Romance in the Rain Page 8

  Her brazen inner voice knew just the thing to shut him up. Mattie stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his ear. “James, have you ever made love in the rain?”

  About the Author

  Charlotte Russell came late to writing, her timing skewed in just about every aspect of her life. But ever since she hit the keyboard in her 30s, she’s not stopped pounding out stories. Charlotte has written three full-length novels and two novellas, all historical romance. When not writing, she volunteers in too many organizations and tends to one husband, three children, and two cats. She can be found at www.authorcharlotterussell.com.

  Final Approach

  By

  Marianne Stillings

  DEDICATION

  In 1942, one year after the United States was thrust into World War II, women pilots from all walks of life—single, married, young, younger, socialites, sufferers and survivors of the Great Depression—were trained and became proficient in flying every type of aircraft the U.S. manufactured. These pioneering women flew under the direction of the U.S. Army—first as the Women’s Flying Training Detachment (WFTD) and the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron (WAFS), and later, when the two organizations merged into the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots (WASP). Twenty-five thousand women applied; only 1,830 were accepted. Of these, just 1,074 passed the training. Between September 1942 and December 1944, these women delivered 12,650 aircraft of seventy-eight different types.

  Thirty-eight lost their lives while serving—eleven in training and twenty-seven on active duty. Because they were considered civilian volunteers and not military, their remains were sent home at their families’ expense without the honors they were due.

  The Army would not even allow the U.S. flag to be placed on their coffins.

  It is to these smart, courageous women who cleared the way for the rest of us to serve America in every manner possible, that I dedicate this simple story of two people—each wounded in their own way—who found love in a time of sorrow, devastation, and loss.

  “This is not a time when women should be patient. We are in a war and we need to fight it with all our ability and every weapon possible. Women pilots… are a weapon waiting to be used.”

  —Eleanor Roosevelt, First Lady of the United States, 1933-1945

  Chapter 1

  WAFS: Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron

  Avenger Field, Sweetwater, Texas, December 1942

  She had him pegged the moment he walked through the door. Too handsome for his own good. Arrogant. Never took no for an answer; never had to. God’s Gift to womankind.

  In other words, a pilot.

  Of course, at Avenger Field, you couldn’t throw a stick without hitting an aviator, but pilots were a breed unto themselves.

  While the wings on his “olive drab” Army Air Force jacket confirmed this, the bars on his lapel identified his rank as captain.

  Charlie Thompson watched as Captain Spiffy cast his steely gaze about the place, examining every female face. Just as his eyes met hers, she looked away, turning her attention to the glass in her hands. Just because she sat alone didn’t mean she was open to advances. In fact, quite the opposite.

  The rhythms of Chattanooga Choo Choo blared from the juke box next to the bar as couples laughed and danced to the lively beat. The place was filled mostly with enlisted guys and local girls and she wondered what Captain Cat’s Meow was doing here. He looked like he’d be strictly O-Club. Maybe he was slumming. Or looking for a soiled dove to ease his… troubles.

  She could’ve gone to the Officer’s Club, too—in or out of uniform—but had chosen to change into civvies and walk off the base to the Lone Star Bar & Grill just outside the gates. It had been one hell of a day and she just wanted to sit quietly by herself and think. She’d hoped to have a heart-to-heart with Edie, but her bosom pal had gone out on a night flying exercise at 1800 hours and probably wouldn’t be back for another couple of hours.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the handsome captain moving across the dance floor toward her. The crowd parted for him as he passed. Gosh damn. The last thing she needed right now was to do battle with another too-too debonair pilot on the make.

  Chattanooga Choo Choo ended and a sultry Dinah Shore began to croon Blues in the Night. The couples on the dance floor quieted and clung to each other as though this would be the last bit of intimacy they’d ever experience. And maybe for some, it would be.

