Tom, having come in second place, offered a second round.
A competition between the three had begun.
* * *
Tom had stopped counting how many jumps they’d racked up since then, though the number was likely in the hundreds. Every time, he felt the rush of adrenaline as he stepped into nothingness, but the sensation had taken on a comfortable familiarity. It was drilled into them to never become complacent.
“Keep on your toes today, soldiers,” said Winters as they lined up in formation on the airfield. “The wind is going to kiss you like my great-aunt Helga with the mole on her cheek.”
“Tom is going to kiss her right back!” offered John. He nudged Tom in the rib cage, but he could barely feel it with all of the layers that padded their uniforms.
“You heard it, First Lieutenant Winters!” Tom was better at playing along than coming up with the barbs in the first place. “She’s all mine.”
They lined up as usual and took their places on the perimeter of the plane. Sixteen of them would be jumping today. It seemed, sometimes, like a waste of precious army resources to practice and practice and practice as they were, waiting for the inevitable day when they would be called into action. But First Lieutenant Winters assured them that perfection now was perfection in battle.
Winters’s face was stoic, but Tom knew that Sobel had brought him up on exaggerated charges and Winters had requested that a court martial review it. After Major Strayer looked it over and dismissed it, Sobel charged Winters again the following day. And yet, despite the strain their first lieutenant must be feeling, his sole focus was on his men and the jump. He inspired confidence in the troops, many of whom saw him as a surrogate father, despite the closeness of their ages.
Today’s roster listed Tom jumping first, then several more before John took the rear. They sat accordingly.
“Hey, Powell,” said William as he helped them with flight prep. “All kidding aside, if you want to write Margaret a letter, too, I’m A-okay with that. I’m not territorial about my friends.”
Tom shifted in his seat and clasped his hands together. It was silly that a girl’s letters and photograph could elicit such nervousness in him, especially when he was not the intended recipient of either. He shrugged. “Nah, man. I’ll find some English Rose to quell my lonely heart after all.”
“Oh, gawd, you are maudlin, Tom Powell.”
“There’s a word she’d like.”
William smiled. “See? You’re always thinking of her. Whether it’s a bonnie Brooklynite or an enthusiastic English dame, you have a bright future ahead of you. I’m going to enjoy watching your thick skull succumb to the fairer sex.”
“Who sounds like a professor now?”
“I’ve learned from the best.”
Tom rolled his eyes and got into position. The wind was vicious, and he was surprised they’d been given a go to fly.
William must have noticed his unease. “Hey, I’ll be sure we radio the pilot if the weather gets worse while you’re up there.”
Tom nodded and William hopped off just as the door closed behind him.
The plane lurched and Tom slammed into Malarky, creating a domino effect down their row. The pilot steadied the aircraft and they pressed onward.
“Time!” shouted First Lieutenant Winters.
Tom stood and inched closer to the front of the plane, holding the line above their heads. The wind howled outside like the banshees he’d read about in one of Mr. Brown’s books. The plane bounced and he almost fell out of the open door, but he gripped the sides, waiting for the word.
“And—go!” came the order.
Tom jumped and the same feeling of exhilaration came over him. For the few minutes of descent, no one needed anything from him. No one asked him to pick peaches or clean a latrine or march ten miles. Not even girls existed. This moment was entirely his to enjoy.
He fumbled with the release on his parachute and for a few panicked seconds, he kept missing it as the wind lashed at him and pushed his hands away. But at last, he gave it a good tug and waited for the comforting pull up before he glided down. He missed the bull’s-eye of the target by only a foot, but today’s practice was about how quickly you could release yourself from the shackles of the parachute coils and hit the ground running with your rifle.
With textbook precision, Tom did just that and hurried over to the waiting area where Sergeant Bethune congratulated him.
“Fine maneuvering, Powell. Fine maneuvering. Keep this up and I might have to recommend you for the new Arctic training.”
“Will we be fighting the war all the way up there?”
“Not unless Santa Claus wants to take up arms with Adolf Hitler. But this war could go on long enough that you’ll see winter terrain. We’re forming a unit that will learn to jump with skis on and hit the slopes the second they land.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m here to serve however the army sees fit.”
“Atta boy. You’ll have a long career here if you want it. Now. Let’s watch and see how the rest of those clowns fare up there.”
William ran up and joined them. He rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. “Hey, Powell. Did Great-Aunt Helga give you any trouble up there?”
Tom nodded. “I almost felt like she was pushing my hands away from my parachute release.”
“Yeah. It looks like it was a doozy.”
“I’d rather them all be boring.”
“Yeah. You don’t want to be the medical case where the doctor says, ‘Isn’t that interesting?’ You also don’t want to have memorable jumps.”
They stood close to each other, clenching their bodies tight to keep warm as they watched one paratrooper after another land in or near the circle, release their chutes, and take up their rifles. The sky resembled a polka-dot canvas with its gray background and the white spots decorating its landscape.
“Hey, look!” shouted one of the youngest privates. “Something’s wrong up there!”
Tom’s and William’s heads whipped up to where he was pointing. And indeed, as the plane hurried off, one parachute after another engaged and the jumpers floated down. Except one.
“He’s coming down too fast!”
“Open it! Open it!”
The chorus of worried voices shouted commands that could not be heard by the jumper. And not that he would have needed it. Whomever was up there was well aware of his predicament.
He fell, faster and faster, past the men whose chutes had opened as needed and they watched with horror.
“It’s Beck!” someone yelled. “He was the last one.”
Tom didn’t want to believe it. Not John Beck. He was the best jumper in their company. It had to be someone else.
But he knew it wasn’t. John was the last one on the roster to jump. And it was the last man who was speeding nearer and nearer to the ground.
William and Tom and the whole company ran out to where he’d disappeared behind the trees, hoping against hope for a miracle.
Chapter Ten
November 1943
When the doorbell rang, Margaret laid the pair of socks she was knitting on top of her workbasket. Several skeins of yarn hid a half-finished baby’s blanket that she labored over during free evenings, its delicate strands an indulgence that she was happy to pay for from her own hard-earned money. She’d nearly forgotten to hide it before Dottie and Gladys came over tonight. She didn’t want Dottie to see it—not only because it was a surprise, but also because crochet was a new medium for her. She’d gone to the Harrison Street branch of the Brooklyn Library and checked out a book that explained patterns.