The Victory Club Page 2

  Being short of money was nothing new for the King family. Her mother had always struggled to make ends meet while raising her two children alone. Dottie had been six and Clark eleven when their father walked out on the family. Bart King got a quicky divorce down in Nevada and never returned to Idaho. He hadn't bothered to maintain contact with his children, nor had he helped his ex-wife financially.

  For years, Dottie secretly wondered what she had done wrong to make her daddy go away. Why couldn't he love her? And even once she was old enough to understand that his leaving wasn't her fault, there was a part of her heart that still felt she was to blame. She wondered if those wounds would ever completely heal.

  A child needs a father, God. It isn't Your will for a father to be absent from the home. Is it?

  Dottie gave her head a slight shake, as if answering for the Lord. But shaking her head wasn't a smart thing to do—the nausea returned with force, and she had to bolt for the latrine at the back of the depot. She barely made it to the toilet in time.

  Moments later, exhausted, her eyes watering and her throat burning, she sank onto the cool floor and leaned her back against the wall.

  "Here," Harriett said softly.

  Dottie looked up to find her coworker holding a damp cloth toward her. "Thank you."

  "Want me to get your mom?"

  "No. This'll pass. Besides, she'll already be in class."

  "Well, you stay here as long as you need to. I can cover up front."

  This will pass, Dottie repeated to herself when she was alone again. It's just an upset stomach. She closed her eyes and covered them with the cloth Harriett had given her. That's all it is. Just an upset stomach.

  Only Dottie's heart told her otherwise. It was something much worse than that. And it wasn't going to go away by mid-morning.

  Oh, Greg. What have we done?

  * * *

  "Heavy Allied casualties … northern Africa theater … contested sectors …"

  The overheard words, spoken by several young officers as they filed out of the classroom, chilled Margo to the bone.

  Her son, Clark, was serving in the II Corps in the African campaign. She didn't know where precisely. The V-mails people received from their loved ones in the military were closely censored, lest any classified information fall into enemy hands. Of course, the censors had little to cut out when reading Clark's letters. They were brief and revealed nothing. "I'm fine," he told her. "Thanks for the cookies," he wrote. "I miss you and Dottie," he always added. Never much beyond that.

  But Margo knew his life was in danger even if she didn't know his precise location. The Idaho Daily Statesman had reported that a major action would soon usher in the final showdown in northern Africa. This must be the beginning.

  Heavy Allied casualties…

  She turned toward the map on her classroom wall. She often stood in this same spot and stared at that map, memorizing the names on it—Casablanca, Oran, Algiers, Tebessa, Tunis, Sfax, and Maknassy. Her job at the base was to teach French to Army Air Corps officers. Many young men who'd passed through her classroom were now in Tunisia, where many natives spoke French. She prayed she'd taught them well, for their lives could depend upon it if captured by the enemy.

  And Clark? Had she taught him well? Would he be safe? Were bombs exploding around him? Was he lying injured in some rocky mountain pass or on the Mediterranean shore? Had he been taken captive? Or was he—

  "Mom?"

  Margo turned toward the door at the sound of Dottie's voice.

  "I heard about the push at the Kasserine Pass. They're saying there are—" She broke off abruptly.

  "Heavy casualties." Margo hugged herself. "Yes, I heard, too."

  Dottie entered the classroom and came to stand beside her mother. Together they faced that dreaded map, staring at it, wondering what was happening on the other side of the world. It was evening in Africa now, nearly eight o'clock. Darkness had blanketed the country for some time. Had the fighting waned?

  "Lord, keep Clark safe," Dottie prayed.

  Yes, God. Please. Don't require me to give You my son. I'm begging You. Don't require him of me.

  The sins of Margo's past, for which she deserved to be punished, had never seemed so great a burden as they seemed at that moment.

  "And, Father," Dottie continued softly, "keep Greg safe, too, wherever he is."

