“Thank you. Dismissed.”
Roger headed outside, over the damp airfield, and into his
basha
. He’d planned to hit the sack and take a nap, but now his hands yearned for his drumsticks. He pulled his tom-tom from his barracks bag and his drumsticks from the canvas aviator’s kit bag he’d carried on today’s flights.
He passed his snoring
basha
-mates, resisted the prime prank-pulling opportunity, and went out to the half-shelter he’d rigged under a palm tree for drumming.
Roger sat cross-legged with his tom-tom before him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds of the birds and insects, the breeze through the palms, the rhythm of the land. Then he joined in, softly at first, finding the tune in his head.
Frustration messed up the beat. How could he turn into a by-the-book pilot? Even now, right after promising Veerman he’d try harder, he was drumming instead of filling out today’s forms more completely.
Yeah, he’d never amount to anything. He’d never earn a recommendation to Hank Veerman’s band. He’d play with rinky-dink bands and wash out by the age of forty. Then he’d be back on the farm, begging for mercy, and he’d be sentenced to a lifetime of I-told-you-so.
He thumped the drum hard.
Lord,
how
can
I
bear
it?
“Hallo, Raji.”
Roger opened his eyes. Two boys stood before him, Asad and Kavi. They’d turned his name into a good Indian name, and that meant the world to him. “Hi, guys. Join me?”
“Yes, please, Raji.” Asad squatted beside him. The seven-year-old liked to watch Roger play. The boys spoke excellent English, thanks to the Brits, and seemed to be from a higher class in society.
“I am ready.” Kavi had brought his child-sized
dhol
, a two-headed Indian drum. The nine-year-old wore it slung
over his shoulder on a strap and played it with two sticks, one for each end. He had to stand to play it, but the palm tree would keep him dry.
“All right, Kavi. Give me a beat.”
The boy grinned and pounded the bass end of the drum, nice and quick. Roger joined in, mixing it up, enjoying the interaction with the young drummer. The kid was good, had a natural sense of rhythm, and swayed to the beat.
Wouldn’t it be swell to work with children for a living?
His childhood fantasy popped back into his head—standing in front of a class, bringing math to life, students leaning forward with eyes as bright as Asad’s and Kavi’s.
A stupid fantasy. Teaching required more than a love of children, a love of math, and an ability to make dull things interesting and difficult things comprehensible. Teaching required following rules and routines, doing paperwork. Being reliable.
He wouldn’t even have become a pilot if it weren’t for Lou Davis. Lou’s ridiculously wealthy parents kept funneling money to their prodigal trombone-playing son. To keep busy when the band wasn’t practicing, Lou took classes at the University of Chicago, dragging Roger along for company, paying his way. Somehow Roger built up more than two years of classes, the minimum required by the Army Air Forces for pilot training.
Roger hadn’t even chosen a major.
At least he could drum. Drummers didn’t have to be responsible.
Asad patted his head, and Roger rewarded him with a cymbal tap on the noggin.
How ironic that impressing Hank Veerman’s brother required responsibility.
9
Pomigliano Airfield
April 30, 1944
“He lied to me!”
Kay stared at the open Bible, at the final chapters of Job. Rage shook the words into a blur as gray as the dress Father made her wear at the tent meetings.
She stood, shoved the Bible inside her bedroll on her cot, and ran her hands into her hair.
Sunday morning and all her roommates had gone to church services, because they were good enough to show their faces before the Lord.
Not Kay.
She pressed her palms hard against her forehead.
Father and Mother and Jemima and Keren, all in white, all pure blond, up on the stage singing with angelic voices. Dirty Kezia in gray with her red hair tied in a stark braid, collecting the offering. Father always told the audience his middle daughter was resting her voice, recovering from laryngitis.
“Liar.” Why did it surprise her that he lied about God when he lied about everything else? He even lied when he said, “‘My lips shall not speak wickedness, nor my tongue utter deceit.’”
Kay turned in circles, everything swirling around her—deception, betrayal, self-pity, fury, humiliation, grief.
Who was this God? If he wasn’t who Father said he was, who was he?
She groaned and flung down her hands. Enough of this nonsense. She needed to take action.
