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Dreams In The Distance

By Nan Rinella

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PROLOGUE

A Noble Brother

My armor is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears,
the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death! Smaug, the dragon
The Hobbit, J. R. R. Tolkien

1940
7 September, 4:30 p.m.
Tower Bridge spanning the River Thames, London

A loud wail split the air.
Suddenly, Lily’s delight in seeing the Crown Jewels and the Tower of London turned to fright. She glanced up at Phila’s brother.
“Air raid siren.” Hugh Claiborne scanned the sky. “That’s just ace! I’m playing nanny to two little girls and the Luftwaffe is bombing the docks again. Why couldn’t I have been back at university?” He looked down at the eight-year-olds, then smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Let’s make a dash for the Tube station, just to play it safe.” He grasped their hands.
Blood-curdling shrieks whistled around them.
“Hughie!” Phila screamed. “Dragons!”
Thunder boomed behind them, again and again, seizing Lily with panic.
Hugh howled. “The docks my eye; the target is us!” He yanked her arm.
Phila screeched. “Hughie, I can’t keep up!”
He picked up his sister with one arm, dragging Lily with the other.
A huge boom burst around them sending hot pebbles raining down. An ear-piercing whine shot terror through her.
“The dragons are coming to eat you, little girl!”
Hugh shoved Lily and Phila down and dived on top of them as a dragon roared by shaking the sidewalk, stinging their ears. Lily’s hands and knees hurt; Hugh’s body pressed her into the cement, so she could hardly breathe. The dragon’s hot breath burned.
After what seemed forever a small hand gripped hers, pulling her out from under Hugh. Phila hugged her. Shaking in the still darkness, they fretted: Will the dragons come back?
Lily couldn’t see anything for the thick, pinkish smoke. It was hot and hard to breathe. Her eyes burned. Both children coughed and sneezed. Together they turned Hugh over. He didn’t move. They felt his face. His eyes were closed, and his forehead and hair gooey wet. She froze with fear.
“He’s dead. You’re all alone.”
Strangers bumped into them. “Help!” Lily yelled, but she couldn’t hear herself. “Dear Jesus, help us please!”
The earth shook again and again, but she couldn’t hear anything. Thick smoke swirled around them, showering them with hot dust. She clung to Phila as they huddled over Hugh.
A big hand gripped Lily’s shoulder. “I’ll help you.” The voice comforted her.
The huge shadow man lifted Hugh, telling the girls to hold onto his jacket and follow close.
Just as his coattails led them to the station entrance, everything went whoosh like being caught in a crashing wave at the seaside. Only instead of rushing water, the burning breath of the dragon pushed Lily down the stairs. She bumped into the big man. Arms thrust her down as something flew in from above.
Panting and shivering, Lily gaped at ghostlike creatures squeezed together against the walls of the tunnel. Two white ghosts made room for them. The man carried Phila over and set her down, then went back for Hugh.
Wide-eyed, Phil babbled swinging her hand back and forth and making motions like when they played charades. Her hand flew back and—flew! “It was you who flew in.” She pointed to Phila, who nodded. Oh, my goodness! They couldn’t hear each other.
The girls huddled together in the eerie silence. Lily felt the floor shake over and over, but still no sound. The man began singing hymns. Comforted, she relaxed some.
After ever so long, the shaking stopped, and the trains started running again. The man, toting Hugh, helped them on and off cars all the way to Victoria Station.
Coming up from the Tube, they took deep breaths of fresh air. Lily saw a red glow far away and billowing pink smoke. Her eyes smarted. The white stuff covered everyone except the big man. He carried Hugh to the Claiborne’s flat. At their knock, the door opened.
“Mummy!” Lily ran into her arms, then Father’s. Poor Phila, her father was at sea. But her Uncle Rayner carried Hugh inside. Phila’s mum hugged her daughter.
Even in front of the roaring fire and after cups of honeyed tea, both girls still shivered. Mum had just finished tending to their cuts and bruises when her head jerked up. Her lips mouthed “air raid siren” as she pointed to the ceiling . Fear knifed through Lily.
“The dragons are coming back to get you.”
Grabbing their hands, Mum hurried them downstairs where they joined others dashing for the shelters. Lily and Phila clung to their mums through the long night, huddled together with Lily’s little brother, Stevie, and a couple of servants. Father had gone with Phila’s uncle and his chauffeur to take Hugh to hospital.
A year earlier, when Father explained that England had declared war on Germany, Lily couldn’t understand what that meant. Now she knew. Dragons are real.
Sirens. Big booms. Hot rain falling. Fires. Every night. Frightened all the time, she wouldn’t leave her mum’s side at home or in the shelters. When she slept, she often woke crying from wretched dreams of fire-breathing dragons.
Phila’s Uncle Ray was an earl with a country house in Oxfordshire. After a week of bombing, he had sent his chauffeur to collect Lily, her mum, and little Stevie to drive them to Rivenwood, along with the Countess, Phila, and her mum. The Earl, Father, and Phila’s young Aunt Audrey remained in London. An ambulance delivered Hugh along with a nursing sister to care for him. He hadn’t woken since being hurt.

