and he sells to the villagers and stamps the ration books. The people only get what their government says they’re supposed to get—but never provides for them. And the grocer sells at market price. He isn’t getting rich or taking advantage of the people.”

  Violet’s jaw hardened. “And you make a profit.”

  Griff rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually I donate every penny back to the Red Cross. I’m not stealing. I’m just shuffling the food from the airmen to the local people. We get plenty to eat at the mess. They don’t.”

  Violet
shut her eyes, and her mind reeled. He was doing this out of kindness? Not to make a profit?

  “When I saw how Millie and her family struggled, how little they had to eat . . .” His voice caught. “How could I sit back and do nothing?”

  She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to think straight.

  “See, I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I didn’t say that.” She swayed, and she opened her eyes so she wouldn’t fall.

  “But it’s what you’re thinking, I know it.” Griff wore a satisfied smile. “You’re a woman of mercy. It’s why you want to be a missionary and why you joined the Red Cross—to help the needy.”

  “Yes, but . . .” But what was the right thing to do?

  Why was she hesitating? She had to get an MP and have Griff arrested for theft. The thought filled her with a smug sense of justice.

  Or was that smug feeling a sign of self-righteousness, looking down on Griff, judging him?

  Her fingertips massaged her temples, but everything tumbled topsy-turvy. Hadn’t she learned the hard way that God hated self-righteousness and wanted her to be merciful and compassionate? She’d failed the test with Adler. She couldn’t fail again.

  “I knew you’d like it.” His grin grew. “No one’s hurt—not the airmen, not the Red Cross. And all those little children get plenty of bread and meat and cheese, so they’ll grow up strong and healthy. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Violet’s head hurt, and her stomach squirmed. Compassion was best. Mercy was best. She had to choose correctly this time. She had to.

  With a single nod, she retrieved her bike and turned toward the Aeroclub.

  She’d be gone in a week anyway. What did it matter?

  44

  Over France

  The oil temperature pushed toward eighty-five degrees Celsius, the maximum.

  On the panel on the left side of the cockpit, Adler toggled the coolant radiator scoop controls to make sure the scoops were open, allowing airflow to cool the engine. His last chance.

  Skimming the deck, he headed straight north now, the shortest route to England even though it was the most dangerous. “Red four, turn west and go home.”

  “Sor—can’t—hear—”

  Liar. He was obviously playing with the microphone button. If Adler made it back to Leiston, Schneider would get an earful from him.

  Ninety degrees. Even with the scoops wide open, the engine was still overheating. That meant his coolant system had been hit and he was losing the precious ethylene glycol that kept the engine cool enough to function.

  His stomach muscles hardened. Ten minutes. At most, he had ten minutes before the engine died.

  “Okay. What are my choices?” The coastline couldn’t be far. If he could make it out to sea, there were plenty of ships to pick him up. If they didn’t shoot him down first. His black-and-white invasion stripes served as identification, not armor.

  He couldn’t ditch. The big fat air scoop below the fuselage would plow into the water, causing the plane to sink in one to two seconds.

  If he could keep his altitude above five hundred feet, he could bail at sea.

  “Sorry, Eagle. We’re taking a bath today.” He hated to lose this plane. They’d been through a lot together, and she’d never let him down. And Beck would go into deep mourning.

  Adler guided the Mustang over a wooded ridge. A blue-gray line stretched before him—the ocean. “Thank you, God.”

  Ninety-five degrees. “Come on, darlin’. Just a bit farther.”

  That stretch of sea held more ships than water. Brown-black smoke billowed from those ships. Gunfire.

  Adler couldn’t breathe. How could he . . . ? He couldn’t drift down in a parachute in the middle of all those shells and bullets and darting boats.

  But if he didn’t, he’d have to crash-land—probably behind enemy lines. In a combat zone. The Germans probably wouldn’t be in any mood to take prisoners.

  If only he could make it to Allied territory. But where was it? How on earth could he tell where the front line was?

  Pops rang out on his fuselage.

  On the ground, soldiers aimed rifles at him. Germans.

  Adler zigged and zagged. “Red four! Get out of here. Get above the clouds and get out of here.”

  “I’m staying with you.”

  “My engine overheated. I’m making a belly landing. Get out of here, and that’s an order.”

  The engine temperature hit one hundred degrees, the final mark on the gauge. Adler searched the ground for a good place to land—no trees, no hills, no Germans.

  Explosions and fires sprang up on the rise ahead of him. Was that the front?

  “Come on, come on.” Gray smoke streamed back from the nose and the engine whined in protest, but he had to keep going.

  Over the rise. Bluffs ahead, then the ocean. Trees to the right, open fields to the left.

  “Left it is.” Adler shoved the stick to the left and gave Eagle left rudder.

