The bomber jacket, p.22
The Bomber Jacket, page 22
Henry. What could he possibly say?
She hadn’t seen him or heard from him since that night in Harrisburg, though Naomi’s last letter was full of Henry’s visit to the farm: what she’d cooked for him, how they’d chatted in the parlor, and how Henry had complimented her on her new dress.
She’d never told anyone, not even Fiona, that Henry had proposed. Only Naomi knew because she’d finagled it out of her. Since her mother never mentioned it, she assumed that Naomi hadn’t told her.
There were times, she admitted to herself, when she missed Henry. He’d always kept the other guys from getting too forward. “Let’s dance, Henry,” she’d say when one of the other gents had gotten a little too tipsy.
“Sure thing,” he’d answer with his soft, gentle voice. He’d take her elbow and escort her onto the floor. Because he had learned to dance so well under her tutelage, she knew it would be a smooth spin, and she wouldn't have to worry about wandering hands or being crushed against a solid chest. Henry held her at a respectable distance.
He had always been attentive but never intrusive, and because of that, she had misinterpreted his feelings. She thought he hung out with her for fun like he did when they were youngsters. Pals. Even now, six months later, thinking of that night got her angry and then distressed, first about his presumption and then the look on his face. She had never, ever wanted to hurt him.
Sighing, she picked up the letter. In her bedroom, she kicked off her shoes and flung off her skirt and blouse. Undoing the tabs on her garter belt, she peeled off her silk stockings then wrapped herself in her robe and sat cross-legged on the bed.
I may as well get this over now before the others come home and ask questions. Eileen and Catriona were fascinated by her family and life in the States. They didn’t believe how dull it was compared to here. Occasionally, Fiona would ask if she’d had any news of Henry, and Gretchen would convey whatever Naomi or her mother had written.
“It surprises me that he doesn’t write,” Fiona remarked once, giving Gretchen a curious look, but Gretchen shrugged and said, “I don’t think he’s much of a correspondent.”
“Really?” Fiona had replied.
Begrudgingly, Gretchen opened Henry’s letter.
Dear Gretchen,
Sorry, I haven’t written before. Hope you are well there in Scotland.
We’ve had a lot of overtime at the airfield and I’ve been happy to take it. Met an English chap there, Thomas—he’s American now, brought his family over in the early 30s—we’ve gotten to be friends. He tells me about life in England; never got to Scotland he says. Too far north.
That’s funny, isn’t it? He came the whole way across the Atlantic Ocean to live but didn’t go to the northern part of his own country. I get to his house about once a week for dinner. His wife’s a great cook and he’s got two cute kids, a boy and a girl, five and six. Alec and Veronica.
Went to see your family in early October. Everyone is well. Your brother, I’m sure he wrote to tell you, (Gretchen scoffed aloud at the idea of William writing a letter) bought a 1939 Ford Roadster. It has a removable hard top, cream and purple leather interior, power steering, and power brakes. The engine is fantastic and has a GM 700 R-4 Automatic Overdrive Transmission. A tilt steering column, remote door, and trunk latch. Great chrome. And it’s purple. Can you believe that? Purple paint with pin-striping.
Had a great dinner. Naomi cooked. Your folks invited me for Thanksgiving, which did you know, FDR changed to the third Thursday of November instead of the last. So, this year it’s on the 23rd, not the 30th. I had to say no to your folks' invite. My mom wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t come back to Lancaster for Thanksgiving to be with the family.
Say hello to Fiona and take care,
Henry
Gretchen turned the single sheet of paper over, scanning for more on the other side, but there was nothing. Stunned, she re-read the letter.
One page. And no mention that he missed her. That he was worried about her. There was a war on, after all. Not a thing about their last dinner. Nothing about his proposal. No declaration of love. Or anything about being sorry for acting like a fool. No, instead he writes about her brother’s roadster and some stupid fellow named Thomas. Who would care? She had heard all about the automobile from her mother and Naomi, but not in as much excruciating detail.
Men. Suddenly angry, she crumpled the lightweight sheet of stationery and tossed it across the room, leaning against the wall as she heard the front door slam.
