The bomber jacket, p.28
The Bomber Jacket, page 28
It felt fresh, alive, yet ancient. She could hear birds twittering everywhere and saw a rabbit or two hopping across the pockmarked ground. She had read that ancient peoples worshipped on the tops of these promontories, which stood out so profoundly on the flat terrain of the East Lothian countryside. Now she could understand why.
“Eat first, look later,” Fiona called to Gretchen.
Sitting on their blankets, surrounded by verdant green grass, they unpacked the treasure trove of goodies assembled by Fiona and her aunt: cold, tangy meat pies that in crust that melted in their mouths; sharp cheddar cheese; herb scones that Fiona had baked that morning; crisp carrots; fresh strawberries; and a bottle of chilled, dry white wine.
“First, a toast,” Colin said, uncorking the wine and standing after filling everyone’s glasses.
Gretchen thought he looked trim and relaxed, dressed in khaki pants, a white button-down shirt, open at the collar with the sleeves rolled up, and a plaid linen vest.
“To America, home of the brave.” He saluted Henry with his glass and turned to Gretchen, who had tilted her head back to see him. “And the beautiful,” he concluded softly.
Gretchen felt her throat close with emotion, stunned by his sincere compliment. She could barely swallow the wine and saw the speculative look Henry gave Colin.
To cover her embarrassment, Gretchen stood up and said, “Well, that calls for a song. Come on Henry,” and started a rousing rendition of I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy. But it was Colin who joined in the song in a mellow tenor voice.
Not able to concentrate, Gretchen laughed herself to a halt. “Blimey, Colin, did you sing in a chorus?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” He grinned in return, his eyes warm. “At university.”
“Well, golly gee and ah, shucks,” Fiona said, American style. “Let’s eat.”
Which they did, with gusto. Gretchen was glad for the distraction, for she was thrown completely off balance by Colin’s friendliness. All her efforts at being aloof were being waylaid rapidly, and her heart was beginning to hope that maybe her instincts were right after all.
At Fiona’s insistence, Henry and Gretchen told alternating stories about their July Fourth memories as “a wee lad and lassie growing up across the Atlantic.”
Colin’s genuine interest in her stories further unnerved Gretchen.
Sometime later, Fiona, pulling something out of the hamper, said, “And for dessairt, Gretchen has gifted us with a chocolate bar! Hershey’s, sent by her loving parents. I say here’s for the good old U.S. of A!”
“And a wee dram, as the Scottish contribution to this Independence Day feast, supplied by my Da’s locked liquor cabinet,” Colin interjected, pulling out a small bottle. “Highland Park. Been saving it for a special occasion. I’m sure he would approve.”
Once the day was blessed with the Scottish “water o’ life,” Gretchen jumped up. “Now I want to see the view,” she said, heading toward the plateau edge.
Colin, watching Gretchen walk away, was startled when Henry said with a chuckle, “Would you make sure she doesn’t fall off while I give Fiona a hand?”
Picking up his binoculars, Colin trailed behind Gretchen, admiring the swish of her skirt against her knees. He knew he had disconcerted her with his friendliness. But he was tired of fighting himself and decided for just one day he would enjoy her vibrant personality and not put a damper on his friends’ festivities with his often-morose attitude.
When she stopped near the edge, he stood to one side slightly behind her, watching her breath catch as she took in the view. She apparently hadn’t heard him come up behind her, for she started when he spoke. “Henry said you weren’t to fall off.”
Spinning around, she said with a laugh, “Such a dolt, Henry. I could always out-climb him in the rafters of the barn. He’s the one who used to be scared of heights.”
“Ach, is that so? That explains why he won’t come up and see Scotland from the air.”
She glanced at the sky. “I love the way the weather changes so quickly here. At home, it’s a long time coming. You know hours ahead of time that it’s going to rain or snow.”
He laughed softly. “Well, it’s what they say about Scottish weather. Wait a wee minute, and it’ll change.”
“Oh, yes.” She laughed but shivered slightly in the dress that wasn’t warm enough for a Scottish summer day, even in the lowlands. Then she smiled that brilliant smile that made her face glow and penetrated his heart like a long, thin blade, the pain so real he gasped involuntarily and put his palm against his chest.