19 October
Rivenwood on Thame, Oxfordshire

Lily sat with Hugh. Phila was in the toilet.
Lily closed her eyes. “Please, Jesus, bring Hugh back to us.”
“Lily?”
“Yes, Lord? Here I am.” Just like Samuel in the Bible. God’s talking to me. She got all tingly.
“Lily?” But wouldn’t God’s voice be stronger? She peeked.
“Lily.” Hugh’s eyes were open.
“Hughie.”
He looked around. “Phila?”
“We’re fine. You saved our lives. You’re a hero, Hughie.”
“I am?” He grinned.
“Thank heaven, you’ve come back.”
“From where?”
“Oh, Hughie, you’ve been un-con-scious.” She pronounced the last word carefully. “We’ve been so worried.”
“Where are we?”
“At Rivenwood. The Germans are bombing London . . . every night.”
“What day is it?” Hugh raised up. Turning pale, he fell back on the pillow.
“The nineteenth of October.”
“That’s got to be—”
“Six whole weeks.”
He blinked and looked like he would be ill.
Phila burst into the room. “Who are you talking to?”
“Hugh.”
“Hughie!”
The nursing sister rushed in and hustled the girls off.

20 October
Phila knocked on Hugh’s door, then peeked in. “Can we see Hughie now?”
Mum pushed a lock of hair off his forehead.
“Mum, I’m not a little boy anymore. Please, I’m eighteen!” Hugh sat in an overstuffed chair, looking pasty and ever so thin, with his long legs stretched out on an ottoman.
“Sorry, darling, but you’ll always be my boy.” Her eyes glistened. “Your father is going to be so proud. Although, he will be upset with me for allowing you three to go to the Tower. But then, how were we to know that was the very moment the Germans would begin this ghastly bombing?”
Mum stepped away as the two girls drew up chairs on either side of Hugh.
“OK, ladies, tell me what happened.”
“Flying dragons.” Lily shuddered. “Breathing fire and brimstone. We couldn’t see or hear anything.”
Phila shrunk back as Guilt lashed out at her again. “It’s all your fault Hugh was hurt.”
Tears crowded her eyes. “I thought I’d killed you.”
He opened his arms and she fell into them.
“Now, now, lovey, it’s OK. Here I am alive in the flesh.” He held her tight as she pulled herself together, sniffing.
Phila gazed up into his face. “I insisted on taking Lily to see the Crown Jewels and Mum made you take us. And then, I had to stop for lemon squashes by the Tower Bridge.” She had cried herself to sleep nearly every night since, trying to stuff her fists in her ears to stop the frightful voices yammering at her.
“Water under the bridge.” He ruffled her hair. “Did you hear that? I made a pun.”
Phila managed a weak smile.
“Yes, darling,” Mum peeled her from Hugh, hugging her, “you must stop berating yourself. Let’s just thank God you all are fine.”
“Your face was a gooey mess,” said Lily.
“Do I look bad?”
Lily shook her head. “Not anymore. You’re as pretty as ever, Hughie.”
He felt the scar on his forehead and grinned.
Hugh’s not upset?
Lily tittered. “I asked Jesus to help us, and he sent an angel—He carried you and took us home. And then he—”
“Just disappeared. Poof!”
“Dragons and an angel, really Petunia?” He’d given her that nickname at her birth because of her red and wrinkly appearance—like the flower. Later their mum shortened it to Pet.
“Honest!” Lily bobbed her head. “And he caught Phil when she flew down into the station.”
“Really Mum, you shouldn’t let the girls take pretending this far.”
“No Hugh, it’s true. Apparently, the blast blew Pet in. The doctor at hospital said it was possible.”
“See Hughie, I did fly. So there.”
“What did this man look like?”
Phila beamed. “A giant!”
“And he sang hymns to us.” Lily’s eyes danced. “We had to sit on the floor in the Underground for—”
“Hours and hours waiting for the trains to run again.”
“So many people. We were all stuffed together like sardines and—”
“It was so still, really eerie.”
“But you could hear the man singing?” He cocked an eyebrow.
“Because he was an angel, Hughie Louie!” Phila glared at him. “And, for your information, all of us were covered in this horrid ash, but he wasn’t.”
“Clean as a whistle.” Lily folded her arms.
Hugh raised both eyebrows in disbelief as the sister entered, to shoo the girls away, again.

Later that evening
Hugh returned the hand mirror to Mum, grinning. He could hardly wait to get back to Cambridge. His mates would be so impressed with his scar.
After a quick knock, Phila tripped ahead of Lily, waving a book at Hugh. “Will you read The Hobbit now that you have time?”
“I won’t be bored enough to read a children’s story.”
“Darling, I think you would find Dr. Tolkien’s story has merit for adults.” Mum gave him the look.
Hugh groused. “Fantasy. Dragons and angels?”
“There aren’t angels in the book.” Phila glowered.
“Dragons?”
“Of course.”
Mum narrowed her eyes, frowning. She had explained how the girls were so terrified of the bombing that the only way they could fathom it was to liken it to being attacked by dragons.
A wave of guilt washed over him, but only for a moment.
OK, the girls were traumatized and not recalling correctly. “Surely, Mum, the man was only a good Samaritan.”
She shrugged her shoulders, a cockeyed expression on her face. “Darling, what can I say? Rayner opened the door, you fell into his arms, and Pet and Lily rushed in. Neither your uncle, Lily’s mother and father, nor I saw a man or an angel. I accept their story.”
“You’re not buying this, are you?”
Hugh stared at her.
Skepticism jeered. “Of course, your mum would believe it was an angel.”
He must have a quizzical expression on his face. “Hugh, we do entertain angels unaware. The girls couldn’t hear us, and the next day at hospital the doctor said they were suffering from blast-induced hearing loss. It was days before they could hear normally.”
Phila and Lily bobbed their heads, grinning.
“You’re not going to win the argument against this lot.”
“What about me?”
“That is another curious tale and miraculous, as well.” Mum’s eyes sparkled. “The next morning Jignesh related what a frightening time they had driving you to hospital. The streets were chaotic with the blackout and all the emergency vehicles screaming past. He said a policeman hopped on the car’s fender, making sure they arrived safe.”
Hugh chuckled, picturing his uncle’s old Indian chauffeur telling the story.
“But, was it a real bobby?” Phila’s expression dared him, “or another angel?”
Lily’s face paled. “We were so scared you would die.”
Close call, huh? “Didn’t Uncle Ray tell the doctor he was the Earl of Wembley, and his nephew could not die before getting the chance to join the Navy and fight and that his father was commanding a destroyer defending the merchant ships in the Atlantic?”
“Oh, darling. Ray was splendid. It gives your father such peace to know he’s looking after us. When I heard on the wireless about the bombing, I rang him, and he came straight away. We had no idea where you were, but I knew you would bring the girls home.”
“Apparently, they brought me home with the help of an angel.” He winked. “Now what about this bombing, Mum?”
Phila burst forth. “They’re calling the seventh of September ‘Black Saturday,’ and the bombing in London ‘the Blitz.’” She jutted out her chin. “That’s for the German blitzkrieg, which means ‘lightning war.’”
“Yes, Londoners are sending their children to the country.”
Phila wrinkled her nose. “It’s been forty-seven straight nights.”
Hugh frowned. “Will the Navy have told the men at sea?” Dad would be concerned.
“I imagine so, darling.”
“You haven’t sent word of our . . . misadventure, have you?”
“No, I saw no reason to add to his burdens.”
“Good.” Phewww.