Then she realized the date. Thursday. November 23.
At home, they’d be having Thanksgiving dinner. Or getting it ready, remembering they were five hours behind in the States. Turkey and stuffing. Dried corn. Relish made with whole cranberries and orange peel. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Yams. And, of course, pumpkin, shoofly, and dried apple pies.
For the first time in six months, she was dreadfully homesick. Her eyes teared up.
“Gretchen? Are ye here?” Fiona’s voice came from the entryway.
In a moment, the Scottish girl walked into their bedroom. She stopped and picked up Gretchen’s carelessly flung clothes and laid them across the foot of the bed. She left the silk stockings lying when she noticed the ball of paper on the floor. Picking it up, she sat on the bed across from Gretchen and smoothed out the letter. Then, looking, up, she saw Gretchen’s face.
“Oh, is it bad news, then?” She leaned forward, concern written in her demeanor.
Gretchen shook her head. “It’s nothing. Just… I don’t know… homesick all of a sudden.”
“Who’s the letter from that ye tossed it away like that?”
“You can read it. It’s nothing.”
Fiona frowned but took a moment to read the letter. “Henry? You said he never wrote. Did the letter make you angry? What, your brother got an automobile? Is that it?”
“No. No, nothing like that. It’s Thanksgiving at home, today.”
“Aye. It’s hard to be away from the family at the holidays. We don’t have Thanksgiving here. I quite enjoyed it when you took me home last year. But something else is sitting heavy?”
Gretchen rolled her eyes. Fiona was both perceptive and respectfully unobtrusive.
“Is it Henry, then? You know, I dinna believe he’s not written before now. And we used to all go out dancin’ all those Saturday nights. What fun we had. And what a great dancer. He was quite taken with ye, I think.”
When Gretchen didn’t reply, Fiona added, “A verra nice fella, that Henry. What did happen that night he took ye out to the fancy nightclub? You came back all in a state, you did. But you never did say.”
Fiona looked at the wrinkled paper. “He doesn’t even say he misses ye. Does that vex you?”
Gretchen wiped her eyes with the edge of her robe. “Oh, well, if you must know. I’ve never told anyone. Only my nosy sister wriggled it out of me.”
“What? What!”
“That night, oh, I hate to think of it, it was so awful. He, well, he proposed.”
“What? And ye never said? Gretchen!” The Scottish girl bounced on the bed.
“Well, he didn’t actually propose. He hinted.”
“Hinted! How’s a fella hint he wants ‘ta marry ye?” Fiona’s voice brimmed with laughter.
"I was going on about our trip and how excited I was, and he says, out of the clear blue sky, What about our house in New Cumberland? So I guess he bought us a house, thinking I was going to marry him.”
Gretchen saw Fiona’s deep brown eyes widen, but instead of expressing sympathy, Fiona said with a sigh, “How romantic.”
“Romantic?” Gretchen protested, flushing. “No. It was humiliating. I mean, I never expected it. It wasn’t like that between us. Henry was always, well he was always…”
“There?”
“Yes. Yes. He was always there and he was always…” Fiona waited. “…Safe.”
Fiona said nothing, but Gretchen saw the censure in her eyes. “You think I took advantage of him? Used him?”
“He didn’t seem to mind, though, did he?” Fiona shrugged.
“I mean, he danced with everyone.” Gretchen defended herself. “We weren’t a couple.”
“Aye, but…”
“But what?”
“All we lassies, we knew Henry was sweet on you. No one even tried to flirt with him.”
“No, you’re wrong. Everyone was always having a good time.”
“I tell ye, Gretchen, a few of those gals had their eyes on your laddie.”
“He wasn’t mine! He isn’t mine!”
“So, I take it ye turned him down?”
Gretchen felt her flush grow brighter. “Yes. And well, I wasn’t… very gracious.”
Fiona snorted.
“What’s so funny?”
“I can just imagine it. Poor Henry.” She shook her head.
“Poor Henry? Where’s my sympathy?”
“Gretchen, it’s hard to have sympathy for a gal who has the fellas fallin’ all over her.”
