43

Over France

Hills and châteaux and rivers and farms flowed beneath Adler. His section had broken up after strafing the truck convoy, each pilot seeking targets of opportunity. Once again, Adler was alone.

Movement on the ground, and he descended to investigate. A farmer ran in front of his barn, waving his beret with one hand and making the V for Victory symbol with the other.

Adler grinned and put Eagle into a slow roll so the Frenchman could see the stars on his wings. “Won’t be long, monsieur. The Yanks are coming. And the Redcoats too.”

At least he hoped so. It was noon. How far had the Allies marched—or had the Germans driven them back into the sea?

Adler leveled off and studied the landscape for roads, railroads, or airfields to shoot up. In half an hour he’d head back to Leiston, leaving plenty of fuel in case he had the opportunity for a dogfight.

That talk with Violet would have to wait until tomorrow. In the afternoon he’d be sent up on another mission or two. Today he needed to reserve his energy for flying and fighting—not his personal life. Besides, if he talked to her when he was exhausted, who knew what stupid words might come out of his mouth?

A dark speck against the overcast—what was that?

It was moving to the southwest, and the long nose identified it as a Focke-Wulf 190.

Adler whistled. Wouldn’t it be something to make ace on D-day?

He winced at his old self, but honestly, it was his job to keep the Luftwaffe out of the sky. If he made ace in the process, so be it.

Adler pulled back the control stick and adjusted his course to the northeast so he could bounce the enemy from above and behind.

Another fighter plane, above and ahead of him. A Mustang with a red-and-yellow checkered nose. Adler pushed the “A” button on the radio box and the microphone button on the throttle. “Dollar leader here.”

“Dollar red four here.” That was Ray Schneider, who had two whopping missions under his belt. A good pilot with the cockiness that would make him either an ace or a corpse.

“Bogey at ten o’clock,” Adler said. “He’s yours.”

“I see him. Rog—no, he should be yours.”

By all rights, the victory should be Adler’s as the section leader. But that wasn’t the leader he wanted to be. “You’re closer. Climb into position, then dive onto his tail. I’ll be your wingman.”

“Roger.” Schneider’s voice rang with enthusiasm.

Adler gave Eagle more throttle and climbed to meet Schneider. “Get at least a thousand feet above him before your dive, as high as you can. He hasn’t seen us, so we have time.”

“Roger.” Lining up on the Focke-Wulf, Schneider climbed toward the cloud base about a thousand feet above him. Suddenly he dove.

Too soon. Adler shook his head and followed. With more altitude he could have built up more speed in the dive. “Get on his tail, as close as you can, under three hundred yards is best.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Had Adler sounded that cocky on his first missions? Most likely. He took up position behind Schneider and to the left, scanning the sky, ready to swoop in if Schneider overran the enemy.

“Closer . . . closer . . .” Adler muttered.

At six hundred yards, Schneider fired. And missed. And alerted the German.

The Focke-Wulf jinked right and left, and Schneider matched his moves.

“Stay on his tail, red four. Get closer.”

“I am.”

Adler would have rolled his eyes if they weren’t otherwise occupied.

The German dove for the deck, wheeling to the north.

Adler and Schneider gained on him. No German fighter plane could match the P-51 on the deck in level flight.

The Fw 190 darted side to side but maintained his course. Over a rise, down into a gentle valley, over another rise.

Schneider shot a few bursts but missed, too impatient to set up his attack. Adler would have shot him down by now. The Luftwaffe pilot was clearly inexperienced. But so was Schneider.

“Get close, get his tail right in your sights, fire short bursts.”

“I heard you,” Schneider snapped.

And the kid was going to hear more from him back at Leiston.

Adler checked his instruments, the gauges, the clock, the compass. The German was headed straight north, right toward the invasion beaches. At their current speed, only about fifteen minutes away.

He pulled up over a grove of trees. With each minute it became more important to shoot down the Nazi before he could strafe Allied troops. But with each minute the danger of Germans on the ground shooting down Adler or Schneider increased too.

“Red four, two more minutes, then we’re breaking off the attack.”

“I can get him. I know I can.”

“Two minutes.”

Over another rise, and a flat broad space opened before them.

“An airfield,” Schneider said. “He’s going home, and he led us right to it. We can get in some good strafing.”

Adler smelled a rat. “He’s leading us into a trap. Those flak guns will be ready for us. Break off.”

“Nah, I’ll get him before he sounds the alarm.” He fired a burst. Too low.

“Break off, red four.” Adler’s hand tightened on the throttle. “Head west.”

“I almost . . . I got him.” Another burst, far to the right.

On the airfield, two Fw 190s raced down the runway aiming southeast. They’d been alerted, all right, and they were coming up to fight.

Adler pressed the microphone button. “Red four, stay with the bogey. I’ll fend off the other two.”

No time to set up a good attack. He peeled off to the right, coming in at a thirty-degree angle to the leading Fw 190. “Lord, let my deflection shot work. Please.”

The first Fw 190 was airborne, folding up its landing gear, and the second Fw 190 took off right after it.

Adler squinted into his gunsight, calculated the amount of lead, and opened fire. Bullets winked down the length of the fighter plane.

In flames, it cartwheeled to the side, collided with the second airplane, and they spun together, leaving a fiery trail of debris along the runway.

“Two! Two in one,” Ray Schneider said. “That gives you six. You’re an ace!”

He was. And two men had died. Adler yanked the stick back and to the left, his stomach taut and queasy.

Flashes of light on the ground. The Germans fired at him.

Too low for acrobatics, Adler gave Eagle full throttle and hightailed it away from that airfield.

A knocking sound. From the nose toward the cockpit.

Adler ducked and drew up his feet by instinct, then put head and feet back where they belonged.

No holes in him. How about Eagle?