21 October
Hugh sat staring out the window, trying to make sense of the sketchy impressions teasing his memory. Dreams? Had he imagined Dad giving him a scrubbing for deserting his command of watching after the girls. What about seeing Zeus again?
He dropped his arm to scratch behind Neptune’s ears. The black lab licked his hand. “I think I got to say goodbye to your sire, boy.” Zeus had died while he’d been at university.
The girls trooped in.
“Now that I’ve saved your lives for some grand future, ladies, what are you going to do with them?”
Lily beamed. “I’m going to make gorgeous gowns for noble ladies.”
“And I’m going to write books and go to Oxford.”
“To the other place, Petunia? Why?”
“Because you’re going to Cambridge.”

ii

A Scottish Lad

Be sure it is not for nothing that the Landlord has knit our hearts so closely to time and place—to one friend rather than another and one shire more than all the land.
The Pilgrim’s Regress, C. S. Lewis

1942
23 October
North Africa, northwest of Cairo, Egyptian railway halt of El Alamein

“Ye know the trouble with you, Private Ogilvie, is that ye make such a conspicuous target.” Master Sergeant MacWhirter looked up at the six-foot, six-inch recruit. “Laddie, keep your head down and your helmet on covering that red thatch of yours. Ye’re only eighteen, and I’d really hate to lose ye in your first battle.”
The soldiers standing around Ogilvie guffawed. “Leuk, his lugs are red.”
Blast me big ears. Ollie could never hide embarrassment, which in turn would launch a tirade from Ridicule.
“But, that’s the plan, dochtless daenaguid. Charge bravely forward. Die heroically. Make your father proud after all your rebellion. Make your life count for something.”
More often than he could recall, Fergus had called him a worthless ne’er-do-well. Would his brither regret how badly he had treated him? Mam would miss him and Da. Too late to think of that now.
When Ollie couldn’t stomach his brother’s verbal abuse any longer, while Da was in London, he abandoned Arbroath and headed for the Highlands and his mother’s clan. He and his cousin, Sandy, also seventeen, joined the Seaforth Highlanders to fight the Germans. They trained and remained in Scotland for a year on the northeast coast as defense for a potential German invasion that thankfully never came.
Whenever Ollie got bored, trouble beckoned, pestering his brain. But the sarge kept a tight rope on his new charges They respected him and held him in awe.
The recruits had heard of the devastating defeat and subsequent surrender the 152nd Brigade in France in June 1940; how over 10,000 soldiers were taken prisoner by the Germans and marched through Belgium to Poland, sometimes loaded into canal barges or in cattle wagons on trains; how there were some remarkable escapes early on; and how, of the 290 who made it back to Britain by summer 1941, 134 were infantrymen of the 51st Highland Division—one of which was Sergeant Duncan MacWhirter.
# # #
The first battle of El Alamein in July 1942 had been considered a draw. Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery intended to be victorious in the second battle over the Germans and Italians.
“You have the honor to be part of the new 51st.” Sarge had looked each man in the eyes. “I did not escape to ever surrender again to the Germans. We will avenge our lads, then bring them home.” They had landed in North Africa in August just in time to join the battle.
# # #
For five and a half hours, British guns shelled the German and Italian lines. Then the infantry advanced, picking their way through the anti-tank minefields. Sarge had told them that men were too light to set off the mines.
“Maybe for these smaller lads, but a giant like you?”
The taunt threatened to invade Ollie’s bravado.
Then when the tanks advanced, they stirred up so much sand and dirt the infantrymen couldn’t see at all. Why did he expect there would be order like in training? Instead chaos. Tanks bogging down and running into each other. Ollie lost track of his mates.
Just after dawn, huge explosions erupted all around him, shooting sand spiraling like geysers. He hit the ground, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. Smoke swirled around him. His eyes burned. He rubbed them, peering ahead at vague shapes. Panzers. He froze; fear tearing at his gut.
“Afraid to die, coward?”
“Scairt?”
Aye. He glanced around to see who said that. But only a wee chap in a kilt and bonnet stood there.
“I reckon ye’ll finally be tastin’ fear. Gude.”
Ollie blinked. “Ye better git doon. Noo, ye’ll be tellin’ me who ye are?”
“A messenger.”
“From whom?”
“The Awmichtie.”
“Almighty God?”
“Aye.”
“You’re seeing things. Ignore him.”
More artillery exploded around them, raining down sand. “Ye better git doon, anyway.”
“Na need, laddie. You, on the t’ither hand, are in grave danger.”
“Tell me somethun I dinna ken.”
“Ye need to ken ye’re in danger of losin’ your immortal soul, laddie.”
“Ye’ll be tellin’ me I’m gaun to be dyin’, noo?”
“Let’s juist say if ye du, ye’ll be lost.”
“Dinna go throwin’ me brither’s God-talk at me.”
“Nay, your brither is no a gude example of a godly mon. But ye’ll be considerin’ your fither to be one, aye?”
“Aye, he be that.”
“Weel then, will ye be thinkin’ he wants his mac destined tae perdition?”
“Nay. Da wadna.”
“Nay, he most certainly doesna! He’ll be on his knees a prayin’ at this verra moment frae you, laddie.”
“An’ how du ye ken?”
“I’ve always thocht you to be a bricht lad, but . . . the Awmichtie sent me to tell ye to make your choice.”
“What choice?”
Doubt niggled. “You’ve been hit in the head and are imagining this.”
“To be choosin’ right noo to be a child of our heivenly Fither instead of the child of the devil ye hae been.”
More explosions, kicking up sand. Ollie saw a soldier thrown in the air, dropping right in front of him.
“Ogilvie, what’s wrong wi’ ye? Git movin’!” His mates moved on ahead.
“Weel, laddie?”
I’m gaun to die. “OK. I choose God.” He grabbed his rifle and followed the others.
“Och, laddie! This glorious death wish of yours? It’s a lie frae the enemy. Ye really want to be stabbin’ your fither through his heart?”

