The Sky Above Us Page 4

  “What fun.” Winnie nudged the girl beside her. “I wanted to work in an Aeroclub, but this sounds better. Sign me up.”

  Three more hands shot up, and Mr. Abrams took down their names.

  Violet pressed her shoulder bag tight over her rebelling stomach. A clubmobile required perky girls who could wisecrack and jitterbug. Not someone like her.

  Jo thrust her hand in the air. “I want to work in a service club.”

  “Like where we’re staying here in London?” the girl beside her asked.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Jo said. “The club gives our boys a hot meal and a comfortable room when they’re on leave, organizes tours and activities, and assists them.”

  Violet’s mind reeled. She hadn’t come across the Atlantic to serve coffee. Lord, what should I do?

  More hands popped up, volunteering to work at clubs in cities throughout Britain.

  “Sir, I’d like to work in an Aeroclub,” Kitty said.

  Mr. Abrams’s brows settled lower. “Aeroclubs are considered our most dangerous work. The ladies serve on air bases in the country. Conditions are rustic, and the bases are legitimate targets for German air raids.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I want. I’m Kathleen Kelly.” Kitty looked over her shoulder, her brown eyes large and pleading. “Violet, come with me, please.”

  “Good idea,” Mr. Abrams said. “Each Aeroclub needs a director and a staff assistant.”

  Violet could barely think. At least Aeroclubs were in the country rather than the city. Danger and rustic conditions appealed to the missionary in her. And she’d be with Kitty. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Kitty grinned and hunched her shoulders. “We’ll have so much fun.”

  She wrangled up a smile, but then a new shock rattled her. An Aeroclub. Airfield. Airmen. What had she done?

  “Miss Lindstrom, with your administrative skills, you’ll be the director. Miss Kelly, the staff assistant.” Mr. Abrams made notes. “You’ll be at a new Eighth Air Force field.”

  Eighth . . . Hadn’t Adler said he was with the Ninth Air Force?

  Now her smile felt somewhat genuine. At least she wouldn’t be with that horrible Riggs or the overly intriguing Adler Paxton.

  “That’s all of you.” Mr. Abrams set aside his pen. “My secretary will see to your travel arrangements.”

  Violet joined the chattering women as they left, but she didn’t belong with them, didn’t belong in England.

  If only Dennis hadn’t let money lure him away from missions. Because he’d broken his promises to her and to God, Violet was in England instead of serving the needy in Kenya or China or Brazil.

  Not only was she far from home, but now she was even further from her dream.

  Raydon Army Airfield

  Friday, December 10, 1943

  Mutton, brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes. Adler swallowed a nasty mouthful.

  “Can you believe it?” From the other side of the table in the officers’ mess, Willard Riggs swore at a brussels sprout. “Lousy food, shoveling lousy mud, lousy ground school as if we were only cadets, and still no planes.”

  With an air war raging over Europe, Adler shared Riggs’s frustrations. But bad morale could shoot down the group before the Luftwaffe fired a single bullet. “I reckon they’re stalling. They’re letting those other fighter groups get in a few licks while they can, ’cause once the 357th hits the skies, it’s all over.”

  Nick Westin laughed. “We’ll single-handedly defeat the Luftwaffe, huh?”

  Theo Christopher’s big eyes lit up. “We’ll knock out the entire German army.”

  “Now y’all are talking.” Adler shook pepper on his mutton, as if it’d help.

  Riggs jutted out his scruffy chin. “Let me loose, and it’ll be over by Christmas.”

  Adler pointed the pepper shaker at the man. “If nothing else, you can pummel them with your gigantic ego.”

  “Say, fellows,” Nick said. “Now that we’ve almost won the war, we’d better make postwar plans. What do you want to do, Theo?”

  Adler smiled at Nick even though the mutton was as tasty as warm, wet wool. When it came to ending the whining, Nick played a good wingman to Adler.

  “Back to Oregon.” Theo scooped mashed potatoes onto his fork. “I want to teach junior high English.”

  Riggs snorted. “No money in that. My old man’s a stockbroker on Wall Street. I’m joining his firm. How about you, Santa? Back to the North Pole?”

