The Sky Above Us Read online

  He’d tagged along with his ragtag platoon all afternoon and into the evening. They’d cleared out machine-gun nests and sniper positions and ruined buildings in the town of Colleville-sur-Mer. After reinforcements arrived, Adler had found an officer and received permission to head to the beach and hitch a ride home.

  But right now, he only wanted to sleep. When was the last time he’d slept? Back at Leiston in another lifetime. After the briefing, he’d dozed a bit before takeoff. Since then he’d flown two long missions and played tin soldier. It didn’t seem real.

  But his aching muscles felt real. The stinging scratches on his legs from crawling through the brush. The throbbing bump on his forehead. The burning pain in his left arm from the bullet the GIs had fired at him on the slope—he hadn’t realized he’d been hit until an hour later. Just a scratch, the medic said. Keep fighting, the sergeant said. And Private Paxton obeyed.

  The shelling died away, but Adler lay still as the dark fog of fatigue did its work.

  Then his stomach rumbled, low and hollow. He hadn’t eaten since before his last mission. Coffee and a donut. From Violet.

  He tightened his abdomen, silencing the rumble but not the frustration. He needed to see her, to explain, to tell her good-bye. He couldn’t do that napping on the beach.

  Adler pushed himself to standing. He was supposed to find a beachmaster, so he searched for a man carrying a handie-talkie radio.

  He picked his way down the crowded beach. He’d never seen such carnage in his life. The gray waters teemed with ships and boats. Some chugged in to shore. Some chugged away. Too many tilted at awkward angles, broken, half-sunk, smoking, burning.

  Huge silver barrage balloons floated on cables above the fleet to keep the Luftwaffe from strafing.

  The corner of Adler’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. From what he’d heard, not one enemy aircraft had reached Omaha Beach. He hadn’t seen the Luftwaffe since he’d strafed that airfield, and the only aircraft overhead were American Lightnings and British Spitfires.

  Adler needed to get back up in the sky.

  He passed a flaming tank. Hot, heavy, acrid smoke billowed around, and he covered his mouth and nose. Dozens of wrecked landing craft, tanks, and bulldozers littered the sands. German beach obstacles were strewn around as if a giant had abandoned his game of jacks. Coils of German barbed wire and American detonating wire made crazy deadly loops.

  And the human wreckage. Smaller. More gut-wrenching.

  Twisted rifles. Blasted helmets. A tiny Bible, the pages fluttering in the wind.

  And the bodies. So many bodies. Lined up in neat rows.

  Adler averted his eyes from them, but he didn’t avert his eyes from the wounded. Lying down, bandaged and bleeding, as medics hung plasma bottles from rifles poked into the sand.

  The smell of burning oil and gunpowder and blood and death filled his nostrils and his soul. If this was what had happened when the Allied air forces kept the Luftwaffe away, what would have happened if they hadn’t?

  Just past the aid station, a man stood with a radio. His helmet bore a gray band and a red arc identifying him as a member of a naval beach battalion.

  Adler approached him. “Excuse me, sir. Are you a beachmaster?”

  “Yeah.” Deep-set eyes looked him up and down.

  Adler had to look strange in his leather flight jacket, ripped coveralls, and a steel helmet. “I was told to talk to you. I’m a fighter pilot. My P-51 crashed on that bluff, and I need to get back to England.”

  “To England? Why, of course.” He raised the radio to his beefy cheek. “Hey, Ralph. Send in my private yacht. Got a flyboy here who needs a lift. Make it snappy.”

  A comedian. Swell. Adler lifted an eyebrow and half a smile.

  “Listen, brother.” The beachmaster pointed at a giant lumbering ship just offshore. “Soon as we beach that LST, we’re unloading her tanks and loading her up with the wounded. Which one of these fellows do you want to wait so you can take his place?”

  “I . . . That’s not what I meant. But I don’t do any good over here. If y’all get me back to England, I can fly. I can fight. I can keep the Germans from strafing these boys, these ships.”

  The beachmaster jerked his chin to the side. “End of the line, brother.”

  Last place again. Adler’s stomach rumbled. “Say, do you know where I could get some grub?”