Gretchen grunted.
“So, you’re miffed because he isn’t beggin’ ye to come home. To love him and all, eh?”
“Well, it just goes to show he mustn’t have really meant it.” She knew she was pouting.
Fiona grinned. “So, he’s free game, then?”
“What?”
"'Tis it all right if I write to him and take up our acquaintance again?"
Gretchen stared across the bedroom at her flatmate, wondering what she was up to. Maybe Fiona was one of those who was sweet on Henry. “Well… sure… if you want to.”
Fiona smiled broadly. “Aye, but havin’ such a nice American gent to correspond with, even if he only writes back occasionally, now that’s a thing to look forward to. Think how I can brag to all the other lassies at the office and those skinflints at the club.”
Gretchen laughed, cheering up immensely. “Speaking of the club, let’s go celebrate Thanksgiving Scottish style.”
“Aye. But with American gin and tonic, please!” Fiona agreed merrily. “That’ll make us thankful!”
sixteen
April 1940
“'Enry, the phone's for you,” Alice said in the Cockney accent Henry found so amusing. Though he had been in London less than a week, Alice and her husband Jonathan made him feel more like a family member than a boarder.
Henry looked up from the Thursday evening paper, filled with the news of the British Navy’s expedition to Narvik, Norway, a response to the surprise Nazi invasion of Scandinavia. The petite, middle-aged housewife stood in the doorway of her cozy sitting room, wiping her hands on her striped dishtowel. She had a twinkle in her eyes that made him smile.
“'Ate to get chew up after your log day at the aerodrome, but it's a girl.”
Dinner’s fried cabbage and sausage suddenly churned in his stomach. There could only be one girl calling him. Well, maybe two.
“Scottish?” he asked, as he got up on wobbly legs, trying to look nonchalant.
Alice tittered. “Oh, blimey, no. It’s an American. You got one on both sides of the ocean? Did she follow you here?”
He trailed his landlady to the telephone stand at the bottom of the stairway, where she handed him the receiver, winked, and returned to the kitchen, its swinging door flapping rhythmically behind her. But then, maybe that was the sound of his pounding heart.
He’d been writing to Gretchen weekly since his first letter in early November, one-page missives filled with news of the airport, the characters in the boarding home, his visits to Thomas’ family, or trips home to Lancaster.
She had written back only once, a hastily penned note of five truncated sentences: "Thanks for all the notes, Henry. It's sweet of you to write. Sorry, I don't get a chance to reply. Really busy. Working hard."
Her friend Fiona had begun writing in early December—short, cheery letters that eased Henry’s mind about Gretchen’s welfare. She filled him in on life under the shadow of war, not much different from before the war, except for the rationing and “lots of lads in spiffy uniforms.” And from what Fiona said, many of them lined up to squire Gretchen about town.
Henry answered Fiona’s letters. It would’ve been rude not to.
He had written Gretchen in mid-March, telling her about his transfer to Transcontinental's London headquarters but not mentioning the complicated steps it had taken to accomplish that feat. Knowing he might arrive before his letter, he wrote her again once he arrived, including his address in London and, as a hopeful gesture, the phone number.
That was last week.
Once he was settled and could arrange some time off, he could offer to come to Edinburgh to visit her and Fiona. He never imagined that she would contact him. Trying to calm his shaky breath, he put the receiver to his ear, “Hello, this is Henry Schmidt.”
“Henry! Oh good glory, it’s so lovely to hear your voice!”
Henry put his arm out to brace himself against the wall, closing his eyes and letting her disembodied voice form an image of her in his mind.
“Gretchen. I didn’t expect to hear from you,” he said in a falsely calm voice.
“You what? You've come the whole way across the Atlantic Ocean, and you didn't think I'd call? What are you doing here? I was so stunned to get your letter!”
“I explained in my first letter. Did you get one or two?”
“Just one. Arrived today. Why does it take a week to get a letter from London?”
“Well, it is 333 miles, as the crow flies.”
