44

Over France

The oil temperature pushed toward eighty-five degrees Celsius, the maximum.

On the panel on the left side of the cockpit, Adler toggled the coolant radiator scoop controls to make sure the scoops were open, allowing airflow to cool the engine. His last chance.

Skimming the deck, he headed straight north now, the shortest route to England even though it was the most dangerous. “Red four, turn west and go home.”

“Sor—can’t—hear—”

Liar. He was obviously playing with the microphone button. If Adler made it back to Leiston, Schneider would get an earful from him.

Ninety degrees. Even with the scoops wide open, the engine was still overheating. That meant his coolant system had been hit and he was losing the precious ethylene glycol that kept the engine cool enough to function.

His stomach muscles hardened. Ten minutes. At most, he had ten minutes before the engine died.

“Okay. What are my choices?” The coastline couldn’t be far. If he could make it out to sea, there were plenty of ships to pick him up. If they didn’t shoot him down first. His black-and-white invasion stripes served as identification, not armor.

He couldn’t ditch. The big fat air scoop below the fuselage would plow into the water, causing the plane to sink in one to two seconds.

If he could keep his altitude above five hundred feet, he could bail at sea.

“Sorry, Eagle. We’re taking a bath today.” He hated to lose this plane. They’d been through a lot together, and she’d never let him down. And Beck would go into deep mourning.

Adler guided the Mustang over a wooded ridge. A blue-gray line stretched before him—the ocean. “Thank you, God.”

Ninety-five degrees. “Come on, darlin’. Just a bit farther.”

That stretch of sea held more ships than water. Brown-black smoke billowed from those ships. Gunfire.

Adler couldn’t breathe. How could he . . . ? He couldn’t drift down in a parachute in the middle of all those shells and bullets and darting boats.

But if he didn’t, he’d have to crash-land—probably behind enemy lines. In a combat zone. The Germans probably wouldn’t be in any mood to take prisoners.

If only he could make it to Allied territory. But where was it? How on earth could he tell where the front line was?

Pops rang out on his fuselage.

On the ground, soldiers aimed rifles at him. Germans.

Adler zigged and zagged. “Red four! Get out of here. Get above the clouds and get out of here.”

“I’m staying with you.”

“My engine overheated. I’m making a belly landing. Get out of here, and that’s an order.”

The engine temperature hit one hundred degrees, the final mark on the gauge. Adler searched the ground for a good place to land—no trees, no hills, no Germans.

Explosions and fires sprang up on the rise ahead of him. Was that the front?

“Come on, come on.” Gray smoke streamed back from the nose and the engine whined in protest, but he had to keep going.

Over the rise. Bluffs ahead, then the ocean. Trees to the right, open fields to the left.

“Left it is.” Adler shoved the stick to the left and gave Eagle left rudder.

Belly-landing procedures—he ran through them in his mind. He’d already dropped his bombs. Keep the wheels up. Keep the shoulder harness and safety belt fastened.

Coming out of the turn, Adler ripped the oxygen mask off his helmet so radio cords and the oxygen hose wouldn’t tether him to the plane. He gripped the long red canopy release lever to his right, yanked it to break the safety wire, and ducked low.

The entire canopy flew off in the slipstream, and a rush of cool air buffeted his head and shoulders.

Flames and smoke licked the aircraft’s nose. With the beach and bluffs to his right, he crossed a shallow ravine. A wide field stretched before him. “This is it.”

Adler throttled back and lowered the flaps.

More trees coming up ahead. Green land rising beneath him.

“Lord . . .” The prayer squeezed out from deep inside him.

Adler eased the stick back to lift the nose and settle to the ground.

He hit hard, bouncing him in his seat. His forehead pounded into the crash pad in front of the gunsight. Then his body slammed back against the seat.

Adler cried out. The trees rushed toward him. “Stop! Stop!”

His nose plunged into the brush, the propeller sending branches and leaves spinning into the air, into the cockpit, whapping him in the face, scratching and poking.

The tail rode up, and Adler braced himself on the control panel. “Don’t tip over. Don’t.”

A pause, then Eagle thumped to the ground, jostling Adler.

Smoke filled the cockpit. He coughed. Out. Out. He had to get out.

He groped for the safety belt, found a branch, tossed it out, found the buckle and unlatched it. He unfastened the shoulder harness and threw off the straps.

Adler tugged himself up, grasping the open edge of the cockpit. After a long mission, he usually needed Beck’s help to pry him out, but now adrenaline drove him.

He vaulted over the edge onto the wing. Field to his left, brush to the right. Flames crackled through the brush.

Adler jumped off the wing and forced his stiff, shaky leg muscles to run. In about a hundred feet, he barreled into the brush. A few feet in, he collapsed to the ground, rolled onto his stomach, and lay low.

Breathing hard, he got his bearings. Bushes and trees behind him. Open field before him. Bluffs far to his left, covered with scrub.

And the noise. Booms of big guns. The rat-a-tat of machine guns. The ground trembled beneath his belly.

Where was he? German territory or Allied?

Couldn’t take chances until he knew for sure. He wrestled off his backpack parachute, bright yellow life vest, and white scarf, and he shoved them under a bush. What was left? Brown helmet, brown jacket, khaki flight coveralls, brown shoes. Decent camouflage.