  With Christmas on the way, the nickname “Saint Nick” had changed to “Santa.” “The missus and I plan on having a whole brood of elves, turning the feedlot into a toy factory.”

  Three sets of eyes turned to Adler.

  Unlike them, he could never go home, never go into the family business as he’d always wanted. He sure didn’t want to go back to college. The only reason he’d gone was because Wyatt had. Whatever Wyatt did, Adler had to do and better, making up for Wyatt’s advantage of birth.

  How pointless that seemed now.

  “Paxton’s going back to robbing banks,” Riggs said.

  Adler cracked a smile. Might as well test his idea. “I’m going to start an air shipping company.”

  “Hmm,” Nick said. “Sounds interesting.”

  It did. It combined his knowledge of moving freight with his love of flying. “After the war, a lot of pilots will be looking for work. And moving cargo by air is faster than by truck or rail. It’s the future.”

  “I like it.” Theo flashed his boyish smile.

  “I even have a name—ACES.” Adler brushed his hand over the imaginary logo on the tail of his plane. “Air Cargo Express Shipping. I’ll hire ace pilots. That’ll be my hook: ‘First in war—first in freight.’”

  Riggs raised one thick eyebrow. “You have to be an ace yourself to make that stick.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Hard to do as a wingman.”

  “So it’ll mean even more.” Adler took a casual swig of coffee. “Every one of my victories will be like three of yours.”

  Nick held up one hand. “Remember, this flight is a team, the four of us working together.”

  “We sure are.” Adler flicked a smile to Riggs as if to say, “Beat you in that one.”

  After the men finished their meals, they filed out of the mess, between rows of tables filled with men in olive drab.

  And two women in gray-blue—the Red Cross workers who’d arrived that morning.

  “What have we here?” Riggs let out a wolf whistle. “Dessert is served.”

  Adler punched him in the shoulder. “Leave ’em alone, or you won’t get any donuts.”

  “Are you kidding?” Riggs set his hands on the ladies’ shoulders. “Once you dolls get a taste of me, I’ll be rolling in donuts.”

  The petite brunette on the left shrugged off Riggs’s hand and wrinkled her freckled nose. “One taste of you, buster, and we’ll lose our appetite.”

  Adler howled in laughter, joined by Nick and Theo. These ladies could handle themselves. Still, he was glad the women’s quarters were off-limits—and that Violet Lindstrom was nowhere near Raydon Airfield.

  The men headed outside into the darkness. An almost-full moon defied the blackout.

  Then the air raid siren broke the stillness.

  Adler tensed and searched the sky in vain.

  Riggs swore.

  Adler let out a curse of his own, but it only triggered a string of angry Spanish in his mother’s voice in his head. An echo from his first summer home from college. The first time, the only time, he’d cussed in front of her.

  “Where are they?” Nick’s voice was tight and hard.

  The sound of airplane engines competed with the siren.

  Adler’s fists clenched. They ought to go down to the shelter, but warriors didn’t hide. “Four planes. Give us four planes, and we’d sweep them from the sky.”

  A chain of yellow fireballs rose about a mile away, followed by low rumbles and vibrations.


  “They missed,” Theo said.

  “Stupid Krauts.” Riggs shook his fist at the sky. “No lousy planes to hit anyway.”

  “Soon enough,” Nick said. “Soon enough.”

  Adler glared into the darkness. Not soon enough for him.

  5

  Leiston, Suffolk, England

  Saturday, December 11, 1943

  The jeep bounced along the narrow lane, and Violet clamped one hand over the suitcases beside her in the backseat and the other on her hat.

  In the front seat, Kitty held on to her own hat. “It’s so flat here. I thought England would be all rolling hills.”

  “I like it.” Violet inhaled the rich smell of farmland and feasted on the wide open spaces. “It reminds me of home.”

  “Flat land is ideal for airfields.” Mr. Rufus Tate, their Red Cross Field Director, turned onto an even narrower lane. “Now that you’ve arrived, I can give you the details. You two will set up the Aeroclub at Leiston Army Airfield, home of the 358th Fighter Group. They fly P-47s.”