She stepped closer. “What is it?” Her voice, filled with concern, wrapped itself around his mind like warm arms, the way her arms had felt when they’d danced. A delicious agony.
“What is it?” she asked again, laying her hand over his.
He could only look ahead over the farmland lying like a quilt of green and brown and yellow below the ancient plateau.
“Tell me what you see,” she said in her charming American accent, removing her hand and turning to follow his gaze.
“I see a storm coming. You’re likely to get wet if we stay.”
“Really? That’s enough to make you gasp? Must be some storm.”
Colin laughed, handing her the binoculars. “Here, see for yourself.” He watched her again, as she scanned the Scottish countryside. He still cringed to think of what he had said to her in May. “Henry says you’ve taken up volunteer work.”
“Well,” she said, her back to him, “I had to prove I’m not a good-time girl.”
“Gretchen. I didn’t really…”
“Why would you say it, if you didn’t mean it?” She slowly turned, the binoculars still to her eyes, and looked at him through them. “If I look at you close up, will I understand you any better? Will I know why you despise me so?”
Her voice trembled. With a shock, he realized that beneath her sophisticated, flippant demeanor was a woman who cared deeply about what he thought.
She lowered the binoculars, holding them in front of her, like protection. Her face was tinged with pink, “Colin, what did I ever do to make you hate me?”
He looked into her eyes and saw what he didn’t want to see—pleading, and something more. Something much more dangerous.
Longing.
Then he knew. What he never expected. What he both wanted and didn’t want. What could only create havoc in his life. That this beautiful woman he found so attractive, so alluring, might fall in love with him. Might already be in love with him.
It wouldn’t do. It couldn’t. He mustn’t let that happen. She was Henry’s.
He looked back at her for an instant and knew his face revealed what his voice wouldn’t. Her eyes widened, lips parting in an indrawn breath, and she took a step toward him just as he heard Henry shouting.
“Colin! Colin! I think it’s German. Get her outta there. Gretchen! Run!”
Just as Colin heard Henry’s panic, he caught the drone of the bomber. He grabbed Gretchen’s hand and pulled her, racing toward the path that would take them down off the naked, exposed plateau. They sprinted across the open, uneven ground, Gretchen keeping pace. Ahead, Henry and Fiona stood by the half-packed hamper, staring in their direction.
“Go, Henry!” Colin shouted. “Get off this damn hill. Just go!”
Henry seemed paralyzed. He stared across the hundred yards between them. Oh no. He wouldn’t leave without Gretchen.
“Fiona, get him out of here,” Colin bellowed. Fiona grabbed Henry and pulled. Colin could hear her insistent voice. “Colin’s got her. It’s okay. We have to go so they can safely get down the hill behind us.”
At that, Henry turned with Fiona and rushed toward the path. Overhead, Colin could hear the ominous low drone of an approaching Junker 88. He cursed his stupidity for allowing his friends to picnic on such a dangerous place. Then with a scream, Gretchen tripped on a rabbit hole and fell forward, sprawled across the ground.
Bending down, Colin said urgently, “Can you still run?”
Where was the feckin’ Drem fighters? he screamed in his head. Why hadn’t they scrambled? Where was the goddamn coastal patrol? Every fiber of him howled for a plane to climb into and blow the fuckers from his skies. But he had to stay calm and calculate the distance to the edge of the plateau. He could carry Gretchen if need be.
Gretchen moaned but got to her feet with his help. He put his arm around her waist to support her. They set off again, but at a slower pace, her wincing at each step.
“We’re almost there,” he encouraged her, relieved that Fiona and Henry had disappeared down the trail. He prayed they’d find cover on the hillside and not get strafed.
The time to reach the narrow descending path felt endless. His pounding heart and the approaching plane drowned out any other thoughts. Jumping down the first steep step, he reached up and helped Gretchen off the plateau. For one second, one excruciatingly delicious agonizing second, he crushed her to him and whispered, “I’ll keep you safe.” Then he commanded, “Get down. We have to crawl, and stay low. I’ll be in front of you, helping.”
