16
Leiston Army Airfield
Saturday, March 4, 1944
“Berlin!” In the squadron equipment room, Theo pulled his flight coveralls over his olive drabs. “Can you imagine?”
Riggs closed his locker. “If they don’t recall us again.”
“Sure hope not.” Adler zipped up his coveralls. The day before, the entire Eighth Air Force had been briefed to hit Berlin for the first time but had been recalled due to worsening weather. One group of P-38 Lightnings missed the recall message and flew over Berlin alone. “We ought to be the first fighters to actually escort bombers over Hitler’s house.”
Nick laughed and strapped on the shoulder holster for his Colt .45 pistol. “Unless Hitler’s taken up residence at the Bosch electrical works, he’s safe.”
Rosario flipped one end of his silk scarf over his shoulder and struck a pose. “If we killed Hitler, then this war would be over. There would go all our fun.”
Adler didn’t join the men’s laughter, but Rosie had a point. The bomber boys dreaded missions deep into Germany, sitting ducks that they were, but the fighter jocks loved them—more Messerschmitts, more victories, and a whole lot more fun.
The 357th Fighter Group had flown eleven missions and had racked up twenty-four victories, but the men itched for more.
After Adler put on his holster, flight jacket, and scarf, he turned in his wallet to the squadron intelligence officer. He hated parting with his only photo of Oralee, but no one could take away the scrap in his pocket. Besides, if he were shot down, what could the Gestapo learn from a bit of yellow fabric?
With three little white daisies.
His chest seized, and he didn’t fight it. Strange, but the more he’d allowed himself to feel pain over the past two weeks, the less it hurt.
With his flight gear in his kit bag, Adler filed outside with his squadron and frowned at the sky. Cloudier than when they’d left the briefing. If only the weather would hold until they got this mission off the ground. Hitting the enemy’s capital would do wonders for morale.
The men piled into and onto a jeep. Adler perched over the left rear wheel and held on to a bracket sticking out between his knees.
The jeep bounced down the lane toward the perimeter track.
Rosario lounged on the hood on the passenger side. “Say, Paxton, don’t forget to kiss your Red Cross girl good-bye.” He made a kissy face.
Adler kept his expression impassive, the best way to halt teasing. “I’m just helping with the kids’ programs, as y’all should be doing too. There’s a meeting tomorrow night. Be there.”
“Yeah,” Camacho said, scrunched in the backseat. “Great way to meet dames.”
Adler suppressed a smile. Cam talked tough, but on Sunday afternoon Adler had seen him helping little kids with scissors and paste, patiently explaining that he wasn’t Indian but Mexican and he’d never set foot in a tepee.
Wind ruffled Theo’s blond hair. “Maybe I’ll go.”
“Great.” Nick flicked a knowing smile at Adler.
Yeah, Adler had deflected talk about Violet, and Nick saw right through him.
How good it felt to be known and forgiven. How strange it felt.
After his wrestling match, bruised and disoriented and reeling, Adler had told Nick every detail of his life story. Every single stinking detail.
Nick hadn’t rejected him. He’d stayed by Adler’s side, and Adler was determined to pay him back tenfold.
The jeep reached the perimeter track and waited for other vehicles to pass.
“Not too late, Paxton.” Rosie blew a kiss toward the Aeroclub.
Adler flapped a hand. “What would a nice girl like that want with the likes of me?”
Cam laughed. “You got that right, amigo.”
What would a girl like that want with him indeed?
Nick said Adler was a new man, washed clean, but he didn’t feel clean. Definitely not clean enough for Miss Violet Lindstrom.
Too bad. She had all of Oralee’s thoughtful sweetness, but with a dash of gumption and drive. Always busy, that woman, always planning and doing. When she’d bandaged his hand, he’d wanted her to be even pokier, stinging iodine or not. And when she’d told him not to flee—insightful, compassionate, unbending.
That woman could be his undoing.