  “Why, yes. There’s a charming little café in town. The escargot is magnifique.” He kissed his fingertips. “Tell them Pierre sent you.”

  If they gave out medals for sarcasm, this fellow would earn the Silver Star.

  Adler tipped him a little salute and departed. At the far edge of the group of wounded, he plopped down on the pebbly beach next to a man in blue trousers, a helmet with a gray band, and an olive drab pullover jacket with “USCG” stamped on the chest. He didn’t look wounded either. “This the end of the line?”

  “Guess so.” The Coastguardsman’s angular face broke into a smile. “A pilot? How’d you end up down here?”

  “Ran into some flak and crash-landed about noon. Since then, I’ve been playing infantryman.” Adler rested his M1 across his lap. It felt like part of his body now.

  “Everyone’s an infantryman today.” He flicked his chin toward the ocean. “I’m a coxswain. My Higgins boat got blasted by a German shell in the first wave. Only two or three of us survived. So I grabbed a rifle and started shooting.”

  Adler didn’t have to ask where he’d found a rifle. “Trying to get back out to sea?”

  “Yep.”

  “And I’m trying to get back into the air.” Adler rolled his sore shoulders. “Neither of us does much good over here.”

  “Speak for yourself.” He raised a crooked grin. “I killed three Germans today.”

  Adler had killed two in a machine-gun nest, plus the two pilots at that airfield, but it felt wrong to boast about such things. “We still need to get back.”

  Leiston seemed a world away. Back at the airfield, dinner would be long over, and the men would be enjoying smokes, drinks, and tall tales at the officers’ club.

  Schneider would have submitted his Missing Air Crew Report, and Adler would officially be classified as Missing in Action.

  Did they think he was dead? Or did they think he had a chance? How much had Schneider seen?

  Either way, the men would be concerned, especially Nick.

  And Violet . . .

  His gaze stretched north toward her. She’d worry. She was too tenderhearted not to.

  If only he could get a message across the Channel.

  The beachmaster would be more than happy to oblige. Adler actually chuckled.

  “What’s so funny, flyboy?”

  “Paxton—my name’s Adler Paxton.” He stuck out his hand. “Looks like we’ll be here awhile. We can sit around and knit . . .”

  “Mike Weber.” The Coastguardsman shook his hand. “Let’s make ourselves useful.”

  Leiston Army Airfield

  Wednesday, June 7, 1944

  In the dim light from her desk lamp, Violet reviewed her letter to Great-Aunt Violet. The tone had to be just right—firm, decided, and respectful.

  I will always be thankful for how you encouraged this homebody to serve the Lord, to think of the world beyond Kansas, and to have the strength and courage to consider following in your footsteps.

  However, my time in England has made it clear that my place is in the classroom and at home. I’m not taking a “lesser” path, but the right path for me, the path God wants for me.

  Now I realize God never actually asked me to be a missionary, but he only asked if I was willing to be a missionary. Do I love him enough to give up all I love to serve him? Yes, I do, but that’s not what he’s asked of me.

  My decision may disappoint you, but please know I’m at complete peace and that I can’t wait to serve the Lord as a teacher in Salina, Kansas.

  Violet signed the letter and addressed the envelope. She’d mail it
in the morning.

  She leaned back in her chair, heaviness weighing on her.

  Kitty was already softly snoring. On the evening of D-day, the Red Cross workers had been allowed to return home, and Violet and Kitty had reclaimed their room. Violet had barely slept last night, burdened by worry for Adler and guilt over how she’d wavered with Griff. Tonight she needed to sleep.

  She stroked the first letter she’d written that evening, to her parents. Soon they would read it, sitting on the porch as Dad’s pipe smoke perfumed the summer air. Maybe Alma and Karl would be there with their families, laughing and telling stories while the children played. Nels was already away at an Army training camp.

  Violet’s face crumpled. If only she were home. Mom would hug her and tell her Adler couldn’t possibly be dead. Would that be a lie? Violet didn’t care. She needed to hear it and believe it.

  No news about him had arrived today, but the beaches were chaotic. Adler had a life to live—a good life—and she refused to give up hope.