A plan formed a solid rock in her chest. She wiggled out of her trousers and into her skirt. Since she couldn’t scream at her father, she’d scream at the chaplain in his place. Oh, she’d be discreet. She’d sit in the back corner at the service, wait for everyone to leave, then unleash the barking hound inside her.
She marched out into the clear cool air. Dizzy and disoriented, she paused. Where did the church meet anyway? The theater building, wasn’t it?
A good girl would know that. She headed down the road. If her father had told her the truth, she might have been good, might have been redeemed before it was too late.
A horn beeped behind her, and she jumped.
“Hiya, baby.” Hal Heathcock waved to her from the driver’s seat of a jeep. “I was looking for you.”
Kay breathed hard and smoothed her hair. Did she look as bad as she felt? “Hi, Hal.”
He tipped his cap. “How about a picnic on the beach?”
“I was . . .” She glanced toward the theater building. She was . . . what? Going to church to yell at the chaplain? They’d pack her off to the neuropsychiatric ward.
“Ah, what could be more important than a relaxing day at the beach?” He draped his arm over the dashboard and sent her his handsome smile.
What would be relaxing about fending him off all day? “I’d—”
“Please, baby?” He batted his blue eyes like an abandoned puppy. “Don’t make me be the third wheel.”
A couple sat in the jeep’s backseat, another American officer with a beautiful Italian woman.
Kay never drove alone with a date and always met her boyfriends in public places. If another couple was present, men generally behaved themselves.
But it was Sunday. She never dated on Sundays, an old fear that God might deem that the final fatal sin.
“Come on.” Hal patted the seat. “I know you’re a fun-loving gal.”
She had no use for silly superstitions. A defiant smile rose. “I am.”
What would the chaplain tell her anyway? He’d tell her more lies. He’d condemn her evil ways. And he certainly wouldn’t answer her questions.
What if someone did? What if Roger Cooper wrote her a letter that told her everything she wanted to know? Would she surrender control to this God?
Never.
Kay climbed into the jeep, sidled up to Hal, and kissed him on the cheek. “To the beach. I need some fun.”
“Now we’re talking, baby.” He turned the jeep and headed down the road toward Naples.
Kay unpinned her cap, tore off her necktie, and flirted recklessly with Hal.
Controlling men was her revenge against her father, breaking his control over her, infuriating him, embracing the badness inside her. What did it matter? Her father rejected her, the Lord rejected her, but men accepted her.
Kay took off Hal’s cap and played with his smooth blond hair. He talked about something or other, and she smiled and laughed and tossed her hair in the wind.
Hal thought he was in charge, but he wasn’t. His interest grew, glinted in his eyes, and careened over the ledge into infatuation. Now she had complete and utter control. He’d
do whatever she wanted, and he’d behave, trying to earn what she’d never give him.
“Here we are.” The officer in the backseat leaned forward and patted Hal’s shoulder. “Stop at the corner. Thanks for the lift.”
“Any time, buddy.” Hal stopped the jeep.
Kay spun around. Her hands lifted and opened, and everything she held slipped away. They were leaving? They were leaving her alone with Hal?
“Where are you . . . ?” The words creaked in her throat. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
The officer—what was his name?—gave her half a grin and helped his girlfriend out of the jeep. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Hal laughed and jerked the gearshift into first. “That wouldn’t be fun for either of us. Bob’s got a private hideaway in town.”
The couple strolled up a cross street, glued to each other’s sides. Bob looked over his shoulder. “See you at six.”
“Six.” Hal waved and drove down the street.
Kay struggled to gather her breath, her bearings. Where were they? Some village, creamy-plastered houses crowded together around a narrow road, like every other village she’d seen. How long had they been on the road? Half an hour? An hour? “Where are we?”
“Almost there, baby. You’ll love it.” One broad hand guided the steering wheel, and the other snaked around her shoulder.
The beach. She blew off her anxiety. What was she worried about? A nice big beach teeming with people. Romantic enough for Hal and public enough for Kay.
Not far past the village, Hal turned onto a road paralleling the rocky coast. He slowed down, scanning the roadside. “Yeah, here we are.” He pulled over and parked.
