13
Leiston Army Airfield
Sunday, February 13, 1944
Rufus Tate strode into the Aeroclub kitchen. “Hurry up, ladies. The planes will land in less than an hour.”
Violet gave him a sweet smile as she set out the coffee urns. “We’ll be ready, sir.”
Not that it would be easy. The Aeroclub was already busy, plus she had to prepare refreshments for the returning pilots on short notice. Tomorrow she’d talk to the flying control officer and request at least two hours’ notice before the planes were scheduled to land.
Sylvia Haywood fried donuts, her hair tied up in a red kerchief. Kitty laid cooled donuts on trays. Rosalind Weaver made sandwiches for the snack bar, and young Millie Clark swished into the kitchen and out with a tray of sandwiches.
And Rufus Tate was in the way.
Violet edged past him and opened a cupboard. Where was it? “Kitty, did you move the coffee?”
“No, it’s right—it was there last night. We had three sacks.”
“You ran out of coffee?” Mr. Tate’s mustache twitched. “You need to be careful.”
Kitty opened and shut cupboards, her mouth tight. “I keep careful inventory, sir. We had more than enough to last until our next shipment.”
The field director harrumphed.
“Maybe someone stole it.” Sylvia rubbed sweat off her cheek with her sleeve.
“Stole it? Why?” Kitty said. “The men get plenty of coffee in the mess and the clubs.”
Rosalind chuckled. “Ever hear of the black market? And this station isn’t quite secure.”
Violet frowned. “But the English drink tea, not coffee.”
“Some like coffee.” Rosalind set another sandwich on the tray. “And it’s frightfully dear, frightfully scarce.”
“Never mind all that,” Mr. Tate said. “The boys will be here soon, cold and tired. They need coffee.”
“I’ll see if I can borrow some from the mess.” Kitty dashed out the side door.
Violet flung open more cupboards. They had plenty of tea. Why hadn’t the thief taken that instead? “Tea will have to do.”
Mr. Tate peered around her shoulder. “Our boys don’t drink tea.”
She squeezed around him to the coffee urn. “At least it’s hot and invigorating.”
“Just when I thought this club was shaping up.” He marched out the door.
Violet set her teeth and got to work making three urns of tea. She and Kitty had done their best. They’d ordered books and recreational equipment but had only received dribs and drabs. They’d begged and bought and borrowed a mishmash of furniture. They’d painted the walls and hung curtains. But it still wasn’t enough for Mr. Tate.
Kitty slammed the door. “The mess won’t help. Not one lousy bean.”
“Oh dear.”
Kitty jutted out her jaw and mimicked a muscular man crossing fisted arms. “Sorry, lady. The mess gives the boys coffee before the mission. You dolls give it to ’em afterward.”
“Well, thanks for trying.”
The ladies loaded three carts with urns, donuts, sugar, and milk to make the tea more palatable for the tea-teetotalers.
Violet took off her apron and put on her jacket. Then she, Kitty, and Sylvia each wheeled a cart out the side door and headed for the three squadron pilots’ rooms.
She shivered in the cold, but she didn’t have time to grab her overcoat. It was four thirty, and P-51s already circled in the clear sky. They were such pretty little planes, long and slim, unlike the P-47s with their cute, squat, round noses.
If only they’d painted the planes in colors other than olive drab above and dull gray below. But the Eighth Air Force was more concerned with camouflage than beauty.
Had they lost anyone today? The group hadn’t suffered losses on their first two missions, but they hadn’t achieved victories either. Apparently those went hand in hand.
She tried not to think of anyone shooting at a tall blue-eyed Texan.
Yesterday evening Violet had held a meeting about the children’s programs. Adler hadn’t come. Few men had, and they had no interest in activities other than baseball, even after she’d shown them the boxes of craft materials her mother had mailed, donated by the ladies of Salina.
Only Nick Westin had taken her side.
Violet entered Adler’s squadron headquarters building. Already four pilots in leather jackets were being interrogated by four staff officers in olive drab dress uniforms.
At a table in the back, Violet set out the refreshments.
Four more pilots strolled in and made a beeline for the table, yanking off gloves.
A sandy-haired pilot grabbed a cup and opened the spigot on the urn. “Coffee! You’re a lifesaver, Miss Lindstrom.”
“Actually, we’re—”
“What the—” He stared into the cup. “Miss, I think this needed to brew longer.”
“Dimwit.” His buddy jabbed him in the side. “That’s tea. Wrong pot.”
“Where’s the other one?”
“I’m sorry.” Violet clasped her hands in front of her squirming stomach. “We’re out of coffee.”
Another four pilots crowded around, including Adler.
“What do you mean, you’re out?” That awful Riggs.
Violet kept her expression sympathetic and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I made tea instead.”
“Tea?” One man made a face as if she’d offered pickle juice. “I’ve been sitting on my . . . on my tail for over three hours in the freezing cold over enemy territory, and you’re out of coffee?”
“Leave her alone, boys.” Adler’s voice was a welcome tonic. “Drink your tea and stop fussing.”
“Tea’s a sissy drink,” Riggs said.
Nick Westin poured himself a cup. “Tea helped the RAF win the Battle of Britain. If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for us.”
“Yeah?” The sandy-haired pilot frowned at his half-full cup. “Just think what they could’ve done with coffee in their veins. Come on, Red Cross.”
Violet pressed her lips together so they wouldn’t quiver. She’d done her best.
“Leave her alone.” Adler’s voice went hard. “She said she’s out.”
“And if I don’t leave her alone, what’re you going to do?” Sandy-Hair turned right into Adler’s face. “Rough me up like you roughed up Riggs?”
The room fell silent, and Violet held her breath. She’d heard about that dustup.
Adler’s face darkened until it was unrecognizable. “Don’t try me.”
Violet’s emotions hovered between fear and gratitude. He was a dangerous man. But like her cowboy heroes, he was only dangerous to bullies.
“Righto, chaps.” A man with curly dark hair spoke with an affected English accent. “Shall we all have a smashing good cup of tea, what what?”
The men chuckled and stocked up on refreshments.
“Thank you.” Violet relaxed and smiled at the men, particularly Nick and Adler.
Adler helped himself last, but he gave her only a brief nod, his gaze flat and disconnected and still dark.
Something was wrong, and her breathing stilled. “Adler, are you all right?”
His eyes flew open wide. “What? Yeah. Of course.”
She gave him a smile. “We missed you at the meeting yesterday.”
“Yeah.” He studied his donut, and his forehead scrunched up. “I won’t be able to help after all.”
“All right.” But her heart sank. Something told her he wasn’t all right at all.