He hauled in a lungful of frigid air. Every fiber in his being wanted to run, but he’d keep his word. He just had to remind himself—missionary, missionary, missionary.
Thank goodness he’d asked her to talk about that. She loved God so much she was willing to give up everything she loved in order to do something that didn’t seem to suit her.
The jeep made a lurching turn onto the perimeter track, and Adler gripped the bracket. One of the reasons he’d avoided God so long. Bad enough the Lord told you not to do things you liked, but then he told you to do things you didn’t like.
At least God had only asked Adler to keep his promises and do his duty. Fair enough. But after what the Lord had done for him—he still couldn’t comprehend it—he ought to be willing to do a whole lot more.
The jeep slowed as they reached the hardstands. Cam hopped out and headed for his P-51, named El Mesteño, the Mexican-Spanish word that mustang had been derived from.
Adler jumped to the ground and strolled to his plane. She looked magnificent. José Flores, the assistant crew chief, had painted “Texas Eagle” on the left side of the nose, in white script edged in black. On the right side, he’d painted an eagle, wings spread wide. One wing was emblazoned with the American flag, the other with the flag of Texas.
Beck shook his hand and pointed to the single swastika painted below the cockpit. “You’re going to get another one today, aren’t you?”
Adler hefted his kit bag onto Eagle’s wing. “Only if I’m protecting Nick.”
Another jeep pulled up, and an officer in dress uniform climbed out. “Say, buddy, you look like a future ace.”
Adler frowned and looped his Mae West life preserver over his head. “Time to get your eyes checked.”
The officer laughed and stuck out his hand. “A humble one too. Great. That’ll play well in the papers. Walt Schumacher, group public relations officer.”
“Adler Paxton.” He sized up Schumacher—tall, slight build, narrow-set eyes in a wide face.
“From Texas, I see.” Schumacher pulled a notepad from inside his jacket. “What town?”
Adler stiffened. “Why do you want to know?”
“Getting background on our top pilots. When you make ace, I can whip out an article lickety-split. Think how proud your ma and pa will be to see your name in the hometown paper.”
Schumacher drew back. “No?”
Adler stepped closer and stared the man down. “No articles about me ever. Even if I die. Understood?”
His gaze skittered away. “Uh, sure, buddy.”
There he went, bolstering his hot-tempered reputation. He worked up a smile. “Besides, I’m a wingman, not an ace. Have you talked to Nick Westin, next hardstand down?”
Schumacher grimaced. “That little guy? Doesn’t look like much.”
“Don’t let looks fool you.” Adler tugged on his flight helmet and buckled it under his chin. “Best pilot in this outfit. Best man in this outfit. He already made ace in the Pacific.”
Irresistible bait to a newsman. “He did? Thanks for the tip.” Schumacher jogged to his jeep.
Adler turned back to his kit bag.
The three men in his ground crew stood by the P-51’s tail, gaping at him.
Beck cracked a smile. “Who’d you kill?”
Adler groaned and yanked out his backpack parachute.
“Yeah.” Moskowitz, the armorer, clasped his hands before his chest. “Please tell me it was a big shootout in front of the saloon, with all the ladies crying in the windows.”
“I’m not a wanted man.” Adler wiggled into the parachute harness. “I’m just not on speaking terms with my folks. That’s all.”
“Too bad.” Flores nudged Moskowitz. “Wouldn’t that be something, knowing a real-life outlaw?”
Adler pulled the straps up between his legs and clipped them to the harness. “The only outlaws in these here parts are the Nazis, and if y’all want to see any shootouts, stop flapping your gums and help me get this bird in the sky.”
“Yes, sir.” Moskowitz snapped the most sarcastic salute ever.
Adler gestured to Eagle. “How’s my girl?”
“She’s in top shape.” Beck headed to the nose to start the visual check, and he faced Adler.
The searching compassion in Beck’s eyes made Adler hold his breath. He might have told Nick everything. He might have told Violet some things. But that didn’t mean he wanted to tell everyone everything.