  Margo struggled to add her silent amen. Not that she wished harm to fall upon Greg Wallace. Not at all. He was a nice enough boy. But she was glad he'd been shipped overseas, all the same. The farther away he was from Dottie, the better Margo liked it. Without mentioning her ex-husband by name, Margo had tried to make Dottie understand how dangerous these wartime romances were—to no avail. Her daughter swore that her love for her high school sweetheart would never falter, no matter how long Greg was away.

  Well, better Dottie suffer heartache from missing him than to make the same mistakes her mother had made. Margo didn't want a man to ruin her daughter's life the way her husband had ruined hers.

  * * *

  As had become her habit over the past two months, Lucy met her friends for lunch in the tiny break room at the back of Building B-301. They each spread cloth napkins over their laps before opening their lunch boxes, but no one seemed hungry enough to eat. So there they sat, lost in their grim thoughts, while the cold February wind buffeted the building.

  It hadn't taken long before everyone on the base—and in town, no doubt—knew that a major battle for control of northern Africa was raging. The importance was clear, even to civilians. Tunisia must be taken. The Allies needed the location for a refueling stop once the bombing raids began over Europe. The previous year had seen many defeats. Each woman in that break room longed to see a victory.

  Finally, Lucy could take the silence no more. "Is this what it's going to be like for the duration of the war?" She was exasperated with herself as well as with the others. "Must we expect the worst to happen to the people we love?" She looked from one woman to the next. "Can't we act as if we're women of faith? I mean, either God's in control or He isn't."

  Seated across from Lucy, Margo stiffened as if she'd been slapped. "Perhaps you wouldn't say that if your husband was in Africa instead of England."

  A different sort of silence strangled the room.

  "Oh, Margo." Lucy shook her head. "I didn't mean to sound heartless. I want to encourage us not to lose hope."

  But perhaps Margo was right, Lucy thought as she lowered her gaze to her lap. She wanted to believe she would hold on to hope, no matter what, but she hadn't been tested. Richard had spent a good many months stateside before he was sent, late last year, to England. If he'd flown missions over enemy territory, he hadn't told her so in his letters.

  "You know—" Dottie folded the wax paper around her uneaten sandwich— "I think Lucy's right. Just about everybody we know has a loved one serving in the military. We know people are dying. That's a reality of war we can't escape. But we can't give in to fear and despair. We can't. If we do, then the enemy's already won." She held out her left hand toward her mother and her right hand toward Lucy.

  Thank God for you, Dottie. Lucy took hold of the younger woman's hand and gave it a squeeze. Then in a similar gesture, Lucy held out her free hand toward Penelope.

  After a moment's hesitation, Penelope mirrored the action.

  "Oh for pity's sake," Margo grumbled. But finally she completed the circle.

  Lucy looked at each of her friends. "From this day forward, I promise to pray faithfully for you and your loved ones. I promise to ask God for protection and guidance and to cause us to lean on Him, no matter how long this war takes. I promise to be here for you whenever you need me. And I'm not just going to pray for the Allies to have victory. I'm going to pray that each of us will have personal victory over the enemies we face. Over our fears, our faults, and our failures. That's my promise to you.''

  "Me, too," Dottie said.

  "So do I," Margo chimed in.

>   Penelope sighed. "Sure. Why not?"

  * * *

  Penelope accomplished little that afternoon. Her thoughts were too distracted to make sense of the words and numbers on the ledger pages. She kept thinking about Lucy with her husband poised to fly into danger and Dottie with her soldier boyfriend somewhere across the Atlantic and Margo with her son in Africa—and then she thought of her husband, Stuart, sitting at home in his easy chair, expecting Penelope to wait on him because of the pain in his back.

  The pain, her left foot. She didn't care what his doctor said. There was nothing wrong with Stuart's back. He was a coward, that was all. He would rather be safe at home than serving on the field of battle. He didn't have a heroic bone in his body.

  "I'm going to pray," Lucy had promised, "that each of us will have personal victory over the enemies we face. Over our fears, our faults, and our failures."