  She rubbed her eyelids, but her worries still overpowered her fatigue. Even at midnight. The room pressed in, and restlessness rattled her legs.

  Violet slipped her coat over her uniform and stepped outside. In the cool air, a full moon lent the overcast a silvery tinge. She leaned back against the arched corrugated steel, same as she had the night Adler first kissed her. Most people wouldn’t consider it a romantic location for a first kiss, but Violet did.

  “Lord, please bring him home alive. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of loving him, even for such a short time. He was—he was good for me.”

  Had she been good for him too? Maybe, up until the very end.

  “Lord, please let him live. Let him raise his little boy. Bring him a woman someday, a better woman, to love him. He deserves a long and happy life.”

  The sound of aircraft engines built. It never ended, and she’d grown to like the noise.

  But a single plane? This low? This late?

  Violet turned south toward the sound. Silhouetted against the sky, a plane drew near. Two engines and a shape she’d never seen, almost bulbous on top. What was that?

  Loud, stuttering noises. Pink lines of fire leaped up to the plane.

  Violet cried out and crouched beside the hut. A German airplane, and the antiaircraft gunners on the base were shooting at it.

  The engine noises changed. The airplane turned into view, aiming right for the communal site!

  Everything in her wanted to run, but she had no time to reach the air raid shelter. So she stayed put. Paralyzed.

  The antiaircraft guns kept up their loud protest, but new gunfire erupted, from the enemy aircraft. Chunks of earth sprang up from the baseball field, then the plane roared overhead.

  Violet screamed—she couldn’t help it—and gunfire pounded through the communal site.

  Then it was gone. Over.

  Kitty stumbled outside in her pajamas, wide-eyed. “What was that?”

  “An air raid. They hit the communal site.” Time to switch from victim to Red Cross worker. “Get your coat and shoes. Let’s go!”

  Violet dashed back inside, down the dark hallway, and into the kitchen, where she grabbed the first aid kit and flashlight.

  She flung open the front door. Men were running toward the enlisted men’s mess, so Violet joined them.

  “It was an Me 410,” a man yelled. Then he called it unprintable names.

  “Nah, I only saw one engine. A 109, I swear it.”

  Violet didn’t know and didn’t care what kind of plane it was. She only cared about the injured. “Please, Lord, keep the men safe.”

  “Was anyone in the mess?” a man asked.

  “I just left,” someone said. “Lots of fellows in there. We’ve been working all day, you know.”

  The door to the mess stood open, and Violet stepped inside. The lights were out.

  “Get it off me!” a man shouted. “Get it off!”

  Violet shone the flashlight around. Tables were tipped over. Men were standing, squatting, curled up on the floor, calling out to each other.

  “May I have your attention, please?” Violet shouted, using her most authoritative teacher voice. “If you’re not hurt, please be quiet. If you need assistance, please speak up.”

  “I’m trapped! I’m hurt!”

  Violet swung her flashlight across the mess. A man lay on the floor with a table on his legs. A bunch of men ran over and lifted the table off of him.

  Violet illuminated the helpers and recognized Adler’s crew chief, Bill Beckenbauer. “Sergeant, thank goodness it’s you. Please assess the situation and see how many wounded we have, organize the men. I’ll tend to this man’s wounds.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He set his hand on her shoulder and opened his mouth, then closed it, his eyelids fluttering.

  He was worried about Adler too, and she gave him a flimsy smile. “Go.”

  Beck left.

  Violet knelt beside the injured man. “Where does it hurt?”

  “My legs. But I don’t think it’s that bad, now that the table’s off.”

  “Let me see. Would you hold the flashlight for me, please?” She handed it to him, then shoved up his trouser legs. A cut slashed across one shin, but a shallow cut. “You’re right. It isn’t bad at all.”

  “Lousy Krauts. Don’t they know they’re done for?”

  “Apparently not. But we ran him off.” Violet pulled out her supplies. “What’s your name? Where do you work?”

  “Marvin Chase. I work in supply.”