First week in November
Much to his surprise, Ollie was still alive, a seasoned warrior, and the casualties had been enormous. They continued to clash with Panzer units.

8 November
51st Division Medical Operations, Marina El Alamein
Ollie came to in pain. If I’m hurting, I’m no dead.
“Private Ogilvie?” A gentle voice broke through the fog. Ollie opened his eyes to soft brown hair framing a smiling face and deep brown eyes that bathed him in comfort.
“You’re awake. Welcome back, Private.”
Ollie pushed his arms down to raise up, but stabs of pain shot through his chest, shoulder, and hand, forcing him back down.
“No, don’t try to move, Private, you’ll start bleeding again. You were hit in the chest and arm. It’s a blessing that the shrapnel didn’t hit organs, but only lacerated muscle and bruised bones. Still, it will take time to heal, so just rest.”
“Who?” She wore desert gear, second lieutenant bars on her shoulders.
“I’m your nursing sister, Glenda Goodfellow.”
English. “Lieutenant.” And pretty.
“I’m a nurse before an officer. What is your Christian name, Private?”
“Och na, Ma’am. I dinna tell.”
She squinted at him. “Really? That bad?”
“Aye, Ma’am, ‘tis.” She had a pretty smile.
“What do people call you?”
“Ogilvie, Ma’am.”
“Not the Army, soldier, your friends and family.”
“O.C. or Ollie.”
“That’s better, Ollie.” She said it nice.
“Whaur’s the latrine, Ma’am?”
“You can’t get up just yet. I’ll bring it to you.”
That unwelcome rush of heat invaded his chest, face, and ears.
She smiled kindly. “Don’t be embarrassed, Ollie.”
“Humiliating, isn’t it?”
He swore he could hear cackling.
A couple of soldiers in the next cots guffawed. “Better be gittin’ used to it, laddie,” jibed one. “Wait’ll she gies ye a bath.”
“Ogilvie, ye blush like a wumman,” jeered another.
By now his whole body burned. He cussed at them.
After he’d relieved himself and the lieutenant took the receptacle away, she returned to change his dressings.
“You’re awfully warm, Ollie.” She took his temperature. “Seven degrees above normal.” He heard snickers.
“Lieutenant!” A familiar voice blasted the quiet.
“Yes Sir.”
“Where’s Ogilvie?”
“Over here, Sir.” She pushed on his good shoulder to keep him down.
Captain Dunbar stomped up to Ollie’s cot. “Damn, Ogilvie, don’t you ever think before you act?”
“Naw, Sir, I’d git scairt.”
“You won’t make it to twenty-one, Private.”
“Och, Captain, ‘twas only twa tanks, an’ I’m too big an’ ugly tae kill.”
“Keep thinking that way, and you will be.” His bark softened. “How is he, Lieutenant?”
“If he follows orders, Sir, we’ll have him right as rain.”
“He will!” The captain glared at him. “You accommodated yourself bravely saving your mates and leading the charge. Grenades wouldn’t have taken tanks out, so using satchel charges was smart thinking. But running up and attaching them to the tanks was barking mad. I have battles to win and don’t have time to write up commendations, so no more heroics, Corporal Ogilvie. Walk with me, Lieutenant.”
Ollie twisted his head watching them go. She was taller than Dunbar. Promoted!
When she returned, she smiled, her eyes shining.
“Ma’am am I really OK?”
“Absolutely, Ollie.”
“Then whae was that aboot? Ma’am?”
“He asked exactly what your wounds were, then told me what you did.”
He flushed again. “But he sure was angry.”
“You know why, don’t you?”
“Officers hate losing their men.”
“He cares.”
“Dinna make me laugh, it hurts.”