Gretchen’s silky laughter made Henry’s head spin. “Only you would know that, Henry. It would probably be faster to send it by fighter pilot. I know a few who’d do me the favor.”
Henry didn’t doubt that at all. He was momentarily distracted by the thought of Gretchen dancing with some fly boy and missed her next sentence.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Oh, these English phones. Such bad connections. I said, how long are you staying?”
At first, Henry didn’t comprehend Gretchen’s question. Did she think he was on vacation? “Oh, it’s a permanent transfer. I don’t have any plans to go back. Not right away. I told them I’d be here at least a year. Or however long they need me.”
“I can’t wait to hear all about it. How did you get here?”
“By ship.”
“Well, yes, Henry, I guessed that, you ninny. What kind of ship? The Atlantic is so dangerous.”
“A British merchant marine. It was a fairly smooth journey,” he lied.
“Can’t wait to hear about it. How convenient that Fiona and I already planned to come to London next weekend. We’re staying with a school chum of hers. The four of us can meet up. Mind escorting three girls around London? We’ll go to the most smashing places.”
Henry blinked, trying to take it all in.
“We’re coming Friday on the Flying Scotsman. To King’s Cross Station. The 4:10. If it runs on time. Everything’s all out of whack these days. Can you meet us there?”
It was hard to put a coherent sentence together once he realized he’d be seeing her in just over a week. “Ah, yes. Sure. Next Friday at the train station.”
“Oh, Henry, it’ll be so nice to see a face from home. To pal around again. And Fiona’s really excited to see you again, too. You’ll really like her friend, Lucy, too.”
Henry’s heart plummeted to his feet. Pal around. But then, what did he expect?
“Ah, yes. Me too.”
“Okey dokey! See you next Friday. Bye-bye.”
“Bye. Gretchen. I’m really…” But she had already rung off.
Lancaster was the largest town he’d ever lived in, and compared to London, it was a tiny village. London was so disorienting, with the crowded streets and the speeding traffic on the "wrong" side of the road, which required first looking right instead of left before crossing so he didn't step in front of a lorry. Then there was living in a city at war, with huge barrage balloons dangling in the sky, piles of sandbags everywhere, and blackout restrictions.
Meeting Gretchen at the train station meant getting home from work early to shower and change and catching the right bus, then transferring to another through the Friday traffic.
In October Henry had decided he was going to Scotland or England after a German U-boat sank a Royal Navy battleship at Scapa Flow, in the Orkney Islands. Thomas’ assurances that Edinburgh was three hundred miles south didn’t ease Henry’s anxiety. Nor did the idea that Scotland’s capital city was three hundred miles north of the English Channel, the twenty-mile-wide barrier between the UK and the German army and air force.
He could never be at peace so far away from her, even if she wouldn’t see him.
From the scuttlebutt at the airfield, he’d learned that some American pilots were secretly venturing to England via Canada to volunteer for the Royal Air Force, despite the Neutrality Act which made it illegal for Americans to “aid and abet” a belligerent country. Could result in a possible jail term.
But, he reminded himself, he was a mechanic, not a pilot. So that route wouldn’t work.
It was Thomas who suggested a transfer to Transcontinental’s London site, where they were short of trained mechanics to maintain the civilian air fleet. Henry’s manager gave him a glowing recommendation, though he said, “You’re off your rocker. They’re at war over there.”
Once the transfer was approved, he had to get a passport and permission to work in England from both the U.S. and British embassies. Most Americans had followed instructions to leave England when war was declared on September 3, 1939. There weren’t many trying to get into the country. Thomas’ cousin in London offered to rent a room with meals.
Thomas also helped Henry figure out how to get there—a job as an engine room mechanic on a British merchant ship from Novia Scotia to Southampton, England. The train trip to Canada was a cakewalk compared with their journey across the churning North Atlantic, infested with U-boats eager to send England-bound merchant ships to the bottom of the sea.
He arrived in mid-April, exhausted from the intense heat of the engine room and the unspoken terror when two ships in their convoy were sunk halfway across the ocean. Everyone lived with the palpable fear of being the next one sent to Davy Jones’s locker.