A gray, slimy feeling oozed around Kay’s stomach. She gazed over the jumble of rocks down to the sea. “I don’t see a beach.”
“You have to climb down the rocks to get there.” Hal got out of the jeep and grabbed blankets and a basket from the backseat. “Should have warned you to wear better shoes.”
The perfect excuse. “I can’t get down there in these high heels.”
“Take them off.”
“I’ll rip my stockings.”
“Take them off.” He set down the basket, covered his eyes, and turned around. “I promise I won’t watch.”
Hmm. A sign of chivalry. “Break that promise and you’re taking me home.”
“Absolutely.”
With her eyes trained on the back of his head, Kay reached under her skirt and unsnapped her stockings from her garter belt.
“Mm.” Hal’s head sagged back. “Sweetest sound in the world.”
“If you turn around, it’ll be the last sound you ever hear.” Kay rolled a stocking down her leg.
“I like girls with spirit.”
And Kay liked fellows who knew better than to mess with girls with spirit. After she stuffed her stockings in her shoes and set them on the seat of the jeep, she stepped out onto the prickly, chilly asphalt. “Lead on.”
He inched forward, hand still pressed over his eyes. “Sorry. You’ll have to lead.”
She laughed. “You can look now.”
“May I? Thank you.” He eyed her from head to bare toes. A smile crept up, and he shook his head. “Mm. Beautiful.”
She waved him forward and grabbed the picnic basket. Hal headed down the rocks, assisting Kay in spots. Her gaze
never strayed from the path. The last thing she needed was to fall and end up in the hospital for a few weeks.
Hal held out his hand and helped her leap down to the sand.
Kay drew a deep salty breath and gazed around. Her breath corroded her throat. They were alone in a grotto about a hundred feet square, hemmed in by rocky cliffs on three sides and the sea on the fourth.
“Isn’t this swell?” Hal spread out the blankets on the sand close to the rocks. “Not a soul in sight. I like to come at high tide. At low tide it opens up, loses its appeal. Nice place to swim when it’s warm.”
The inside of her mouth felt sticky and grainy. Nonsense. Hal might have wandering hands but he wasn’t dangerous. She could fend him off.
“Well?” He gave her a puzzled smile. “Bring the basket. I’m hungry.”
A wave of relief relaxed her, and she joined him. She could stretch out the picnic for an hour or so, then coax him into a scenic walk down the coast road—in full sight of everyone.
Kay set the basket on the blanket. “What do we have here?”
Hal embraced her from behind and nuzzled kisses onto her neck. “One luscious woman, and one hungry man.”
She pried off one arm. “Then we’d better eat lunch.”
“That’s not what I’m hungry for.” He turned her to face him, his eyes glazed, and he covered her mouth with his.
All right, all right, she could handle this. She’d fended off advances for over a decade. She returned his kiss, circling her arms around his waist rather than his neck to block him better. Every time his hands worked too low or too far forward, she edged them back into place.
When he let out a soft moan, she pulled back and gave him a saucy smile. “That was a nice appetizer. Let’s have lunch.”
Hal drew her close again and burrowed in her neck. “Yeah, time for the main course.”
Despite her hammering pulse, she forced a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
He kissed her—insistent, deep, dark with desire. One hand wormed between their bodies and fumbled with the buttons of her service jacket.
“Hal.” She pushed on his chest, but he didn’t budge. With effort, she yanked away his hand, but then his other hand worked on the button at the back of her skirt.
Panic quickened her breath. She planted both hands on his chest and pushed back, breaking his grip. “Stop it! You have the wrong idea about me.”
His bleary eyes took a moment to focus on her. “Wrong idea?”
“Yes.” She straightened her jacket and stood tall. “I don’t know you well enough yet. A man has to be special, has to earn the right.”
“Is that so?” He smiled and moved closer. “Aren’t you cute, playing hard to get?”
“I’m not playing.” She stepped back. Her bare foot banged against a rock, and she stumbled.
Hal caught her in his arms, kissed her even harder. “You don’t have to play, baby. I saw the way you looked at me on the ride down here. I know you want this as much as I do.”
“I don’t.” She struggled in his slithery grasp. How could he make his hands go in so many directions at once? “Take me home.”