Sentimental Journey Read online

  “I’ve got it. My eyes are adjusted. I can see your face without it.”

  “After that blast in the face I can’t see a thing.” He squinted. Flashes of bright light were spotting all over his line of vision.

  “It wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t see you, because believe me, Skip, when you’re angry at someone, they know it. Your anger is there in your manner and in your voice.”

  “I’m not angry at you. Or at least I wasn’t until you stuck that torch in my face.”

  “I know because you’re never truly angry with me. But you are angry with Father and you’re sulking about it. He is right, you know. You need a life and, lucky you, I’m just the person to find it for you.”

  “What if I don’t want a life?”

  “You have no choice in the matter. Your family is taking charge. I don’t know what Father’s using to blackmail you, but whatever it is, you must want it badly. Now stop dragging your boot heels and come along. There’s always quite the crowd at the canteen door.”

  “You mean I have to queue up to do this?”

  “Mostly likely not. They’ll recognize you at the door, and if not, I shall shout your name and infamous Spit number for all to hear, and then no one will leave you alone all night.”

  He looked heavenward. “What am I doing here?”

  “You’re here to accompany your favorite cousin.”

  “The question you might consider asking yourself is exactly how long you will remain my favorite.”

  “I’ve always been your favorite, just as you’ve been my favorite. Now look. Just there. Around the corner.” She pulled him along with her. “Come along.”

  “Watch yourself! The walk is cracked. Come this way so you don’t get your heel caught.”

  “I know they try to clean the streets, but with so much bombing going about, it’s a bloody mess on these back streets.”

  They walked along in companionable silence, passing quite a few people. The cars and cabs moved slowly with their lights blacked out. There were more people pedaling around on bicycles than driving in automobiles. It was dark, with no searchlights crisscrossing the sky, no sirens, no hum of plane engines, no whining bombs.

  “I shall be quite the spectacle tonight,” she said. “Coming in on the arm of the illustrious and elusive Pilot Commander Inskip. Only my close friends know we’re related. Every woman in the room will be positively green.”

  “You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Quite. And you needn’t worry. Just walking into the room will be enough to set the place on its ear.”

  “I would rather face Goering himself.”

  “Stop your grousing and try to pretend you’re enjoying yourself. The orchestra is usually quite good. Drink a whiskey or two. Stand around in that stunningly fitted blue uniform, with those silver wings and medals, looking like the dashing RAF ace that you are.”

  “Helen, for a bright girl, you are a remarkable pain in the ass.”

  “I adore you, too.” She stopped walking and faced him, shaking her finger under his nose. “Now you must remember your promise. Five dances. One with me. One with my friend, and the others can be with partners of your own choosing.”

  “How magnanimous of you.”

  “Yes. I’m feeling quite the thing, you know. Must be the company.” She hugged his arm affectionately. “Look, there it is. See?”

  At mid-block stood a group of multi-uniformed men and women, mixed with many other young gadabouts in all sorts of evening dress. They were queued up three deep in front of the place, chattering, laughing, and smoking. There was a golden glow from a half-opened doorway that spilled onto the bottom stairs.

  He could hear the band inside. They were playing “Pennsylvania 6-5000.” He let Helen drag him along, the whole time thinking—I don’t want to do this.

  “BEAT ME, DADDY EIGHT TO THE BAR”

  By a quarter to midnight, Charley had counted forty-three women in the room who had used eyebrow pencil to draw seams on their bare legs, thirty-two who didn’t wear a brassiere, twenty-eight men who could look her in the eye—four who were actually taller than she, none of whom had asked her to dance—and the band had played “In the Mood” and “It’s Only a Paper Moon” eight times.

  She left her quiet corner and edged her way through the crowd toward the bar, where she would order one last drink to usher in midnight, with high hopes that she could convince the other ATA women to leave.

  Someone pinched her on the backside. “Ouch!” She turned around to see three men grinning up at her.

  She ignored them and moved on. She should have gone to the movies instead, but the previous night she’d spent nerve-racking hours in the Underground, packed together with most of London. The stalwart Londoners calmly drank tea, made jests about Hitler, and played cards as the bombs and incendiaries rained down for hours.

  But Charley had sat on a cot, flinching and shaking for most of the time, unable to think about anything but the sound above and the intense fear of feeling like a sitting duck.

  So tonight, she’d thought she needed to do something active and fun. There was a choking haze of smoke above everyone’s heads, and the band was louder here than in her corner. Everyone was talking at once and laughing or shouting.

  About five feet from the bar was as close as she could get. She spent a couple of long minutes trying to get the bartender’s attention, then spotted an opening and wedged between two groups of soldiers with their backs to her. The groups closed in around her and she was stuck.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Bartender!”

  Nothing.

  She waved at him.

  Still nothing.

  “How can he not see me? I have to be head and shoulders above most of these guys.” She stood on her toes. “Sir? Sir? Mister Bartender!”

  Nothing. The guy had selective vision.

  She lifted her hand again to wave at him, and someone grabbed it from behind. “What the—?”

