41

Over the English Channel
Tuesday, June 6, 1944

Low on the center cockpit console, Adler flipped the fuel selector control from the left drop tank to the right. On long flights, he had to conserve fuel. First he’d drained the auxiliary tank behind his seat since it threw off the plane’s center of gravity. Now he was draining the drop tanks, and soon he’d switch to the main tanks.

Not much else to do. Morning twilight brightened the wooly layer of clouds below him, chasing away the moon that had kept him company since takeoff.

His only company. Adler scanned the purple-gray sky, but not one airplane came into view, friendly or hostile. After taking off in the rain, the 357th had climbed through thick clouds in the dark with only puny wing navigation lights to guide them. Adler had lost his entire group.

Some leader he was without a single follower.

He pictured little Timothy sitting on his lap . . . “What did you do on D-day, Daddy?”

“Me?” Adler put on his deepest daddy voice. “Just stooged around all alone above the clouds all day.”

He checked his watch—0545, and he tilted Texas Eagle into another left-hand turn, patrolling in a rectangle somewhere over the Channel or France or South America, for all he knew. Flying by time and compass heading, with no visual landmarks, was an imprecise science.

He’d been stooging around for over two hours, and he had almost three more hours to go.

Deadly dull. If he weren’t careful, dull could indeed become deadly. Letting his mind wander and lowering his guard were dangerous temptations.

Practicing the trumpet fingering for “Las Mañanitas” on the control stick kept his mind from straying toward Violet or Timmy or anything personal. He needed to stay alert for the sake of the soldiers and sailors eight thousand feet below.

“Here I am, gallant fighter pilot, singlehandedly fending off the Luftwaffe.”

Where was the Luftwaffe anyway? The paratroopers had landed, the heavy bombers had started bombing at 0530, the naval bombardment was supposed to start at 0550, and the landings were scheduled in the American sector at 0630.

Surely the Germans had figured it out by now.

The sun cast a pink glow from below the horizon, enough to allow Adler to turn off the little fluorescent cockpit lights that shone on his instruments and gunsight.

He patted the gunsight. “Sorry to disappoint you, darlin’.” He hated to return to Leiston with his muzzles still taped, but he had nothing to shoot.

The clock read 0555, and he made another turn. Ahead of him, the clouds thinned.

“Swell.” He headed for that thinning. Maybe he could see something on the ground and get his bearings.

He got his bearings all right.

Framed by the ragged hole in the clouds, the gray ocean below teemed with ships. A big fat battleship aimed its guns to the south, and brown smoke belched out. Smaller warships heaved shells in the same direction—right over dozens of tiny landing craft. Everything aimed for the golden stretch of beach dividing gray sea and green land.

“Wow.” Was Wyatt on one of those warships? Was Clay on one of those landing craft?

“Here I am, flying in circles, doing nothing.” If only he could help down there. His hand tightened around the stick, longing to tilt it forward and strafe behind the beaches.

But that wasn’t the plan, and that wasn’t his job. He was supposed to keep the Luftwaffe at bay.

And not in this region.

Far, far from this region.

His face went cold and tingled. Anywhere but here. Texas Eagle looked nothing like a twin-boomed P-38 Lightning. Even with black-and-white invasion stripes, he could still be mistaken for a Messerschmitt.

Adler wheeled up above the protective layer of clouds.

The vision of that great armada didn’t leave his mind. “Lord, protect those men. Protect my brothers.”

Leiston Army Airfield

The Aeroclub kitchen had never been so busy. Sylvia fed dough into the donut-making machine, while Edna and Mabel brewed giant vats of coffee, and three ladies ran a sandwich-making assembly line.

“Great job, ladies.” Kitty patted Mabel’s shoulder. “We’re doing our bit today, throwing coffee in Hitler’s face.”

Violet arranged rows of Spam sandwiches in a wire tray. In a way, that’s exactly what they were doing—pouring coffee down the pilots’ throats so they could fight Hitler.

