4

London
Monday, December 6, 1943

Violet, Winnie, and Jo shielded Kitty as she huddled under the eaves with the map. Mist feathered the back of Violet’s raincoat.

“This is Grosvenor Square.” Kitty pointed over Jo’s shoulder. “So that’s Headquarters.”

Violet peeked under the brim of her rain hat. Through the mist, bare trees filled the square, bounded by solid buildings in brick and gray.

“Let’s go.” Kitty tucked the map into her coat pocket and hooked her arm through Violet’s. “If this meeting doesn’t take long, what sights should we see this afternoon?”

Winnie strolled behind them. “Over the weekend we saw Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey and Big Ben and Harrods.”

“How about the Tower of London?” Jo said.

Kitty winked at Violet. “Wasn’t it nice of the English to put all their tourist attractions so close together?”

Violet laughed. It was exciting to be in London, if disorienting. She’d spent a month in Washington for Red Cross training and a few days in New York City before they shipped out, but she wasn’t used to traveling on subways and the crush of people and buildings.

Where would the refugee children be? The children had been evacuated from London during the Blitz in 1940, but Violet had seen plenty of little ones in town. If only she could serve in one of the charming villages she’d seen from the train. That would feel more like home.

They passed four American naval officers, and the men tipped their caps to the ladies. Mr. Porter had said several US military commands had headquarters in Grosvenor Square.

So did the American Red Cross, a tall brick building with the American flag and the Red Cross flag over the door.

In the coatroom they shed damp raincoats and smoothed their gray-blue uniforms. Violet loved the single-breasted jacket and knee-length skirt, the white blouse closed at the neck with the enamel Red Cross pin, the garrison cap, and the black oxford shoes—with flat heels, thank goodness.

A matronly Red Cross worker led them to the Field Service Director’s office, where eight more girls from their ship waited.

Mr. Charles Abrams met them, a trim gentleman with wavy salt-and-pepper hair. “Welcome. Please make yourselves comfortable. I’m sorry I don’t have enough chairs.”

Kitty perched on the arm of a chair, and Violet leaned against the back wall.

Mr. Abrams sat behind a big wooden desk. “We’re glad you ladies are here. The troopships bring tens of thousands of our boys each month. Someday soon we’ll invade the continent and drive out Hitler and his gang. In the meantime, the boys need the services of the Red Cross.”

Violet raised a benign smile. That might be why the other girls were here, but not her.

“This month alone we’re opening two service clubs, seven Aeroclubs, and two clubmobiles. You may have your choice among these three assignments.”

An emptiness formed in Violet’s chest. “Excuse me, sir? What about those of us who are here to work with children?”

“Children?” He frowned around a cigar.

“Yes, sir. I’m a teacher. I’m here to work with refugee children or orphans or—”

“The British Red Cross takes care of those needs. The American Red Cross is here for our servicemen.” He tilted his head toward a poster that showed a GI raising a tin cup of coffee, with the slogan “Your Red Cross is at his side.”

The emptiness spread to her belly. “I was told I could work with—”

“You misunderstood. What’s your name?”

“Violet Lindstrom.” She took deep breaths as he shuffled papers. There had to be a mistake. Had to be.

“Lindstrom . . . yes, you were selected for your administrative skills. You ran your local chapter with distinction and helped organize other chapters.”

She nodded, but the hollowing carved out her last hopes.

“Service club, Aeroclub, or clubmobile?” Mr. Abrams grinned at the ladies.

Winnie leaned forward. “What’s a clubmobile?”

The director chuckled. “We’re proud of that innovation. The clubmobile is a van that contains a kitchen, serving counter, and a reading room. Two girls drive it to airfields and serve coffee and donuts to airmen returning from missions. It even has a phonograph and speakers so the girls can dance with the boys.”

“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.