  Belly-landing procedures—he ran through them in his mind. He’d already dropped his bombs. Keep the wheels up. Keep the shoulder harness and safety belt fastened.

  Coming out of the turn, Adler ripped the oxygen mask off his helmet so radio cords and the oxygen hose wouldn’t tether him to the plane. He gripped the long red canopy release lever to his right, yanked it to break the safety wire, and ducked low.

  The entire canopy flew off in the slipstream, and a rush of cool air buffeted his head and shoulders.

  Flames and smoke licked the aircraft’s nose. With the beach and bluffs to his right, he crossed a shallow ravine. A wide field stretched before him. “This is it.”

  Adler throttled back and lowered the flaps.

  More trees coming up ahead. Green land rising beneath him.

  “Lord . . .” The prayer squeezed out from deep inside him.

  Adler eased the stick back to lift the nose and settle to the ground.

  He hit hard, bouncing him in his seat. His forehead pounded into the crash pad in front of the gunsight. Then his body slammed back against the seat.

  Adler cried out. The trees rushed toward him. “Stop! Stop!”

  His nose plunged into the brush, the propeller sending branches and leaves spinning into the air, into the cockpit, whapping him in the face, scratching and poking.

  The tail rode up, and Adler braced himself on the control panel. “Don’t tip over. Don’t.”

  A pause, then Eagle thumped to the ground, jostling Adler.

  Smoke filled the cockpit. He coughed. Out. Out. He had to get out.

  He groped for the safety belt, found a branch, tossed it out, found the buckle and unlatched it. He unfastened the shoulder harness and threw off the straps.

  Adler tugged himself up, grasping the open edge of the cockpit. After a long mission, he usually needed Beck’s help to pry him out, but now adrenaline drove him.

  He vaulted over the edge onto the wing. Field to his left, brush to the right. Flames crackled through the brush.

  Adler jumped off the wing and forced his stiff, shaky leg muscles to run. In about a hundred feet, he barreled into the brush. A few feet in, he collapsed to the ground, rolled onto his stomach, and lay low.

  Breathing hard, he got his bearings. Bushes and trees behind him. Open field before him. Bluffs far to his left, covered with scrub.

  And the noise. Booms of big guns. The rat-a-tat of machine guns. The ground trembled beneath his belly.

  Where was he? German territory or Allied?

  Couldn’t take chances until he knew for sure. He wrestled off his backpack parachute, bright yellow life vest, and white scarf, and he shoved them under a bush. What was left? Brown helmet, brown jacket, khaki flight coveralls, brown shoes. Decent camouflage.

  His gun! He might need that. He lifted his chest enough to pull his Colt .45 from the shoulder holster. The magazine was already in the receiver, thank goodness. Aiming the pistol up and away from his face, he drew the slide fully b
ack and released it, automatically pushing the first cartridge into the chamber.

  An explosion, and a wave of heat slammed into him.

  Texas Eagle. Gone.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” he whispered. “You were the best.”

  About two hundred yards down the bluff, three figures in field gray rose and ran toward the burning P-51, rifles raised.

  Those were not Americans or British or Canadians, and Adler melted into the ground.

  Why bother? As soon as the Germans realized he wasn’t in the plane, they’d come looking for him. He wouldn’t be hard to find.

  Part of him wanted to run out, yelling and firing his pistol until they shot him dead.

  Part of him wanted to wave his white scarf and surrender. At which point they’d shoot him dead.

  Adler lowered his sore forehead to his crossed arms.

  He was going to die. And soon.

  Instead of grief or panic, a soft sense of peace floated through him.

  His parents would mourn, but they might be secretly relieved to avoid the shame and turmoil Adler would have brought back to Kerrville.

  His brothers? They wouldn’t rejoice, but they probably wouldn’t miss him either.

  His son? Timmy hadn’t even met him, and he had loving grandparents to raise him. He’d grow up proud of his father, who died heroically on D-day.

  And Violet? It was over anyway.

  Voices called out in German, loud and strident, probably ordering him to surrender. Not that Adler would know. The only German word he knew was Gesundheit.

  Death would come soon. What would it be like? A minute of extraordinary pain, and then release. He’d be with Jesus. With Oralee.

  He smiled, his lips brushing against damp leaves. After he transferred his pistol to his left hand, Adler burrowed his right hand inside his flight jacket and into his pocket to the familiar cotton scrap.

  Usually when he felt it, he saw terror on Oralee’s face and heard her scream as she fell.

  But now he saw her leaning her pretty head on his shoulder, twisting to face him with her luminous brown eyes. And he heard her laughter, her warm, lyrical voice.

  Harsh German words, not far away, brush breaking.

  It wouldn’t be long now. He closed his fingers around his pocket. See you soon, darlin’.