She and Kitty were dressed for today’s battle, wearing their new gray-blue trousers.

Violet swigged some coffee. Not a wink of sleep last night, but the airmen and sailors and soldiers probably hadn’t slept either.

It was official. Just past nine thirty, the BBC had read General Eisenhower’s announcement that British, Canadian, and American troops were landing in northern France.

The side door opened, admitting a swirl of cool air and Cpl. Tom Griffith. He gestured toward the airfield. “The first wave is returning. Mrs. Weaver says she needs more sandwiches in her squadron pilots’ room. Lots more.”

“Oh dear.” Violet frowned at her tray. “This batch is spoken for. It’ll be a while.”

Griff flicked his chin toward the assembly line. “Say, why don’t you send bread and Spam and a knife? Mrs. Weaver can make the sandwiches there. Word is, the men are taking off again as soon as they finish interrogation.”

“That’s a great idea.” She gathered two loaves of bread and several tins of Spam, and she marked them off in the log. The log felt burdensome today, but she’d do her job to the end.

After she and Griff loaded both jeeps, Violet drove toward the runways. A few P-51s circled over the field, descending for landing, their colorful noses bright against the gray sky. At least the rain had stopped.

Not many men were out and about, and they didn’t meander and chat as usual. They strode with purpose.

Checking for traffic, Violet turned onto the perimeter track toward Adler’s squadron headquarters. If only she could have switched squadrons with Griff, but that would have been childish.

In the week since the hoedown, she’d only seen Adler a few times from afar in the mess. Maybe she could finish before he returned. Two of the squadrons, including Adler’s, had departed around two o’clock, and the third around five o’clock.

That meant the first wave had been flying for over seven hours, surely a record. They’d be very hungry and thirsty. Adler had far more important things to think about today than her, so she’d be mature and kind if she saw him.

But she still hoped she wouldn’t.

Violet pulled the jeep alongside the Nissen hut and carried in a tray of donuts. Only two pilots, plus staff officers. No Adler, thank goodness.

“Would you like some help?” one of the staff officers, Lieutenant Fenelli, asked.

“Yes, please.” She set down the donuts and gave him the most sincere smile she’d felt in days. With help, she could escape even sooner.

While Lieutenant Fenelli hauled in the urn of coffee, Violet set the box of smaller items on top of the sandwich tray and carried it inside.

At the refreshment table, Adler stood, picking out a donut.

Violet stopped in her tracks, her heart straining. His hair was tousled from the flight helmet, and his scarf hung loosely over his flight jacket. How she missed him—his smile, his voice, his love.

Lieutenant Fenelli set down the urn. “Here you go, Paxton.”

“Swell. Thanks.” Adler filled a cup. “Can’t tell you how much I need this.”

He’d want sugar, and Violet was carrying it. In fact, he searched the table.

Duty overrode her heartache.

Violet set down the tray, and she poured sugar from the box into a bowl and scooted it toward him. “Here’s the sugar, Captain.”

Mature. Professional. She dragged her gaze up to him.

He met it, and her heart seized.

In the gorgeous blue of his gaze lay all the chivalry she’d always admired in him, but none of the affection she’d cherished.

“Thanks.” He spooned sugar into his coffee and lifted the mug to her. “Appreciate it.”

Then he joined Lieutenant Fenelli at a table.

“Excuse me, Miss Lindstrom.” Theo Christopher stepped in front of her. “May I have a sandwich?”

Violet’s hands clutched the tray. She let go and handed him a sandwich. “Of course, Lieutenant. I hope you like Spam. We’ll have egg sandwiches later.”

A grin spread over his weary face. “At this point, I’d eat mutton and like it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She busied herself setting up the table properly, despite quivering hands and jumbled emotions.

How selfish to dwell for even one minute on her own heartbreak in light of what these men were enduring. For their sake, she’d hold herself together.