More altitude, more distance, and he checked the gauges. Everything was steady. He’d been hit, but the bullets must have missed the important equipment.

“Thank you, Lord.” A single bullet to the radiator or coolant system would mean the difference between landing in England and crashing in France.

Adler searched the skies. “Red four? Where’s your bogey?”

“Lost him. I think he went south. But that airfield will be out of commission for hours.”

The engine temperature nudged higher, and Adler frowned. Had his coolant system been hit after all?

But then he was still climbing hard at a low speed after the strafing attack. That could strain the engine. “Time to head home. I’m leveling off.”

“Roger. I’ll stay with you.”

Adler didn’t like the note of concern in Schneider’s voice. The man might be a rookie, but he had a better view of Eagle’s beak than Adler did.

He leveled off and headed northwest. “Lord, get me home.”

Leiston Army Airfield

Violet skimmed the logs in the Aeroclub kitchen, but exhaustion, grief, and self-doubt muddied her thinking. So many supplies had been sent out this morning, and she was in no state to decipher the mess.

At least the Aeroclub was almost empty. Occasionally, men would grab coffee and a sandwich, but no one had time to lounge and chat and read.

“Eat something, Miss Lindstrom.” Mabel Smith poked a sandwich in Violet’s face. “You look famished.”

“Thank you.” She knew better than to argue with the older woman, so she took a bite, but it stuck in her throat. She wouldn’t take a second bite.

“Hiya, ladies.” Griff breezed through the side door. “Now I can take a round of sandwich fixings.”

Violet smiled, more from the idea that was brewing than from pleasure at seeing him. “Thank you, Griff.”

She pulled out loaves and tins and marked them off in the log. Lord, please let me be wrong about him.

Griff loaded the goods in the jeep.

Violet grabbed some cheese from the icebox and took it out to him. “A block of cheese for each squadron. Bet the boys would like this in their sandwiches.”

His face lit up. “They sure would.”

So would the villagers.

“Where are you off to next, Miss Lindstrom?” He set the cheese in the backseat.

“Group headquarters and the control tower.”

“Great. I’ll see you later.” He hopped into the jeep.

Instead of loading the other jeep, Violet marched through the kitchen, out the front door, and grabbed a bicycle from the stack leaning against the brick wall.

Griff’s jeep turned down the road through the communal site. Violet waited a minute and pedaled after him, as far away as she could get without losing sight of him.

At the main road, Griff turned right.

Away from the airfield, and Violet’s heart sank. “No, no, no. I don’t want to be correct.”

Griff made another right turn, onto the tree-lined road Violet used to stroll along with Adler.

She pedaled close to the trees to stay inconspicuous.

At a clump of trees, Griff stopped the jeep.

Violet veered off the road and peeked around a tree, her heart thumping.

Griff walked into the woods. Metal doors squeaked open. A truck. A truck was parked there.

Oh no. Violet clutched her stomach. Griff was indeed the thief.

Any relief that she would now keep her job was doused by the knowledge that she’d been deceived and betrayed.

Griff returned to the jeep, grabbed an armload of food—and looked down the road in her direction.

Violet cringed and tried to merge with the tree. Why did she have to be so tall? So very blonde?

“Who’s there?” he called. “Miss Lindstrom?”

She groaned. She was bigger than Griff and she was fast, but the men had all been ordered to carry sidearms recently.

“Miss Lindstrom?” Footsteps approached.

Lord, help me. She stepped out, leaving the bike behind. She could run faster than she could ride. “Don’t come any closer.”

He stopped about a hundred feet away, dug his hands in his pockets, and dipped his chin. “You saw what I was doing. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

Violet took a few steps backward, blinking hard. “Don’t mind?”

“Sure.” He grinned and gestured toward town. “Everyone knows how you feel about helping the English.”

“Not like this, not by selling on the black market. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

He chuckled. “You make it sound bad, but it isn’t. I sell to a local grocer, and he sells to the villagers and stamps the ration books. The people only get what their government says they’re supposed to get—but never provides for them. And the grocer sells at market price. He isn’t getting rich or taking advantage of the people.”

Violet’s jaw hardened. “And you make a profit.”

Griff rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually I donate every penny back to the Red Cross. I’m not stealing. I’m just shuffling the food from the airmen to the local people. We get plenty to eat at the mess. They don’t.”

Violet shut her eyes, and her mind reeled. He was doing this out of kindness? Not to make a profit?

“When I saw how Millie and her family struggled, how little they had to eat . . .” His voice caught. “How could I sit back and do nothing?”

She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to think straight.

“See, I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“I didn’t say that.” She swayed, and she opened her eyes so she wouldn’t fall.

“But it’s what you’re thinking, I know it.” Griff wore a satisfied smile. “You’re a woman of mercy. It’s why you want to be a missionary and why you joined the Red Cross—to help the needy.”

“Yes, but . . .” But what was the right thing to do?

Why was she hesitating? She had to get an MP and have Griff arrested for theft. The thought filled her with a smug sense of justice.

Or was that smug feeling a sign of self-righteousness, looking down on Griff, judging him?

Her fingertips massaged her temples, but everything tumbled topsy-turvy. Hadn’t she learned the hard way that God hated self-righteousness and wanted her to be merciful and compassionate? She’d failed the test with Adler. She couldn’t fail again.

“I knew you’d like it.” His grin grew. “No one’s hurt—not the airmen, not the Red Cross. And all those little children get plenty of bread and meat and cheese, so they’ll grow up strong and healthy. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Violet’s head hurt, and her stomach squirmed. Compassion was best. Mercy was best. She had to choose correctly this time. She had to.

With a single nod, she retrieved her bike and turned toward the Aeroclub.

She’d be gone in a week anyway. What did it matter?