  The 358th? Off by one digit. Violet’s smile grew.

  “P-47 Thunderbolts,” Kitty said. “My brother flew one.”

  Violet had heard Kitty mention two brothers in the Army, a brother in the Marines, and two sisters working in factories, but not a fighter pilot.

  “Where did he serve?” Mr. Tate said.

  “The Mediterranean. He was killed over Sicily.”

  Violet gasped.

  “That’s why I requested an Aeroclub.” Kitty’s voice didn’t even quiver.

  “I’m so sorry,” Violet said. Sicily—that was only this past summer. “You never mentioned—”

  “I had two choices. I could sit around and cry, or I could do something. I chose to do something.”

  “That’s the spirit we like to see in our girls.” He stopped at a gate.

  The guard burst into a giant smile. “The Red Cross is here? A sight for sore eyes.”

  Mr. Tate showed his card. “Miss Kelly and Miss Lindstrom are here to set up the Aeroclub.”

  “I’ll be first in line.” The guard waved them through.

  Mr. Tate drove down a street lined with utilitarian gray-green buildings, some square and some semicylindrical.

  And men. So many men. Gawking, whistling, tripping over their feet, calling, “Hiya, Red Cross!”

  Heat rose in Violet’s cheeks, and she tried to shrink down in the seat. “I thought we were taking our luggage to our quarters in the village before we saw the Aeroclub.”

  “Village?” Mr. Tate shot a frown over his shoulder. “Aeroclub girls are billeted on the bases.”

  Violet couldn’t breathe. On the air base?

  “Are there other women here?” Kitty asked. “Is that even proper?”

  “Just the Red Cross girls.” Mr. Tate slowed as a group of men passed by on bicycles. “We’ve never had problems. The ladies’ quarters are strictly off-limits.”

  Violet cringed at the thought of telling her parents.

  “The boys will treat you girls right.” Mr. Tate turned onto another road. “The 358th has been here almost two weeks. The officers and noncommissioned officers have their clubs, but the enlisted men have nothing.”

  At least the pilots were officers, so Violet wouldn’t have to deal with them. They seemed to be the worst of the lot.

  “The officers’ mess.” He pointed to a nondescript rectangular building. “That’s where you’ll eat. The Army has granted you many of the rights and privileges of an officer.”

  Violet sighed. She’d have to deal with pilots after all.

  “Here’s the Aeroclub.” Mr. Tate stopped the jeep in front of a large semicylindrical building with a brick façade. “Your quarters are inside.”

  Violet climbed out of the jeep, but before she could grab her suitcase, half a dozen men in olive drab had gathered around and hauled out the luggage.

  “Boy, are we glad you’re here.” A long-faced man gave her a toothy grin. He had stripes on his sleeve, which made him an enlisted man. “A fellow needs a place to relax at the end of a long day, you know.”

  She smiled back. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. “We’re glad to be here.”

  Mr. Tate led them through the front door. “The ladies’ quarters are in the back, boys.”

  “Yes, sir.” The men traipsed through, carrying only one item each.

  Kitty snickered and leaned closer to Violet. “I like that big fellow carrying my little shoulder bag.”

  “I guess they want a peek inside the club.” But there wasn’t much to see.

  Corrugated steel arched over a bare concrete floor. The building stretched a long way, with only lumber frames indicating where rooms would be. A few lightbulbs dangled from the ceiling, sending sparse light into the chilly space.

  Mr. Tate strode along. “They’ve started construction on the kitchen. You’ll need to set up the snack bar, the library, the game room, the music room, the lounge.”

  Violet stared at the expanse. “The airmen are constructing everything?”

  “Heavens, no. They have duties. You may find some volunteers, but you’ll hire local workers for construction and ladies to cook, serve food, and clean.”

  Two enlisted men sawed lumber in what had to be the kitchen, judging by the giant stove.

  “How do we find workers?” Kitty asked.

  “Talk to the local Minister of Labour. They have rules about whom you can hire—war needs come first, of course. For construction material and furniture, you’ll go to the Minister of Works. You may be able to sweet-talk some materials from the fighter group.”