They had just started slipping and sliding down the incline when he glanced up. The bomber was barely thirty feet overhead, the telltale swastika clearly visible on its wings, the bomb bay doors already open. He pushed Gretchen into the side of the hill and threw himself on top of her, bracing for impact.
"Colin?”
The fragrance of lilacs that grew in his mother’s garden seemed out of place here. There was a Junker overhead, for crying out loud. Did she bring flowers for this picnic?
“Colin! What’s happening? I felt a thud. But I didn’t hear the bomb explode.”
Lilacs. So sweet. But wait, who’s speaking? That wasn’t his mother.
Gretchen’s voice dragged Colin back into awareness. He’d been so lost in the feel of her warm body, of the light scent of her perfume, he had forgotten for a fragment of time the very reason he was holding her.
To protect her. He lifted his head to scan the sky. Thank god the bomb had been a dud, but the Krauts might be circling back for another go.
“Gretchen? Colin?” He heard Henry’s agonized voice drift up from below.
“Let’s get the hell off this hill,” Colin whispered into Gretchen’s ear, her soft hair tickling his nose and for a disconcerting moment, tempting him to laugh. Instead, he rose to a crouch and shouted towards Henry’s voice, “We’re coming. Get to the car.”
Keeping low, they scrambled and slid down the treacherous incline, Colin first, with Gretchen behind him, her hand on his shoulder for balance. Step by step they descended, Colin trying to go quickly but ever mindful of Gretchen’s pained gasps. They rounded the last bend in the path, and there was Henry, pacing frantically beside the idling roadster, where Fiona sat in the driver’s seat.
“Henry, she’s fine,” Colin assured, but Henry was already racing toward them. The two men helped Gretchen hobble to the stile and over it. Then Henry swept Gretchen up in his arms, carried her to the car, settled her in the back seat, and joined her there as Colin jumped into the front passenger seat, eyeing the sky for more German bombers. “Go, Fiona! To Edinburgh. Henry and I can find a ride back to Drem,”
Fiona pulled off in a roar. As the car raced down the macadam road, Colin turned around to check on Gretchen. Henry had his arms wrapped around her, soothing her as one would an injured child. “It’s all right, Gretchen. We’ll be home soon. You’re just fine.”
She lay still against Henry’s chest, her eyes closed, sobbing silently.
Colin didn’t know if it was from pain or shock. Seeing the fierce look on Henry’s face, Colin felt a deep wrench inside. That moment between him and Gretchen on the plateau could never be repeated. The betrayal would destroy Henry.
He had to get away. If that meant volunteering to be a bomber pilot, that’s what he would do. It would be torture to remain, knowing Gretchen’s feelings. Glancing in Fiona’s direction, he was startled to see the same look of despair on her face and realized she was as devastated by Henry’s tender ministrations to Gretchen as he was. Why had he never seen it?
When Fiona looked his way, he smiled wanly and said softly, “What a fine feckin’ Yankee Independence Day.”
Fiona nodded, blinking away tears that had nothing to do with the wind in her eyes. “Aye, my laddie. Aye. A fine feckin’ lot they are. Too bad we Scots will never be free.”
Colin knew she wasn’t talking about Scotland’s longed-for independence from England.
twenty-one
December 1941
As he always did, Henry started his letter to Fiona by writing the day, date, and time at the top: Sunday, December 7, 1941, 9:45 p.m. He had just added “Dear Fiona,” when Theo, the newest ground crew member, burst into the barracks.
“Henry,” he shouted, racing up to Henry’s bunk, “Henry, the Japs. The Japs are bombing Pearl Harbor.”
Henry looked up, frowning. “Theo, what are you talking about?”
“Henry! America! The Japs are attacking Hawaii!”
The few others who weren’t on duty or out for the evening gathered around Henry as he slipped out of his lower bunk.
Theo was breathless with excitement. “They just said so on the wireless. Today. This morning, their time. Hawaii. Where is this Hawaii?”
His mind reeling from the news, Henry pulled a world map from one of his books. “It’s a series of islands in the Pacific. See? Here. They’re a territory of the United States. But how?”