  Penelope didn't pray often. She doubted it made a difference in the overall scheme of things. But if she did believe, if she was going to pray, she would ask God to have Stuart drafted and shipped as far away from her as he could get.

  Chapter 3

  Good night, Mr. Pratt" Lucy said, descending the bus steps.

  "Good night, Mrs. Anderson. Have a nice evening."

  With a whoosh of air, the door closed, and the bus drove away.

  Lucy walked swiftly in the opposite direction, planning to stop at the corner market before returning to her apartment two blocks away. Shortages and long lines were becoming a common sight at grocery stores these days, but thankfully, Lucy wasn't after meat or sugar. Her needs were simple since she cooked only for herself.

  A few minutes later, she entered the Bannock Street Market, closing the door behind her, glad to escape the frigid night air. She shivered involuntarily. "Brrr."

  "Evening, Mrs. Anderson. Cold out there?"

  She turned toward the counter where Howard Baxter, the proprietor, stood. "It certainly is, Mr. Baxter. I'm more than a little ready for spring to come."

  "Couldn't agree more. Need any help?"

  "No, thanks. I know what I'm after."

  He gave her a warm smile, then turned his attention to some paperwork.

  Lucy pulled her shopping list from her coat pocket and headed down the first aisle. It didn't take long for her to find the few things she wanted—eggs, cheese, an onion, a bottle of ketchup, a loaf of bread.

  When Lucy carried her items to the front of the store, Howard glanced at them and said, "I worry about your diet, Mrs. Anderson. You don't eat enough to keep a bird alive." He raised an eyebrow. "Would you like a couple cans of green beans? We received a shipment of them today."

  "How kind, Mr. Baxter. Yes, I believe I would like some." Green beans were not among her favorite vegetables, but she didn't say so to Howard Baxter. It felt nice to have someone care about whether or not she ate right, even if that person was only the man who ran the corner grocery store.

  "How was your day?" Howard asked when he returned with the beans.

  "Long."

  The grocer nodded in understanding. "I've kept the radio on. The news coming through hasn't been good. Is your husband in North Africa?" He rang up the purchases as he spoke.

  "I don't think so." Lucy gave her shoulders a slight shrug. "Richard was stationed in England the last I heard, but I haven't received any mail from him in several weeks. He could be anywhere by now."

  "The not knowing is awful hard."

  She nodded in agreement. The not knowing was hard. But, she wondered, would it be easier if she knew he was in Africa? Would she prefer to be in Margo's place, knowing someone she loved was right in the thick of battle? No. No, she wanted Richard out of harm's way for as long as possible. She wanted him to live through this war and come home. She wanted him to hold her in his arms and kiss her on the lips and love her until they were both old and gray.

  "Mrs. Anderson?" His voice held compassion.

  She looked up through a veil of unshed tears. "I'm okay," she whispered.

  "If there's anything I can ever do for you …" He allowed his words to fade into silence.

  "No, there's nothing you can do, Mr. Baxter, but thank you for offering." Lucy lifted her shopping bag and cradled it to her chest. "Will you put this on my account?"

  "Of course."

  She thanked him again, then left the store, still fighting tears of loneliness.

  * * *

  Lucy and Richard had found the apartment on Jefferson Street two weeks before their wedding day. Holding hands, they walked through the three small rooms—an apartment added on to the back of the landlady's home—and decided this was where they wanted to live. Lucy lay awake that night, thinking about how she would decorate their home, imagining all the ways she could make it perfect for her new husband. How happy she had been. How innocent and trusting that their future held only joy.

  Their wedding day was all she could want. Their wedding night was blessed. Their future was full of promise.

  And in the morning came the news of Pearl Harbor, and their future was changed.

  After letting herself into the apartment, Lucy glanced first at the floor where the mail fell through the narrow slot in the door. No letter from Richard, and nothing else either. Not even a bill.