A week later
“When are you going to call me by my name, Ollie?”
“Are ye a Christian, Lieutenant?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“I dinna actually ken wither I was or no, but there was a moment oot there when the question cum oop.”
“That’s not uncommon.” She pulled up a stool.
“Me fither is a godly mon, however, me brither goes to kirk but acts like the devil t’itherwise. I kinda reckoned it wasna frae me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thenk ye.”
“Ironic, isn’t it. Jesus said people would know we are his followers by the love we have for one another.” Her eyes shone. “The Germans are Christians. They go to church but look what they are doing. We are Christians too, but we are killing each other. We go to church and pray for victory.”
“That’s no new, Protestants and Catholics, Scots and English, hae been killin’ each other frae centuries, no to mention the Jews.”
“Yes, the rumors coming out of Poland—it’s inconceivable that humans can do such things to each other. When are we ever going to stop killing?”
“Lieutenant, that’s the thing, ye see. Why wud God permit this if He is God?”
“Glenda, my name is Glenda, Ollie.”
A hoot rang out. “Hey, Lieutenant, how cum ye be gien’ Ogilvie so mooch attention?” The guffaws moved through the tent. Heat rushed to Ollie’s face and ears. “It’s no like he’s sum lady killer.”
The lieutenant stood up and faced the other cots. “You listen up, jocks!” Ollie glanced around at their wide eyes and dropped jaws.
She strode around the tent peering into their faces. “Do you men believe in God? If you don’t, you should. You’re alive when others aren’t. Corporal Ogilvie and I are discussing the Almighty. Would you care to join us?”
Silence.
She returned to his cot. “Do you read, Ollie?”
“Aye, Ma’am.”
“I’ve a book you might like.”
The next day she brought it to him. “It’s by another man who goes by his initials—C. S. Lewis. The Pilgrim’s Regress might interest you. It’s akin to Mr. Lewis’s fantastical rendition of his search for meaning and spiritual fulfillment.”
As Ollie recovered, they enjoyed discussing that book, as well as the writings of George MacDonald, G. K. Chesterton, and others. The strength of her faith made an impact on him.
On a break Glenda joined him in the sitting area. “Ollie, you are educated, well read, and I suspect genteel born. Why aren’t you an officer?”
He blanched. “Och, I’m juist a regular jock.”
“No, you’re not. I suspect you’re a chameleon like that gecko that just ran under your foot, changing color with different backgrounds.”
“Ye’re callin’ me a lizard, are ye?” He winced like he was hurt.
She giggled. “Ollie, you speak with a broad Scottish burr when you’re talking with your mates, but the longer you spend with me the more you use proper English. That says you’re not a regular jock.”
“Oh, that? It’s just I’m double-tongued. I speak English wi’ the English, Scots wi’ the jocks, and Gáidhlig—Gaelic—in the Hielands.”
“No, it’s not just that. You are masquerading. Why?” Her eyes penetrated him like his mam did when she suspected him of trying to hoodwink her.
“I’ve got me reasons.” Should I trust her? “Can ye accept that . . . for noo?”
“Yes, Ollie I can—for now.” She smiled, patting his good hand.
Whenever she touched him, the strangest sensation stirred up his insides.
Glenda had touched his soul as well. He could actually believe in her God.
A month later
Ollie paced outside the medic tent waiting for Glenda to finish her duties.
Doubt assailed him. “Do you actually think she cares that you’re leaving?”
When he saw her, the sun came out and warmed him all through.
“I came to say thenk ye an’ gude bye.” The idea of not seeing her again had kept him awake for nights. He’d hardly been able to think of anything else but her. Is this love?
“Idiot! An officer love a regular jock? Ha!”
They walked out of the compound by the marina. Tall for a woman, the top of her head almost reached his shoulders. The sun sank into the Mediterranean Sea. Twilight, the time of the gloaming, a magical time in Scotland, woke sensations of expectation in him.
“No woman could ever love your ugly mug.”
Git ootta me head, Fergus.
But when Glenda had told him he was ruggedly handsome, and his red hair became him, Ollie felt worthwhile for the first time in his life. He had smiled from protruding ear to protruding ear.
Early on while she was changing the dressing on his wound, she’d asked about the large tattoo on his chest.
“My mates an’ I had them doon on a lark a few years ago. I’m a Lowlander. Our ancestors in ancient times were the Picts, the ‘Painted People.’ They tattooed their clan crests on their chests an’ painted their faces when they went into battle.” It seemed so juvenile now, and he had wanted to appear mature for this grown woman.
He looked down at Glenda attempting to memorize everything about her. Her smile sent sparks through his body.
She gazed up at him. “I don’t want to say goodbye.”
His neck, face, and ears burned. “But I have to return to me unit.”
“I know. I don’t want to say goodbye forever. I want you to come back to me.”
“Ye want me to cum back wounded again?”
“Absolutely not! Don’t you dare get hurt again!”
Glenda was the same age as his older sister and sounded just like her for a moment. The last thing he wanted would be her mothering him like Maegan?
“Will you come visit, if you can?”
He didn’t know what to say. His heart stuck in his throat. His gut twisted. His ears rang. He studied her pretty face.
Her smile twitched, and her eyes glistened. “Ollie, I’ve never known anyone like you.”
“This muckle, ye mean?”
“You are a big man, but I don’t mean in size.”
He wrinkled his brow. “I dinna—”
“Do you really not know?”
He shook his head.
“Ollie, have you never been in love?”
“Naw, dinna think so.”
“How about now?”
He gulped. “Is this love?”
“Oh, yes, dear boy, it is. I love you, Ollie. Do you feel the same way?”
“But ye’re an officer an’ I’m juist a wee corporal. It’s against regulations.”
“Love knows no rank. After the war I will be a nurse, and you will be whatever you make up your mind to be. Have you thought more about that?”
“Da wants me to go to Oxford like he did.”
“You gecko, you.” She’d found him out. “Then, that’s what you should do.” She reached up her arms pulling his head down to hers and waited, her eyes inviting. He kissed her.
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
He wrapped his arms around her and couldn’t get enough of kissing her.
“Write me, and come back to me, Ollie.”
“I will, Glenda.” For the first time since joining the Army, Ollie wanted to live.