Theo drew a deep breath. “It was a surprise, the BBC said. Complete surprise. Bloody awful. Ships sunk in the harbor. Dozens. And men lost. Oh, I’m sae sarry, Henry. I hope ye haven’t got a brother in the Navy.”
Then someone else came in yelling that the Japs had invaded Malaya and Hong Kong, both British colonies. That bit wasn’t unexpected, Henry knew, as the Japanese had been expanding their power in Indonesia and French Indo-China over the last year and been bombing Chungking in China for years. But no one had thought the Japanese would attack America.
In the morning, Henry learned that President Roosevelt was going to address Congress at 5:30 p.m. Edinburgh time and that the BBC would rebroadcast the speech at 7:30.
That evening, shortly before broadcast time, he stood in a corner of Edinburgh’s unheated, Victorian train station, watching Gretchen pour tea for British servicemen at the Red Cross canteen. She looked so demure, with her wavy chestnut hair tied back in a neat chignon, topped by a white cap with a red cross, dressed in a conservative blue wool suit covered by her starched white apron, wearing a pair of flat, polished brogues.
She had been so somber in the months since their July Fourth picnic, even though she had suffered no more than a badly-sprained ankle. But then, so much had happened soon after that.
Within days, Colin got his transfer to Bomber Command. After a week’s leave to visit his family in Achiltibuie, he was off to Canada for a six-month training course, for though he could pilot a Spitfire, there was a lot to learn about flying the four-engine Stirling. He’d asked Henry to give his regards to both girls.
Gretchen’s face had drained of all color when he told her.
“Transferred? Bomber Command?” She said the words like a death sentence, sitting back in her chair at the restaurant he’d taken her to. “Henry, I'm sorry. I don’t think I could eat anything.” He called the waiter, canceled their order, and took her home. She looked ill.
Her shock puzzled Henry. She had repeatedly said she and Colin only tolerated each other for Henry’s sake. Yet they had seemed to get along famously at the picnic, and Colin had been unusually cheerful. Until that scare with the German bomber.
As he joined the queue at the canteen, he longed to ask Colin about his current dilemma—go home to enlist, leaving Gretchen to fend for herself, or stay with the RAF and feel like a shirker. He missed Colin. The closest friend he’d ever had.
There was a throng of uniformed men, with a spattering of women in winter coats, sipping tea and munching sandwiches or Dundee Cake with rum-laced raisins served by Gretchen and four other women, two young and two older. Sounds of big band music from the wireless behind them echoed in the cavernous space.
“You heard about Pearl Harbor?” was the first thing he said to her when she looked up in surprise to see him.
“Of course!” She sounded offended.
“They’re going to rebroadcast the President’s address at 7:30. We should listen.”
“Henry, I’m on duty.”
“Gretchen, you’re a volunteer,” Henry snapped. “I’m sure they can spare you a few minutes to listen to your president talk about an attack on your country.”
Gretchen was clearly startled, and he immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m just… upset. I can’t get it out of my mind. All those ships. Men. And us so far away from home.”
One of the older women overheard and said sympathetically, “We’ll all stop and listen, aye.” In the meantime, Gretchen poured him a cup of scalding-hot tea the way he liked it. Strong and black, no milk. He munched a cucumber sandwich on day-old buttered bread.
Just before 7:30, a young naval officer shouted, “The American president is going to speak. Gather round.” Brushing crumbs from her apron, Gretchen came out to stand next to Henry. Someone brought up chairs and insisted they sit.
A hush fell over the gathered crowd, which stood in a semi-circle around Gretchen and Henry, as the BBC announcer said in solemn tones, “We now rebroadcast for our BBC listeners here and abroad, the address to the American Congress made at twelve-thirty this afternoon, Eastern Standard Time, by the President of the United States.”
To Henry, it felt like something out of a novel. A son of German immigrants, working for the British Royal Air Force, sitting in a Scottish train station, listening to Franklin D. Roosevelt, whom he had not voted for, talk about an attack on a Pacific island by the Imperial Navy of Japan. He frowned in concentration as the distinctive voice of FDR drifted out of the wireless.
