Read Online A Memory Between Us by Sarah Sundin - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Sundin
Tags: Romance
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failed?”
Charlie chuckled. “Never. That’s why I put up with you even when you do arrogant things like flying a B-17 under the Golden Gate Bridge.”
Jack grinned. “That was swell.”
“There they are,” someone on the balcony cried. “One, two, three.”
Jack lifted his binoculars. “Four, five, six.” The flight passed on the downwind leg of the approach, parallel to the runway. They’d taken damage. One Fort had a hole blasted through the vertical stabilizer.
“Hey, they shot up our ‘square A ,’” Charlie said. Earlier that month, letters were painted on the tail fins as group identification, and the 94th sported a blue A on a white square. It boosted unit pride and helped distract the men from the loss of twenty-four planes, half the original crews, and several replacement crews.
“Seven, eight, nine.”
The first flight completed the base leg and the final approach, and landed at spaced intervals.
“Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.”
Jack frowned at the holes in the formation. Twenty Flying Fortresses had left Bury St. Edmunds at dawn to bomb a synthetic rubber factory in Hannover. How many had they lost?
“Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.”
Jack could hardly hear the count over the throb of engines, the screech of brakes, and the roar of propwash.
“Seventeen.” Two red flares sprang from the plane to signal wounded on board.
“Oh boy.” Jack knew what that was like.
The scene before him would look like chaos to the uninitiated eye—planes taxiing to their hardstands, pilots completing postflight checks with ground crews, trucks ferrying flight crews to the briefing room, ambulances racing. But all moved with precision and purpose, a symphony, but bigger, better, and with high stakes. To be part of the production was exciting, to know how it ran heightened the thrill, but to be the conductor—the thought made the adrenaline tingle warm in Jack’s veins.
“We’d better get to the briefing room, find out how it went,” he said.
Charlie peered through his binoculars. “Still three out.”
“We’ll get the word.” Jack nudged him in the arm. “Come on. Coffee’s waiting.”
They trotted down the outside stairs, grabbed their bikes, and pedaled down the road that stuck the tower like a lollipop into the middle of the action. Jack pushed hard. Stretching the scar tissue, working the weak muscles, and pumping his heart felt good, even with prickles of pain as if slivers of shrapnel had defied the surgeon and the X-rays.
On the perimeter track, a crowd surrounded a B-17, and two olive drab ambulances parked by the rear fuselage door. Jack and Charlie stopped and planted their feet. A forest of hands lifted to help out a man with a bandaged thigh. Jack hoped it was just a flesh wound. He hated to see another man suffer amputation as Walt had. Mom’s last letter said his younger brother was ill-humored, and he had to be a real grouch for her to say that.
Jack squinted at the shot-up Fort. Dad actually took pride in Jack for supporting Walt when he got the bad news, but Dad hadn’t heard Jack fumble and waste all that mindnumbing seminary training.
A medic jumped out of the B-17, turned, and grasped a bloodied officer under the shoulders. The pilot, according to the crowd’s murmurs. Another medic followed, supporting the man’s feet.
Silence fell. Caps came off. Some of the men crossed themselves or muttered prayers. Jack’s chest tightened, and he and Charlie exchanged a look and took off their hats. The medics laid the man on a gurney and pulled up a blanket. All the way.
The nose of the plane read Dorothy Ann and showed a pretty brunette in a yellow bathing suit. Somewhere in the States, a Dorothy Ann would receive a telegram in the next few days. Jack sighed as a warm breeze played with his hair, oblivious to the tragedy.
On the side of the fuselage, just forward of the Army Air Force’s white star on a blue disk, gray letters read TS, the code for Jack’s
Charlie chuckled. “Never. That’s why I put up with you even when you do arrogant things like flying a B-17 under the Golden Gate Bridge.”
Jack grinned. “That was swell.”
“There they are,” someone on the balcony cried. “One, two, three.”
Jack lifted his binoculars. “Four, five, six.” The flight passed on the downwind leg of the approach, parallel to the runway. They’d taken damage. One Fort had a hole blasted through the vertical stabilizer.
“Hey, they shot up our ‘square A ,’” Charlie said. Earlier that month, letters were painted on the tail fins as group identification, and the 94th sported a blue A on a white square. It boosted unit pride and helped distract the men from the loss of twenty-four planes, half the original crews, and several replacement crews.
“Seven, eight, nine.”
The first flight completed the base leg and the final approach, and landed at spaced intervals.
“Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.”
Jack frowned at the holes in the formation. Twenty Flying Fortresses had left Bury St. Edmunds at dawn to bomb a synthetic rubber factory in Hannover. How many had they lost?
“Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.”
Jack could hardly hear the count over the throb of engines, the screech of brakes, and the roar of propwash.
“Seventeen.” Two red flares sprang from the plane to signal wounded on board.
“Oh boy.” Jack knew what that was like.
The scene before him would look like chaos to the uninitiated eye—planes taxiing to their hardstands, pilots completing postflight checks with ground crews, trucks ferrying flight crews to the briefing room, ambulances racing. But all moved with precision and purpose, a symphony, but bigger, better, and with high stakes. To be part of the production was exciting, to know how it ran heightened the thrill, but to be the conductor—the thought made the adrenaline tingle warm in Jack’s veins.
“We’d better get to the briefing room, find out how it went,” he said.
Charlie peered through his binoculars. “Still three out.”
“We’ll get the word.” Jack nudged him in the arm. “Come on. Coffee’s waiting.”
They trotted down the outside stairs, grabbed their bikes, and pedaled down the road that stuck the tower like a lollipop into the middle of the action. Jack pushed hard. Stretching the scar tissue, working the weak muscles, and pumping his heart felt good, even with prickles of pain as if slivers of shrapnel had defied the surgeon and the X-rays.
On the perimeter track, a crowd surrounded a B-17, and two olive drab ambulances parked by the rear fuselage door. Jack and Charlie stopped and planted their feet. A forest of hands lifted to help out a man with a bandaged thigh. Jack hoped it was just a flesh wound. He hated to see another man suffer amputation as Walt had. Mom’s last letter said his younger brother was ill-humored, and he had to be a real grouch for her to say that.
Jack squinted at the shot-up Fort. Dad actually took pride in Jack for supporting Walt when he got the bad news, but Dad hadn’t heard Jack fumble and waste all that mindnumbing seminary training.
A medic jumped out of the B-17, turned, and grasped a bloodied officer under the shoulders. The pilot, according to the crowd’s murmurs. Another medic followed, supporting the man’s feet.
Silence fell. Caps came off. Some of the men crossed themselves or muttered prayers. Jack’s chest tightened, and he and Charlie exchanged a look and took off their hats. The medics laid the man on a gurney and pulled up a blanket. All the way.
The nose of the plane read Dorothy Ann and showed a pretty brunette in a yellow bathing suit. Somewhere in the States, a Dorothy Ann would receive a telegram in the next few days. Jack sighed as a warm breeze played with his hair, oblivious to the tragedy.
On the side of the fuselage, just forward of the Army Air Force’s white star on a blue disk, gray letters read TS, the code for Jack’s
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