iii

A California Yankee

Men are not angered by mere misfortune but by misfortune conceived as injury.
And the sense of injury depends on the feeling that a legitimate claim has been denied.
The Screwtape Letters, C. S. Lewis

1945
Sunday, 18 March
Over the English Channel
US Eighth Air Force raids Berlin

“This is big!” Pride gushed.
“Your Mom’s ‘Danny Boy’ is right in the middle of the big show, starring as the brave newly promoted squadron commander flying the racehorse of the fighter fleet.”
Hot dog! Hollywood would make a movie of it after the war. Born in “Tinsel Town,” after all, and the son of an actress, that was the way Dan’s mind played.
Dan had flown his former “Jug,” the P-47 Thunderbolt on bomber escort duty since deploying to England in ’42. However, the plane lacked the range needed to protect sustainable bombing deep into Germany. B-17 losses were horrendous. But the Mustang P-51s with their upgraded Rolls-Royce Merlin engines had the range to make the full 550-mile round-trip from Britain to Berlin and back, providing defense for the entire mission. He’d been flying the P-51 for nearly a year, a cowboy riding a mustang roping a Messerschmitt Bf 109, painted on the nose with the caption: “Ride ‘em Cowboy.”
To be one of 670-long range fighters escorting 1,250 bombers in the heaviest daylight raid on Berlin to date was a heady sensation. Two bombers per fighter. In the briefing, the intel officer had warned them to keep their eyes peeled for the Luftwaffe’s jets. “You should see those Messerschmitt 262s any day now. Kentucky Derby is the code name if you encounter them.”
Then in an aside, Colonel Barker, the group leader, had muttered, “You’re lead squadron for Range Rider Group, but don’t get cocky, McCauley.”
Major Daniel McCauley—call sign this mission, Ramrod Lead—polished his new brass oak leaf insignias on the shoulders of his flight jacket.
“Pride goes before a fall, Danny.”
Thanks Uncle Mike. With a priest for an uncle, who needs a conscience?
Their armament officer pulled their chains regularly, interjecting levity into their stress with his ubiquitous wisecrack, “Without ordnance, it’s just another flying club.”
As an ace with thirteen kills, how could Dan not feel proud? He’d been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and a Purple Heart to prove it. But performance alone didn’t move you up in rank; vacancies due to killed or missing in action did. And he had survived three years of missions. His wheel hat long supported the “50-mission crush.”
Promotion had been exhilarating. Accountable for four flights, four fighters a piece—sixteen aircraft, sixteen men—a daunting responsibility.
With anticipation of the mission came the usual jitters. Nerves of steel, though, when the battle starts. So, jettison Fear.
“Yeah right, Danny boy!”