  She blinked the thought away. It was best not to dwell on the downbeat. Being at war was hard enough—mulling over the possible loss of loved ones only made things worse. And when that day did come, nothing you’d ever thought or done would prepare you for the shock, the devastation, the emptiness…

  “Ma’am?” The captain’s voice was deep, pleasant to the ear, and she abruptly became aware of him as an attractive man, and not simply a military officer. While his masculinity and appeal would undoubtedly charm most girls, it made her feel even more desperate to get rid of him.

  She turned her head, looked up at him. Not only was he tall, his shoulders were broad. He looked like a Hollywood leading man who’d just stepped out of a recruiting film. Now that he was closer, she could see his eyes were blue, sharply intelligent. An angry scar slashed its way from his left temple to his cheek, somehow adding to his allure.

  Oh, go away, Captain Slick. Go away and leave me the hell alone.

  He smiled, showing straight white teeth. “Pardon me for intruding—”

  Since she’d arrived at the base, she’d heard every regional dialect the U.S. had to offer. His wasn’t Southern, not Chicago or New York, either. More West Coast. “I’m looking for a girl.”

  She studied him for a moment. Then, in as bored a tone as she could manage, she said, “Congratulations. You found one.”

  He removed his hat… er, cover. As long as she lived, she’d never get used to military jargon where a hat was not a hat. Well, she didn’t make the rules, she just had to memorize them—as though there weren’t enough important things to have to commit to memory, let alone what to call a hat.

  However, she hadn’t joined the WAFS for the love of language, but for the language of love. For the love of freedom; for the love of flying; for the love of…

  She mentally swept the next thought aside. The thought, and her grief.

  Running his fingers through his short dark hair, the captain tilted his head as though trying to give her the impression he was nervous or shy. “I mean I’m looking for a particular girl.” His “aw shucks” grin widened and she wanted to roll her eyes at the obvious affectation.

  She took another sip of her brandy. “People say I’m particular.” She shrugged and gave him a flat smile. “Or maybe they mean peculiar.”

  He seemed a little flustered by her tepid response, but recovered quickly. “I was told I might find Lt. Charlene Thompson here. Would that be you?”

  An Army Air Corps captain had left the base and come to the Lone Star expressly to find her?

  This could not be good. Tossing back the last of her brandy, she set the empty glass on the table, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight trembling of her hand. “I’m Charlie Thompson.”

  Even though she’d had two brandies, she wasn’t drunk. A little loose maybe, a little more relaxed than normal, more inclined to give this guy—this officer—some lip, but she was definitely not intoxicated. She didn’t believe in overly imbibing. Her strict Catholic parents had frowned on excesses, so two helpings of anything—from brandies to bon-bons—was her limit. Besides, she needed to stay sober. A hangover could mean her death, or the death of someone else.

  She looked up at him, arching a brow, silently waiting for him to continue.

  He stared into her eyes for a long time, almost daring her to blink first.

  She didn’t.

  Neither did he.

  Finally, he said, “I’m Captain Caldwell. Your new TO. Sorry to intrude while you’re on liberty, but I just arrived on base this aftern
oon, and haven’t had a chance to acquaint myself with anyone yet except staff.”

  All of Avenger Field knew they were expecting a replacement Training Officer, but if he’d only arrived a few hours ago, why on earth would one of his first acts be to seek her out?

  Forcing her hand to remain steady, she raised her empty glass in a mock toast. “Howdy. Welcome to Sweetwater, Texas.” She cleared her throat. “Sir.”

  Maybe she was drunk after all. Under ordinary circumstances, she’d never be so flip with anybody, let alone a superior officer—except she was a civilian, not in uniform, and off duty. But Captain Caldwell’s presence annoyed and alarmed her—sort of like a mosquito buzzing around your head, warning it was about to dig in and make a feast of your blood.

  Ignoring her sarcasm, Caldwell said, “May I join you?”

  Her first impulse was to say no, but there was something…

  A feeling of deep dread had begun winding through her body the moment he’d approached her table. And it had only gotten worse. Now she not only felt cold, she felt afraid.

  Gesturing to the chair across from her, she said, “Of course. Sir.”

  She remained silent as he pulled the chair out and sat down.

