specks in his black mustache. “You have crumbs in your mustache, Major.”
“Jack.” He laughed and wiped his lip. “Call me Jack. And I’m not your patient.”
“Once a patient, always a patient.” She gave her most comforting nurse smile.
“Just as I suspected.” He pushed himself up to sit crosslegged, leaned forward over his knees, and looked Ruth in the eye. “Validates my pastoral theory on why Lt. Ruth Doherty doesn’t date.”
Her breath mired in dread. “What’s that?”
“You like your men helpless—horizontal, bandaged, and sedated.”
Ruth managed to join May’s laughter, but the truth of his insight put a painful dent in the iron shell around her heart.
8
Bury St. Edmunds Airfield
Monday, July 26, 1943
Jack drummed his fingers on the railing of the control tower balcony.
“Can’t stand it, can you?” Charlie rocked his cigarette up and down in his mouth.
“What? The biggest air operation of the war? Blitz Week—a whole week of good weather forecast over Germany, a whole week of maximum effort missions, and I’m missing it? Of course, I can’t stand it.” He scanned the haze to the east for the bombers.
Dispatching a mission in overcast still seemed strange. Before this week, it had been impossible, but with the new “Splasher” radio beacons to guide group assembly over England, the local weather mattered less, and the Eighth Air Force could fly more missions.
Charlie’s glowing embers bobbed to Jack’s right. “Fifteen bomb groups now; 303 Forts dispatched today.”
“Should be 304.” Jack picked up the rhythm with his fingers. Five minutes until the estimated time of arrival.
Charlie whacked Jack’s hand. “Stop it.”
“You stop it.” Jack laughed and flicked the wagging cigarette to the ground.
Charlie reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of Lucky Strikes. Despite the overcast it was shirtsleeve warm. “Might have to stop it permanently. Did you see how May wrinkled her nose when I lit up?”
“One thing about you, de Groot, you know how to make a first impression.”
“Other than that, we got along great.”
“Yeah.” Jack crossed his arms on the railing. He’d spent most of the picnic focused on Ruth—how could he not?—but Charlie and May seemed to hit it off, in lively laughter one moment, in deep conversation another.
“She’s a swell girl. Might be the one I’ve been waiting for. She seems fragile on the outside, but on the inside—wow, she’s a powerhouse.”
“Yep.” On the other hand, Ruth had a tough exterior, but the more time he spent with her, the more vulnerability he glimpsed. In those moments when she let him see her weakness, he knew his plan was on target.
A new cigarette bobbed. “As for May’s grief, well, at least I know what I’m up against. You, however, have no idea what you’re up against.”
“I’ll figure it out.” And he’d have fun doing so. Jack gazed across the runway to the field beyond, where a tractor cut a swath in tall golden wheat. Below him, in front of the control tower, the ground personnel tossed baseballs, shot craps, anything to take their minds off the incoming planes. Sweating out a mission could fray more nerves than flying one.
“It’s got to be big,” Charlie said.
“Huh?”
“With Ruth. Something about her makes me think she’s been hurt and badly.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Watch that pride.”
“It’s not pride. Really.” Jack rolled his shoulders. “I have a strong feeling God led me to her. He wants me to teach her to love, to trust, something. And if he wants it, it’ll happen.”
Charlie’s head turned to the east. Jack heard it too—the deep throaty pulse of Wright-Cyclone engines. “Remember that, Jack. God will make it happen. He doesn’t need your mission plans.”
Jack straightened up and squinted at the clouds. “Nothing wrong with plans. God doesn’t want us to bumble around. Besides, when have my plans ever
“Jack.” He laughed and wiped his lip. “Call me Jack. And I’m not your patient.”
“Once a patient, always a patient.” She gave her most comforting nurse smile.
“Just as I suspected.” He pushed himself up to sit crosslegged, leaned forward over his knees, and looked Ruth in the eye. “Validates my pastoral theory on why Lt. Ruth Doherty doesn’t date.”
Her breath mired in dread. “What’s that?”
“You like your men helpless—horizontal, bandaged, and sedated.”
Ruth managed to join May’s laughter, but the truth of his insight put a painful dent in the iron shell around her heart.
8
Bury St. Edmunds Airfield
Monday, July 26, 1943
Jack drummed his fingers on the railing of the control tower balcony.
“Can’t stand it, can you?” Charlie rocked his cigarette up and down in his mouth.
“What? The biggest air operation of the war? Blitz Week—a whole week of good weather forecast over Germany, a whole week of maximum effort missions, and I’m missing it? Of course, I can’t stand it.” He scanned the haze to the east for the bombers.
Dispatching a mission in overcast still seemed strange. Before this week, it had been impossible, but with the new “Splasher” radio beacons to guide group assembly over England, the local weather mattered less, and the Eighth Air Force could fly more missions.
Charlie’s glowing embers bobbed to Jack’s right. “Fifteen bomb groups now; 303 Forts dispatched today.”
“Should be 304.” Jack picked up the rhythm with his fingers. Five minutes until the estimated time of arrival.
Charlie whacked Jack’s hand. “Stop it.”
“You stop it.” Jack laughed and flicked the wagging cigarette to the ground.
Charlie reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of Lucky Strikes. Despite the overcast it was shirtsleeve warm. “Might have to stop it permanently. Did you see how May wrinkled her nose when I lit up?”
“One thing about you, de Groot, you know how to make a first impression.”
“Other than that, we got along great.”
“Yeah.” Jack crossed his arms on the railing. He’d spent most of the picnic focused on Ruth—how could he not?—but Charlie and May seemed to hit it off, in lively laughter one moment, in deep conversation another.
“She’s a swell girl. Might be the one I’ve been waiting for. She seems fragile on the outside, but on the inside—wow, she’s a powerhouse.”
“Yep.” On the other hand, Ruth had a tough exterior, but the more time he spent with her, the more vulnerability he glimpsed. In those moments when she let him see her weakness, he knew his plan was on target.
A new cigarette bobbed. “As for May’s grief, well, at least I know what I’m up against. You, however, have no idea what you’re up against.”
“I’ll figure it out.” And he’d have fun doing so. Jack gazed across the runway to the field beyond, where a tractor cut a swath in tall golden wheat. Below him, in front of the control tower, the ground personnel tossed baseballs, shot craps, anything to take their minds off the incoming planes. Sweating out a mission could fray more nerves than flying one.
“It’s got to be big,” Charlie said.
“Huh?”
“With Ruth. Something about her makes me think she’s been hurt and badly.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Watch that pride.”
“It’s not pride. Really.” Jack rolled his shoulders. “I have a strong feeling God led me to her. He wants me to teach her to love, to trust, something. And if he wants it, it’ll happen.”
Charlie’s head turned to the east. Jack heard it too—the deep throaty pulse of Wright-Cyclone engines. “Remember that, Jack. God will make it happen. He doesn’t need your mission plans.”
Jack straightened up and squinted at the clouds. “Nothing wrong with plans. God doesn’t want us to bumble around. Besides, when have my plans ever
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