Over Eastern Germany
General “Jimmy” Doolittle ordered the fighter squadrons to hunt the enemy interceptors instead of flying close formations with the bombers they escorted. As a former high school and college quarterback, Dan preferred offense to defense any day.
“Ramrod Squadron, Ramrod Lead,” he alerted his four flights, “approaching target area. Expect Jerrys will bounce us shortly.”
“Roger,” squawked Ramrod, Wrangler, Cowboy, and Drover flights.
The B-17 Fortresses threaded their way through pyrotechnics of antiaircraft flak, so thick you could walk on it, to make their bombing run. Dan spotted small moving specks in the eastern sky. “Ramrod Squadron, Ramrod Lead, it looks like we’ve got company. A couple dozen.”
He had been elated when the mission frag shop assigned his squadron the call sign Ramrod, part of Cattle Drive Wing. Raised on a ranch, Dan had shared cattle terms they could use on the radio to fool the German pilots. Uncle Mike often teased him for never outgrowing his passion for being a cowboy. Flying a fighter was just another way of riding a bronco.
The P-51 cockpit windshield gave its pilot a panoramic view of the skies. Silver specks appeared out of the clouds. “Ramrod, Wrangler, Dan; bandits at three o’clock high. Cowboy, Drover, more at five o’clock high.” A chorus of “rogers” acknowledged, and Dan led the charge after the gaggle of 109s headed for the bombers.
The dogfight was on.
Dan had learned early on you couldn’t fight the entire melee of tumbling, turning, twisting crafts like mad dogs in a chaotic brawl. Focus on one bogie at a time.
“Dan, break hard now! Jerry at six low, gun range!” shouted his wing man.
Dan broke sharply right in a hail of bullets, turning so tight he blacked out for a second. Recovering, he reversed hard, while avoiding a high-speed stall. The 109 overshot. Sucking in air again, he bore full throttle chasing the Jerry, closing in on him. Dan pressed the trigger. The 109 caught fire, spiraling down trailing smoke and flames.
“Dan, Tommy. Good shooting, you got 'em!”
Number fourteen. Dan owed the kid. His mouth was dry and his body damp with sweat. But with the sky so busy, no time to take a bow. Then in the distance . . . he saw it. A line of faint contrails. In seconds tiny silver flecks burgeoned. “Ramrod Flight, Lead, twelve o’clock high bandits coming in fast.”
A glut of crude expletives burst over the radio as the silver jets streaked overhead racing toward the B-17s.
“Whoa!” Dan’s jaw dropped, and his stomach lurched.
“Dan are those—?”
“Affirmative, Tommy. Ramrods, form posse; head ‘em off at the pass.” So, these are the Me 262s. A jolt of electricity fired through his body. Intercept and destroy. If they can catch them. “Range Rider Lead, Ramrod Lead, Ramrod off to the Derby.”
Colonel Barker responded, “Range Rider Lead, roger Dan. Circle the wagons, Range Riders.” The rest of the group would back them up.
Full throttle, climbing, Dan led the pack. They were chasing racecars on foot with pesky mosquitos diving at them, trying to avoid the 109’s bite. The 262s took out two of the lead B-17s but did not engage in dogfights with the P-51s, leaving that to the 109s. Though fast the jets obviously couldn’t turn on a dime.
After Range Rider’s B-17s dropped their loads, the entire group turned toward home.
“Ramrod Flights, Ramrod Lead. Let’s skedaddle.”
But the enemy didn’t intend to let them fly off into the sunset. “Ramrod Flights, Ramrod Lead; bandits, nine o’clock level, at least a dozen.”
“Roger, Dan, engaging,” came a bevy of responses. The flights of P-51s split into separate fights with Dan closing in on a Jerry. He had his fangs out, going for the kill.
“Dan, break! Hard left!” Bogie closing to your six!”
As Dan turned, tracers shot by him. He felt impacts of multiple hits. Heart palpitating, he quickly cut throttle, yanking hard on the stick, and causing the 109 to hurtle past. The attacking Jerry broke off and left the fight, leaving Dan berating himself for breaking the cardinal rule of air combat—don't get your fangs out and forget your six.
“Watch your six at all times, Major Super Ace Fighter Jock!”
Brilliant example of showing his green wingman how it’s done.
Meanwhile, Wrangler, Cowboy, and Drover gave chase to the Jerrys.
“Much obliged, Tommy. Look me over. I felt some hits.”
“Roger Dan.” The lieutenant moved his craft in close. “Affirmative, you have some holes in your fuselage just under the cockpit, and some other damage on the wing.” A pause. “Are you OK?”
“Tommy, I’ve taken a hit in my left side, feels like some blood maybe. Let’s head out.”
“Roger, Dan. Will cover your six. Let me know any control problems.”
The tenderfoot is coming along nicely.
His side ached. Was it a graze or a bullet? He reached over below his ribcage, his gloved hand came back wet and red. He cussed out the Jerry for ripping his flight jacket. Grabbing his scarf, Dan staunched the wound.
A fresh squadron flew overhead toward the fight. “Ramrod Flights, Ramrod Lead, here comes the cavalry. Let’s hightail it to the bunkhouse.” His flight leaders acknowledged.
By the time Ramrod Flight had made it across Germany, and closed in on Belgium; Wrangler, Cowboy, and Drover had joined up. Dan flew the plane at reduced speed to maintain control.
“Wrangler Lead, Dan. Take lead of the flights, Harve.”
“Dan, Harve, what’s your stat?”
“Bit woozy, but I’ll tough it out. Harve, take Ramrod Three and Four with you. Tommy will stick with me.” And hopefully won’t see me go into the drink. His scarf was soaked and the pain downright annoying.
“Roger Dan. Meet up with you at the bar.” Ramrods Three and Four chimed in to acknowledge.
“Tommy. Dan. Just us now, kid. Wake me up if I start snoring.”
“Dan, Tommy. Roger.”
The coast greeted Dan just as the sheep were lining up to get counted. Only one more lap. The English Channel measured a little over thirty miles wide, and Dan had sweated the entire way.
He sang “Comin’ in on a Wing and a Prayer,” to distract himself from the pain and anxiety. But could he pray to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore?
Scorn shouted—"Hypocrite! So, what now? The ace pilot is finally in a fix he can’t get out of alone?”
“Worth a try.”
“You really think there’s a loving God who allows war? And would help a killer?”
“I honestly don’t know. I was doing a job.”
“Come now, Ace. You didn’t get to be an ace just doing a job. There was a man in each of those planes you shot down.”
For three years, Dan had forced those thoughts from his mind.
“How about those bombers you escorted who dropped bombs on Berlin today probably killing thousands of civilians—women and children, too?”
Dan had built a wall barring Guilt. Now a crack. Condemnation rushed in. He was getting light-headed and dizzy. Blood loss? He looked down at the gray ocean.
“You won’t make it. Go ahead, killer, dive. It will all be over in a minute. Killers deserve death.”
Dan inhaled. What’s that foul stench? Sweat? Blood? Fear?
He puked.
A heavy gloom descended on him as consciousness faded in and out. Dan leaned forward on the stick, diving toward oblivion.
“Pull out, Dan! You’re in a dive. Can you read?”
Dan’s eyes flew open. Urgent messages fired in his brain.
“Danny, stop! Don’t do this.”
“Dad?”
“Pull up, son. Now!”
Dan yanked the stick back, gaining altitude again. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely, fighting the sticky fog trying to overtake his brain. Whatever got into him, hearing voices? First Guilt, then Dad. His father had been gone only a few months, and Dan had thrust that grief behind the wall, too.
Tears washed down his cheeks. He swiped them away with his fists as a memory emerged. He was back on the ranch.
# # #
The seven-year-old boy sat on the ground bawling after being thrown from his horse.
Dad dismounted and stretched out his hand. “Come, Danny. You gotta get right back on.”
“No-o-o, Daddy, I can’t!”
“Yes, you can.”
“Can’t.”
“Do you remember the little engine that could?”
“But he didn’t fall off a horse.”
“No, but he had an enormous hill to climb. Remember—The little engine chanted: ‘I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.’”
Dad had lifted him back on the mustang, and Danny rode again.
# # #
“Son let’s get this mustang back to the coral.”
“Dan. Tommy. What was that?”
“Lost consciousness for a sec, OK now.”
Spots danced in front of his eyes when the green coastline of Essex materialized out of the sea like a beautiful sign flashing, Welcome back, Danny!
He would be lucky to make it there. “Going in at Colchester. Catch you back at the bar in Debden.”
“Roger, Dan. You’re wobbling all over the place.”
“Pay attention, Danny.” He cut back on the throttle maintaining a minimum controllable speed as he struggled to set up a long straight approach. He strained to maintain consciousness. “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”
The landing strip emerged in front of him. It took all his remaining strength to bring the craft down. Too slow! Just about to touch down, he lost control. The craft bounced, jolting Dan as the plane did a ground loop, violently rotating the craft. So, this is it! Something sharp knifed into his back before he blacked out.