  Violet chuckled and dabbed the blood with gauze. “How many men in your department can say they’ve been shot at by the enemy? Maybe they’ll give you the Purple Heart.”

  He laughed. “Wouldn’t that be something? Finally got a story for the wife.”

  Violet cleaned his wound, swabbed it with iodine, and bandaged it.

  Beck returned, with Kitty by his side. “A few nicks and scratches, nothing bad—that fellow was the worst of them.”

  “The doctors are here now,” Kitty said. “No one was injured by gunfire, only by knocked-over tables and chairs.”

  “There’s the damage.” Beck pointed to the roof. Three big holes opened to the night sky.

  Kitty laughed. “I’m glad he was a bad shot.”

  “Me too.” Violet closed the first aid kit. When would it stop? Men shooting at each other, hurting each other, and killing each other. Lord, please bring this war to an end.

  47

  Leiston Army Airfield

  Saturday, June 10, 1944

  Nick shook his head at Adler. “The things you’ll do to get yourself a P-51D model.”

  His squadron mates laughed, that high staccato laughter when great tension has been relieved.

  Adler grinned at his buddies lounging in the pilots’ room. It was very good to be back. “I did it for you, Nick. As squadron commander, you’ll get the new bird. I’ll get Santa’s Sleigh.”

  Rosie put on a mock serious face. “Paxton got himself shot down out of the goodness of his heart.”

  Theo leaned forward in his chair with his old baby-faced eagerness. “Tell us about it.”

  All he wanted to do was find Violet, have that hard talk, and hit the sack. But he launched into the condensed version of his story for his friends.

  How many times had he told it already?

  On D-day evening and all the next day, he and Mike Weber had helped the demolition teams clear beach obstacles while sniper and artillery fire flew one direction and tank and naval fire flew the other. Hard, dangerous labor.

  Both nights they’d hunkered under a half-shelter, shivering in the cold while the Luftwaffe made pathetic and cowardly attacks on the fleet of ships.

  Finally on June 8, he and Mike had hitched a ride on an LST landing ship, a slow and rocky ride over the Channel.

  The entire next day, Adler had been debriefed at Eighth Fighter Command, and this morning he’d taken the train to Leiston, where he’d spent
the afternoon in more debriefings.

  Enough. At last he finished the story, but it wouldn’t be the final time.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” Violet’s voice behind him.

  He sat bolt upright. His heart seized.

  Nick stood with a strange smile. “Good evening, Miss Lindstrom.”

  “I brought the refreshments for the squadron party, just as you asked, Major.” Her voice had a strained cheery tone.

  Adler gripped the armrests. He wasn’t ready. He’d planned to compose his speech on the walk to the Aeroclub, but now would have to do.

  Cam flicked Nick on the arm. “Squadron party? You never said anything—”

  “Shut up, Cam.” Rosie nodded toward Adler.

  He’d been set up. But what did it matter? He had to talk to her anyway.

  Adler pushed himself to standing, straightened his Ike jacket, and turned around.

  Violet arranged sandwiches, her head bent, blonde curls framing that lovely face. If only he could kiss her and tell her he loved her and wanted to be with her forever. But that wouldn’t be fair to her.

  He cleared his throat. “Howdy, Violet.”

  She snapped up straight, her eyes huge. “You—you’re alive.” Her voice choked.

  Of course, he was alive. Why didn’t she know yet?

  Violet darted around the table, then stopped short and clapped both hands over her mouth, her face buckling. As if she’d wanted to embrace him—then remembered everything that had happened.

  Everything that had happened kept his feet cemented to the floor.

  “I thought . . . I thought.” She swayed, then she gave her head a little shake, slipped behind the table, and fussed with the food. “I’m so thankful you survived.”

  For crying out loud. The woman had thought he was dead. Adler glared over his shoulder. “Nick! Why didn’t you tell her?”

  Nick rocked back and forth on his feet, wearing that stupid grin. “I didn’t find out until you arrived. I’ve been kind of busy since.”

  “Now I know why you’re having a party. I’m so glad. So glad.” Violet’s voice warbled, and she shuffled sandwiches with her head low. Not low enough to conceal her red cheeks.