His gun! He might need that. He lifted his chest enough to pull his Colt .45 from the shoulder holster. The magazine was already in the receiver, thank goodness. Aiming the pistol up and away from his face, he drew the slide fully back and released it, automatically pushing the first cartridge into the chamber.

An explosion, and a wave of heat slammed into him.

Texas Eagle. Gone.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he whispered. “You were the best.”

About two hundred yards down the bluff, three figures in field gray rose and ran toward the burning P-51, rifles raised.

Those were not Americans or British or Canadians, and Adler melted into the ground.

Why bother? As soon as the Germans realized he wasn’t in the plane, they’d come looking for him. He wouldn’t be hard to find.

Part of him wanted to run out, yelling and firing his pistol until they shot him dead.

Part of him wanted to wave his white scarf and surrender. At which point they’d shoot him dead.

Adler lowered his sore forehead to his crossed arms.

He was going to die. And soon.

Instead of grief or panic, a soft sense of peace floated through him.

His parents would mourn, but they might be secretly relieved to avoid the shame and turmoil Adler would have brought back to Kerrville.

His brothers? They wouldn’t rejoice, but they probably wouldn’t miss him either.

His son? Timmy hadn’t even met him, and he had loving grandparents to raise him. He’d grow up proud of his father, who died heroically on D-day.

And Violet? It was over anyway.

Voices called out in German, loud and strident, probably ordering him to surrender. Not that Adler would know. The only German word he knew was Gesundheit.

Death would come soon. What would it be like? A minute of extraordinary pain, and then release. He’d be with Jesus. With Oralee.

He smiled, his lips brushing against damp leaves. After he transferred his pistol to his left hand, Adler burrowed his right hand inside his flight jacket and into his pocket to the familiar cotton scrap.

Usually when he felt it, he saw terror on Oralee’s face and heard her scream as she fell.

But now he saw her leaning her pretty head on his shoulder, twisting to face him with her luminous brown eyes. And he heard her laughter, her warm, lyrical voice.

Harsh German words, not far away, brush breaking.

It wouldn’t be long now. He closed his fingers around his pocket. See you soon, darlin’.

Leiston Army Airfield

Violet pedaled down the road, her wheels and her stomach both wobbling.

It was worth it. Sacrificing her career, even her reputation, was worth it to help the English people. And choosing mercy was right. It had to be.

So why did it feel wrong?

Was she so accustomed to being a self-righteous Pharisee that mercy felt wrong?

“Griff isn’t hurting anyone,” she repeated.

Except for Violet and Kitty and the workers who would lose their jobs.

“No.” With so few eligible women in the region, Mr. Tate would have to hire them right back. Perhaps Violet could take the fall and allow Kitty to keep her job.

“Watch out, Miss Lindstrom!”

An officer held up one hand, his other arm in a sling.

She braked and planted her feet on the ground, glad she was wearing trousers. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

He laughed, his face wide and friendly and pockmarked with acne. A pilot—Lt. Clement O’Dell. “That’s all right. Today we’re all kind of mixed up.”

Violet tried to smile. “It’s a hard day for you.”

Lieutenant O’Dell lifted a leather satchel. “Not me. With my wing in a sling, they have me carting papers. Doesn’t seem right. All those men fighting and dying, and I can’t do a thing to help.”

Violet’s heart careened from her problems to the men’s. “Nonsense, Lieutenant. How many missions have you flown? You’ve done your part. Because of those missions, today will be a success. Besides, the paperwork does need to be done.”

He gave her half a smile. “Red Cross improving morale again.”

“Thank you.” But her mouth quivered.

“I mean it.” His brows met in the middle. “I suppose you ladies don’t hear much other than ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ but it means a lot to us, what you do. It’s hard over here, watching our buddies die, having to kill or be killed. Can’t tell you how much it means to get a donut and a smile. It’s a touch of home.”

She worked up a better smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

He tipped his cap and continued on his way.

Violet stood at an intersection. Men strode along, working together to defeat Nazi tyranny and free the world.

Her chest caved in. Hadn’t she realized long ago that the airmen deserved help just as much as the locals did?

The American people donated to the Red Cross so that their boys would receive that touch of home. When Griff diverted food, he was stealing from the airmen and the donors.

She slammed her eyes shut and forced her mind to do math. Griff said the Red Cross wasn’t hurt. But if they purchased food from Banister’s at market price and Griff sold it back to Banister’s at wholesale, Griff would donate the wholesale cost to the Red Cross. So the Red Cross was indeed losing money.

That assumed Griff was actually donating his profits. She had no proof, only his word.

Violet gripped the handlebars, feeling woozy. She was judging him, when she was supposed to be merciful.

Something jolted inside her. Did mercy mean allowing sin to continue? Would it be merciful to allow Nazi Germany to continue enslaving and murdering?

“Of course not,” she whispered. “Lord, what’s the answer?”

Jesus—Jesus was always the answer. Jesus didn’t condemn sinners, but he never condoned sin either.

Mercy and righteousness, perfectly blended. Neither excluded the other.

Violet’s eyelids drifted open. The world righted itself, and the wooziness melted away.

Griff might have had noble motives, but stealing was a crime, and it needed to stop.

She scanned the road for the white helmet and armband of the military police, then she flagged down an officer. “Quick! Sir? Where can I find an MP?”