Colchester Military Hospital, Colchester Garrison
Pain, nausea, delirium.
Dan pulls back on the stick, climbing, but he can’t get over the thick fog. “Tommy, do you read me?” Silence.
“Major McCauley?”
“Tommy?”
“No, Major, you’re back on the ground. It’s Dr. Preston-Doyle, your surgeon.”
Dan didn’t like the expression on the face of the white-coated man. He’d seen it before. When Sister Brigit had had enough of his tomfoolery, she sent him to the principal’s office. Father McLaughlin wore a deathly mask that struck dread in the heart of a young boy.
I’m going to die.
“You’re lucky to be alive, Major. Your injuries are severe, but you’ll live. I had to remove one of your kidneys, it was so badly damaged. The liver was impaired, but if you treat it well, not too much alcohol, it will last. One good thing, you’re out of the fight now. You can go home.”
No!
The surgeon started out the door as Colonel Barker entered. Dan’s CO turned and walked out with the doctor. When the colonel returned, his face was grave. “Well, McCauley, good job over Berlin. The mission was successful. We dropped 3,000 tons of explosives. Lost six 51s and thirteen 17s.”
“Sir, we have to come up with a strategy against those 262s.”
“We will. You took out one of two downed 109s. You are the only casualty in your squadron. Nothing like going out in glory.”
What? Out?
“Oh, all the boys send their best wishes. They sang a few rounds of “Danny Boy” in your honor at the officer’s mess.”
“Yes, Sir, they did it here too.” Will I ever ditch that juvenile nickname?
The colonel raised a bushy eyebrow. “Rotten luck on that landing. You’re one of my best. I hate to lose you.”
“Colonel, I’ll be up and at ’em in no time, just like last time.”
“No, Major. You won’t. Not without a kidney and part of your liver. I’m sending you home.”
“You’re grounding me, Sir?”
“Afraid so. Son, I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were one of my own, but you’ve given your all for God and country. Now go home and live your life. You owe it to the guys who won’t go home.”
A dark cloud descended on Dan.

Two weeks later
The nurse pushed Dan’s wheelchair back into his section past the other two beds. A tall, hefty man in a black cassock stood talking to Dan’s two cot mates. The priest turned, a big smile breaking across his face.
“Danny!” That familiar voice the first ray of sunshine since regaining consciousness.
“Uncle Mike? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to take you home.” His broad Irish face grinned, framed with black hair and dark eyes sparkling.
“I don’t want to go home.”
“As I understand it, you don’t have an option.”
Another wave of despair washed over Dan.
“So, what did the colonel do, cable Stella to come pick up her boy?”
“Not quite. When the cable arrived, your mom went to pieces. So, I made the sacrifice—an Irishman setting foot on English soil.”
“Can you pray me better, lay hands on me and make me a new kidney?” His lower back hurt and his gut ached as the nurse helped him back onto his cot.
“Or exorcise the demon of self-pity, Danny? Where’s my happy-go-lucky nephew? You still have your pretty face and, as I understand it, your manhood is intact. You’ve a chance for a wife and family. So many men have lost that possibility.”
“A priest, thinking about women?”
“Not for me, laddie. You.”
“You can’t possibly think any woman could ever make up for my being grounded?”
“Just bringing up what you can be thankful for. Daniel, you are only twenty-three and have your whole life ahead of you.”
“Without flying?” Bile rose in his throat, tasting bitter.
“I imagine you can still fly, just not for the Army Air Forces.”
“But that’s all I’ve wanted to do since I flew my first fighter. I won’t be able to fly our jets when we get them.”
“I understand how in love with flying you’ve been ever since you saw your very first plane as a small lad, but the Lord has other plans for you now.”
“What kind of a God takes away the thing I love most in this world?”
“Our blessed Lord,” Mike’s eyes drilled his nephew’s, “who has something better in mind for you.”
“Don’t preach, Father Mike. I’m not too happy with your God right now.”
But the priest didn’t need to use any hocus pocus to exorcise Dan’s feeling sorry for himself. All it took was a reminder that one of his cot mates had lost both legs and the other could never make love to his wife again quashed his pity party for the moment. However, Dan could never love anything as much as he did flying.

Southampton, The RMS Queen Mary
Dan’s uncle pushed him down the dock toward the ship. “Here we are, Danny.”
How humiliating, confined to a wheelchair. Glancing around he was not the only one. “Tell me again,” Mike, “why are we not flying home.?”
“Doctor’s orders. You’re to rest.”
“How exciting.” Dan glowered at his uncle. “We are not taking the train to the West Coast.”
“OK, we’ll fly.”
They boarded the great ocean liner with other American soldiers going home on stretchers, in wheelchairs, on crutches, bandaged and limping.
“Enjoy the luxury, Danny boy. The Cunard Line loaned this ship to the US to carry troops between Britain and home.”
“Four days, Mike? What will we do?”
“I know, you get bored so easily. I have a book for you, and it’s devilishly clever. It’s by a man who teaches at Oxford, a C. S. Lewis.” Father Mike handed Dan The Screwtape Letters.
“Your uncle has an agenda, you know.”
When doesn’t he?
“Speaking of Oxford, Mike, you should see it and Cambridge sometime when you’re not taking your nephew home to mommy. They’re nothing like our colleges and universities. When this war is over, I want to return and really see them.”
Dan leafed through the volume. “Devilish, did you say? You were serious.”

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