  Holding on to her wrist was a familiar-looking, black-haired RAF pilot with pale blue eyes and a darkly serious look. “Try this.” He slipped a pound note into her hand.

  She just stared at him, trying to identify that face, beyond the fact that it was so drop-dead gorgeous it should have been on a Brylcreem billboard.

  He was still holding her wrist, so he waved it for her.

  Do I know him?

  He released her hand and nodded toward the bar. “The bartender wants to know what you want.”

  “Oh. A whiskey sour, please.”

  “A whiskey sour and a double scotch!” he shouted.

  “I forgot. With a cherry.”

  “She forgot her cherry!”

  There was a sudden break of quiet; the band had stopped playing. People seemed to have all stopped talking at once.

  His words just hung there; then everyone around them started laughing.

  She could feel her face turning flushed. With her stomach near her ankles she looked at him, expecting to see a smart-alecky soldier grin, like the ones on the guys who’d pinched her.

  To her surprise, he seemed embarrassed, too.

  “Sorry about that.” He looked her squarely in the eye. All night long men had either been looking up at her or looking straight ahead at her chest.

  “It’s okay . . . ” She glanced at his uniform. “Commander.”

  “Pilot Commander George Inskip, of His Majesty’s Royal Air Force. I’d take my hat off and make you a bow, but there’s no room. And call me Skip.”

  “Hello, Skip. I’m Charlotte Morrison.” She held out her hand, but hadn’t realized she still held his money. “Sorry. This is yours.”

  He took it, then took her hand.

  “From all that decoration on your uniform, I’d guess you are quite the war hero.”

  He gave a long and serious look, then said quietly, “I’m no hero.”

  “Hey there! Here are your drinks!”

  They both turned to
ward the bartender. She began to open her purse.

  “Don’t.” Skip stopped her. “I’ll get it.” He moved past her and grabbed their drinks, then handed her a slim glass with a red cherry in the bottom.

  “Thank you.”

  He merely studied her for a moment, then frowned.

  When he continued to say nothing for a full minute, she spoke up. “Well. Thank you again, for the drink.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll just work my way back to the corner.” She turned.

  “Wait!” He touched her shoulder, then quickly pulled his hand back.

  She faced him. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re the girl from the elevator. At the War Office today.”

  “Oh.” She laughed. “That’s where I saw you. I couldn’t remember. I only knew you looked familiar.”

  The band began to play “Paper Moon.”

  “Again?” He looked at the band, then looked at her. “They’ve played that song nine times tonight.”

  “I know. It’s rivaled only by ‘In the Mood.’“

  “I say there, looks as if we’ve both had nothing better to do than count songs.”

  She smiled and nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Tell me something, Charlotte Morrison. Is it quiet over in that corner of yours?”

  “Quieter than it is here.”

  “Good. My ears are ringing from the noise levels in here. Makes a dogfight sound docile. Would you mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not. I don’t mind at all.” She grabbed his hand. “Come along.” She pulled him through the crowd, and a few minutes later they were sitting at a small table in a shadowed corner at the opposite side of the room.

  He took out a pack of Player’s and offered her one.

  “No, thanks.”

  He took a cigarette out and tapped the ends on the back of his hand, then lit it and leaned back in his chair. “So tell me what brings a pretty Yank named Charlotte to London.”

  “Everyone calls me Charley, and I’m out of uniform.” She cupped her drink in her hands and turned it absently. “I’m a pilot with the ATA.”

  “Air Transport Auxiliary? So you’re one of the Yanks who ferry planes all over the countryside.”

  She laughed. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. That was not very politic of you, you know. Don’t burst my bubble and tell me you’re one of those arrogant pilots who would prefer that women not be in the air at all.”

  He held up his hands. “Never. We need those planes. I’m glad my men don’t have to leave the skies to do the job the ATA is doing.” He took a drink. “I was only surprised because we’re both pilots.”

  “My father was a barnstormer. I grew up in airplanes. Now he designs and manufactures them. In fact, that’s why I was at the War Office today. Pop was supposed to be there, but he’s been delayed back in the States. I didn’t find out until I got there.”

  “Morrison. As in Robert Morrison? Your father makes the Lilienthal?”

  She nodded.

  He whistled. “I daresay you did grow up in an airplane.”

  She took a drink and glanced at the stage. The female band singer, a small brunette, left through a back curtain, and the musicians struck up a new song.

  After a few beats, Skip looked at her. “Hear that?”

  She nodded. “ ‘Flying Home.’ They haven’t played that before.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “Seems to me that two pilots ought to be out there dancing to this. Come on, Charley.” He held out a hand.

  They moved out onto the crowded dance floor. As he swung her into his arms, she realized that a night could change from bad to good in a matter of minutes. The song was short, but he kept her out on the dance floor when he grabbed her hand and pulled her into a conga line that grew and grew until it wrapped around the room in a ribbon of drumbeat motion. A good fifteen minutes of sheer fun, and when it was over, they danced close to “Star Dust.”

  When it was over, everyone on the floor stood there applauding the music—the band was truly good—and when the band singer came back onstage, she had two other women in tow. They smiled and turned. Soldiers began to whistle and call out. The trumpet player stood, lifted his horn, and played those reveille notes from “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”

  Charley turned to leave.