  Placing his hat, er, cover, on the table, he averted his eyes and seemed to be considering what to say next. Finally, “Perhaps we could go someplace more private?”

  She shook her head. “Whatever you have to say, you can say right here, right now.” She rested her hands in her lap to try and stop them from trembling, but her feeling of dread increased with every heartbeat. She had the sudden urge to cover her ears. Part of her suspected what he was going to say—and all of her did not want to hear it.

  “Okay,” he began. “I was given to understand you are close friends with Lt. Edith O’Day. She’s your roommate?”

  Charlie felt icy panic wash over her like a North Atlantic tide. Her stomach tightened, making her queasy. Unable to speak, she only nodded.

  “That being the case…” Clasping his elegantly masculine hands in front of him on the table, Captain Caldwell said quietly, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  2 December 1942

  Dear Mother and Dad,

  First of all, let me tell you right off the bat that I’m okay. I am in excellent health and my training qualifies me not only to ferry airplanes, but also to provide instruction to others. Having had so much flying experience before I joined the WAFS, I found the program to be fascinating and exciting, making me more pleased than ever to be able to serve my country in this time of war. All of us here feel the same way—while girls cannot participate in combat, we can ferry aircraft from base to base, thus freeing up the men to enter the campaigns in Europe and the South Pacific. We feel we have a real purpose and as a result, derive a great deal of satisfaction and a sense of pride.

  I realize it’s been too long since my last letter, but I must tell you that by end of day, we are all so tired, we can barely stay awake long enough to eat, let alone write letters home. In addition to our daily routine, we have night flying exercises, too. When we do get liberty, we sleep, and how! But please keep in mind that if you don’t hear from me on a regular basis, you are ever in my thoughts and prayers, and that in times of war, “no news is good news” as they say.

  After assuring you I am safe and well, I must also impart some sad news. You will remember my friend, Edie O’Day. She and I were at college together and took flying lessons at the same time. Both of us were on Oahu on that dreadful day a year ago, the “day that will live in infamy” as Mr. Roosevelt so eloquently termed it. As well you know, that day is forever etched on my heart—the horrific surprise of it, the morning of blood and death—for America, and for my darling Johnny.

  I would have shattered, then and there, if not for Edie’s kind support and love—more like a sister to me than a mere chum. And because Edie buoyed me up through those troubling days, I need to do something for her in return.

  Which leads me to the sad news: Edie went out on a night flying maneuver yesterday, and died. They found her P-47 Thunderbolt on the desert several miles away from the base, its engine still running. The aircraft was intact as though Edie had landed it and then simply died. She’d not radioed the tower of any trouble, so the details of the “crash” are yet to be discovered.

  Edie was as experienced a pilot as I am, therefore I cannot believe the tragedy was brought about by some misstep on her part. An investigation into the cause of the crash will begin tomorrow after the plane is brought back to Avenger.

  We have a new Training Officer, one Capt. Joseph Caldwell… I’m sure many of the gals here will find him good looking and quite the catch, but I am immune to such nonsense. Although he broke the news to me of Edie’s death in as compassionate a way as possible, I find myself suspicious of his leadership skills. Our last TO was of the 90-Day Wonder variety, and I assume this Caldwell is the same. Why else would the Army stick him on an airbase in the Texas desert instead of commanding a squadron bombing Germany? As the saying goes: Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach. I’d be surprised if this didn’t apply to our snooty Capt. Caldwell.

  As for dearest Edie, apparently, because WAFS are “civilians” and not actually part of the Army Air Corps, the military won’t claim responsibility for her final expenses in the way they would for male pilots who’ve lost their lives in the line of duty. As a result of the WAFS’ “unofficial” status, I’m not sure who is responsible for notifying Edie’s family. As her longtime friend and sister pilot, I feel compelled to compose a note to her parents expressing my deepest sympathy, and another to her fiancé, a boy currently fighting in Europe somewhere—though I cannot imagine how or when he might receive it.

  I promise to write again soon, and most especially when the circumstances surrounding this tragedy are known.