  Violet pressed her hand over her stomach. Sweet talk wasn’t her specialty.

  “Order your recreational equipment from the Red Cross.” Mr. Tate stepped over a pile of sawdust. “The Red Cross also supplies your coffee and donut ingredients. All other food will be purchased in town. The Minister of Food will supply ration books.”

  Kitty stared hard at Violet and crossed her eyes.

  Violet would have laughed if she weren’t overwhelmed. How could two of them do all that?

  “The boys are excited to have their own Aeroclub,” Mr. Tate said. “Just in time for a big Christmas party.”

  “Christmas?” Violet almost choked. “That’s only two weeks away.”

  He waved a hand over his shoulder. “Plenty of time. Here are your quarters.”

  The six men stood by a closed door with the ladies’ luggage, grinning as if they hadn’t seen a woman in months. Maybe they hadn’t.

  Violet gave them her most big-sisterly smile. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  The men left, grinning and waving.

  Mr. Tate unlocked the door, then handed them their keys. “Here’s your room. We also have a larger adjoining room for any ladies who visit—USO groups or Hollywood starlets.”

  “Wouldn’t that be exciting?” Kitty said.

  “It would.” Violet’s voice sounded weak. She’d come to England armed with dozens of children’s activities and crafts. Back in Salina, Kansas, her mother and sister were gathering art supplies and games from the community to send over.

  What did Violet know about starlets? About hiring and construction and government officials?

  The room was outfitted with two cots, a wardrobe, and a potbellied coal stove.

  “I apologize for your quarters,” Mr. Tate said. “Not very comfortable.”

  Kitty plopped her shoulder bag on a cot. “If it’s good enough for our boys, it’s good enough for us.”

  “We have everything we need.” Violet set her suitcase on the other cot. Great-Aunt Violet had told her about huts with dirt floors and dangers from weather, disease, insects, wild animals, and natives.

  Why, this was luxurious.

  “Very good,” the field director said. “I’ll come back on Monday to introduce you to the important people on base and in town.”

  “We can’t wait to get started.” Kitty closed the door after he left.<
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  Violet opened her suitcase and found her family portraits bundled in lingerie. Dad and Mom, Alma and Karl and Nels. The photograph was taken seven years ago, before Alma and Karl married their sweethearts and added three babies to the family.

  Her insides ached. In Washington she’d been able to make occasional short phone calls to hear their sweet voices, and letters arrived quickly. Not so here.

  She harrumphed and set Elsa the Elephant next to the photo. How was this any different from being in Africa or China or Brazil? It was wrong to feel homesick. Surely Great-Aunt Violet never felt this way.

  She folded her underthings and set them in a wardrobe drawer. Then again, her great-aunt was doing the work she was created to do, meaningful work. Violet wasn’t.

  Thanks to Dennis’s decision to abandon their shared dream, Violet was serving coffee.

  And still she was in over her head.

  6

  Raydon Army Airfield

  Sunday, December 19, 1943

  “Thank you, Santa!” Tony Rosario skipped up to Nick—yes, skipped like a little girl—grabbed him, and smacked a kiss on his cheek. “This is the very best Christmas gift ever.”

  Nick laughed, shoved him away, and wiped his cheek.

  Adler joined in the men’s laughter. “Too bad you didn’t bring planes for all of us.”

  For now, one plane would have to do. Even if she was a war-weary RAF Mustang, she was still gorgeous, sunbathing under the blue sky in front of the control tower, sleek and lean, her RAF roundel still visible under a coat of olive drab paint.

  “How about me, Santa?” Riggs said. “Do I get one too?”

  “Nah.” Nick scowled and waved his arm dismissively. “You’ve been bad boys. Coal for the lot of you.”

  “Coal? Did you say coal?” Rosario fell to his knees in front of Nick and threw his arms wide. “I’ve been bad. I’ve been very bad indeed. Give me a big, heaping pile of coal.”

  Adler sauntered closer to the plane. They never had enough coal for the puny stoves in their Nissen huts, and the men were all freezing their tails off.