  Skip pulled her back. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the table.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a swing tune.”

  “I know. Take my hand. We’ll show them how it’s done.”

  “To this?” She laughed. “I don’t dance the swing.”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  She shook her head. “No. You don’t understand. You don’t have to teach me. I know how. Doorknobs make great dance partners.”

  “Then why don’t you dance?”

  “Skip.” She laughed. “You can look me in the eye and really ask that?”

  He didn’t answer her. He pulled her against him, placed his hand on her lower back, and off they went. The next thing she knew he was twirling her out onto the dance floor and pulling her back, spinning her and slipping in beside her to match steps.

  Maybe it was because they both could fly and they understood motion and air; maybe it was because they both knew how to control a powerful machine that could so lightly defy gravity and skim the clouds; and maybe it was because they were the same size and could read the moves in each other’s eyes. But whatever it was, they danced together in perfect sync. A step, a twirl, slide, side-by-side cross steps, bending down and hand-slapping their knees, then crossing foot over foot, step over step and together again. They were so perfectly even that the crowd fell away, and a few minutes later he flipped her in the air and, God bless him, he caught her.

  For some crazy reason, she couldn’t stop laughing.

  “DOUBLE TROUBLE”

  ACHNACARRY CASTLE, SCOTLAND, 1942

  When the President of the United States asks you to do a favor for him, you don’t say no. Sure you’re aware that your life has changed, because you have a wife now and you’d rather chase her around the house than chase a bunch of enemy soldiers around the front lines. But your country’s at war, so when the President sits in his wheelchair and uses words like “for your country,” you find that your values, your ego, and your sense of patriotism get all mixed up together.

  You think, yeah! Hooyah!

  Then you get the details from your father, a Major General, and his crony, another Major General named Eisenhower, and General Marshall, who all explain to you how valuable you can be as a “candidate” in a combined special forces intelligence experiment. You completely forget that “candidate” is just another word for “volunteer,” which is just another word for “guinea pig”—something you never want to be in the military.

  Then, weeks later, you’re thousands of miles away from your wife, who needs chasing. You’re lying face down in a ravine full of mud—a seventy-pound field pack on your back—after you’ve fallen twenty feet off a log ladder. There’s a captain from the Black Watch, a real son of a bitch who is the commando instructor, standing over you and hollering for you to get your buggering ass up and run fifteen miles . . . again.

  At that moment things are pretty clear. You think back to your choices and you ask yourself . . . do you know how to spell “dumb shit”?

  Not that long ago, some people had called J.R. a wild son of a bitch. He had thought he was, too. But during the past eleven weeks at the Commando Training Depot here in Scotland, he had been with thirty of the wildest sons of bitches anyone would ever think to see.

  There were handfuls of men from the U.S., Canada, Britain, France, Greece, Czechoslovakia, Russia, and Poland. And they were here to learn from the experienced British SAS crack commando units. The ultimate goal: to create small teams of highly trained men for guerrilla hit-and-run action behind enemy lines.

  Together they had slogged through bogs, forded rivers, rappel
led cliffs, and jumped out of planes into pitch blackness. They could survive in the wilds for a lifetime if they wanted, and could swim across a lake, then come out running and march for twenty miles. Every single one of them could derail a train or blow up a bridge with the smallest possible charge.

  But here today during the last week of training, J.R. was racing over the assault course against his teammate, George Inskip, a Brit who was an RAF ace from the Battle of Britain. At stake was twenty pounds, a fifty-year-old bottle of scotch, and a thick steak taken from a box marked for Lord Mountbatten when the supply truck had stopped at the camp mess kitchen that morning.

  J.R. clambered down the roof of a smoking house filled with smudge pots, then hit the ground running with full field pack and weapons. Skip was right beside him when he ran up a twenty-foot ladder of logs, then jumped down into the mud and came up ready to fire. He moved carefully over a slender log bridge. If one of his feet slipped, which had happened twice last week, he would fall into a gully of barbed wire.

  He jumped off the end of the bridge with Inskip only a few lengths behind him. They ran for the final exercise. The men dubbed it the Achnacarry Death Ride. Each man doubled his toggle rope over a fifty-foot cable and swung like Johnny Weismuller across a river of icy water.

  But Tarzan had it easy. He swung through the movie-made jungles, and there weren’t live demolition charges going off under him.

  Inskip had caught up with him. They both flung their toggles over the cable. They both missed. J.R. got it on the second toss, looped the rope, and launched off the cliff.

  “Bye, bye, buddy!” he yelled.

  Skip was barely a second or two behind him.

  J.R. watched the other side of the ravine coming toward him and laughed. Then his hand slipped and he slammed into the ground with a loud grunt.

  Skip landed on his feet and trotted past him. “Tally ho!” Then he turned backward as he ran and waved at him.

  Groaning, J.R. sat up, then rested his hands on his knees as he watched Skip disappear toward the barracks. He shook his head and spelled, “D-u-m-b-s-h-i-t.”