  Yours with love,

  Charlie

  P.S. My love to Gran and the family. And please remember to have the vet check Clipper as Black Labs seem to be prone to ear infections. C.

  Chapter 2

  AAC: Army Air Corps

  Staff Sergeant Frankie Franklin stood in the doorway, saluted. “Sorry to bother youse, Cap’n Caldwell

  Joe looked up from the report he was completing, relieved the staff sergeant hadn’t discovered his carefully guarded handicap. Alone, he often found it easier to read if he cupped his hand over his ruined left eye. The shrapnel had done a near perfect job. Though not completely blinded, using the eye was like trying to see through a grimy window pane on a foggy night. It made reading frustrating. Hell, it made everything frustrating.

  Though the scar couldn’t be disguised, anyone seeing him would never guess the wound had damaged his optic nerve, leaving his left eye virtually sightless. Even so, it might have been better just to have lost the damn thing altogether. The doc had suggested he wear an eye patch; it had worked for Wiley Post, but Joe felt it would be distracting, create too much melodrama, or worse, cast him as the afflicted yet stalwart hero. Why invite the pity of strangers? At the very least, an eye patch would announce to the world that he wasn’t whole anymore.

  The worst of it was, he was grounded. Sure, in 1933, and despite being blind in one eye, Wiley Post had received a tickertape parade in New York City after becoming the first American to fly solo around the world. But that was then, when the world was at peace. Now, there was war everywhere. No tickertape parades for Army pilots who’d lost an eye during the Doolittle Raid over Japan. Instead, the Army Air Corps had taken his ass out of the pilot’s seat and plopped it behind a frigging desk.

  Joe set his pen down. “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “It’s as regards Lt. Thompson, sir.” Franklin pursed his lips and seemed to be considering possible word choices. Finally, “Sez she needs to speak wit youse.”

  Though his facial expression hadn’t changed, Franklin’s voice held an undertone of sarcasm. The man was bursting with some tightly held opinion, and Joe wanted to know what it wa
s.

  Like so many others, Joe had left his civilian life behind to join up the day after Pearl Harbor, putting his love of flying to good use in the AAC. But Staff Sergeant Franklin was career Army, and it showed. Though Joe had only worked with the man for a mere handful of hours, it was clear that Franklin was outspoken and brash, which was probably why he’d been in the Army for fifteen years and hadn’t been promoted past his present rank—and probably never would be.

  “Something on your mind, Sergeant?” Smiling, Joe stood.

  The sergeant shrugged, and for a moment, it seemed as though he wasn’t going to rise to the bait. Then, “Well, it’s just that, you’re new here, sir. And you otta to be made awares…” He let his voice trail off. He blinked rapidly as he glanced between the wall behind Joe and the floor. Then, with the arch of a thick brow and a just-between-us-guys glint in his brown eyes, out of the side of his mouth, he murmured, “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “By all means.”

  The sergeant’s shoulders relaxed a little and he leaned forward as though he were about to impart the location of Hitler’s secret bunker. “Well, I mean, it was bound ta happen, dat’s all I wanted ta say.”

  Joe played dumb. “What was bound to happen?”

  “The crash.” Franklin shrugged, stuck out his lower lip. “Broads is good for some things, and, eh, not so good for others. If you get my meanin’, Cap’n.”

  “I believe I do.” Joe widened his grin. “Keep ’em barefoot and pregnant, eh, Sergeant?”

  Franklin nodded enthusiastically. “You got it, sir. Nail on the head!” Now comfortable he was in the company of a fellow sympathizer, Franklin warmed to his subject. “Yeah, this idea of dames flyin’ espensive and complexated aircrafts all over the hell, well, you know, Cap’n, it was just a matter of time before one of ‘em would screw up and eat the ground. I mean, I’m sorry it happened and all, but some of the men been sayin’ it ain’t right, you know, them girls comin’ along, takin’ away the jobs the guys otta be doin’. I love my ol’ lady and can she cook up a storm, see. You bet.” He shrugged again. “She can do things with Spam that would make yer eyes tear up just thinkin’ ‘bout it.”