  With a sigh, she set the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter.

  "I've got to stop feeling sorry for myself," she muttered. "I've got to stop."

  A soft thump from the living room drew her attention toward the archway connecting the two rooms. Moments later, Empress, her cat, padded into the kitchen.

  "Hello, baby."

  Lucy bent down and lifted Empress into her arms. She buried her face into the long, white fur of the Persian's coat and listened to the vibrating sound that declared the cat's pleasure at her company.

  "It's good to be with you, too."

  "Meow."

  Lucy scratched the cat behind the ears, then set her on the floor. "Want some milk?"

  Empress serpentined between her legs, purring loudly.

  "Okay. Okay. Hold your horses."

  Lucy retrieved the milk bottle from the refrigerator and poured a small amount into a saucer.

  "Here you go, puss."

  As she watched the cat lap up the milk, she wondered if she sounded dotty. If her landlady, Elizabeth Hilburn, heard her talking to Empress, would she think Lucy was entertaining a friend, or did she already know Lucy's loneliness was driving her crazy?

  Oh, Richard. Why did you have to leave me so soon? You wouldn't have been drafted right away. We had so little time together.

  Richard's dad had taught him to fly when Richard was a teenager. To say he loved being at the controls of an airplane was a gross understatement. Lucy remembered the visit his parents made to Boise about six months before the wedding. Richard took Lucy up for a brief flight in his father's Cessna Airmaster. She was terrified, but the exhilaration on Richard's face was unforgettable. Watching him at the controls, she knew in her heart that her future husband was born to be a pilot.

  So how could she be surprised when war made him an officer in the air corps?

  She released a long sigh. "If only I'd get a letter, I'd feel better."

  Lucy left the kitchen, walked through the small living room, and passed into the even smaller bedroom. She hung her coat in the closet before changing out of her dress and into a pair of slacks, thick socks, and a warm sweater. Then she grabbed a blank V-mail from atop her dresser, carried it to the kitchen table, and settled onto the chair.

  V-MAIL

  To: 1st Lt. Richard Anderson, APO, N.Y.P.E.

  From: Lucy Anderson

  Monday, February 15,1943

  My darling Richard,

  How very much I'm missing you tonight. But then, I always miss you, my love. I stopped at the market on the way home, and Mr. Baxter asked about you. He makes sure to tell me when he has harder-to-obtain items in the store. Needless to say, it's rarely the coffee or sugar I'd love to buy. According to th
e secretary of agriculture, we can expect restrictions on meat later in the year. And of course, the new food rationing goes into effect on March 1. We'll receive our War Ration Book Two later this month. The coupons cover all canned and bottled soups, juices, fruits, and vegetables.

  This spring, I'm going to plant my first Victory Garden. Mrs. Hilburn has given me permission to use the west corner of the backyard for that purpose. I don't know a thing about gardening, but Penelope and Margo say they'll give me pointers. With any luck, I'll be canning my own fruits and vegetables come fall. Several women at church have offered to help me with that.

  I received a letter from your mother on Saturday. She said your dad's had a bad bout with a cold but is on the mend. He's feeling especially restless since he hasn't been able to fly his airplane due to fuel shortages. I wish your parents didn't live so far away. I would dearly love to spend more time with them, and maybe seeing them would help me not miss you so much. (No, that wouldn't work. I would still miss you)

  Yankee Doodle Dandy has returned to the Rialto Theater, and Dottie and I might go see it on Saturday. It won a film award last month. I wish you could be there. I miss sitting beside you in the dark, holding your hand. One of many things I miss about you, darling.

  We've heard about the battles being fought in Africa, and I'm wondering if you're still in England or if you've been sent to another theater of war. I pray not. Margo King's son is in North Africa. My heart goes out to her and Dottie as they wait for news about Clark and worry for his safety.

  Today I promised my friends at work that I'm going to pray for victory in a new way, rather than sitting around and expecting the worst. But I confess I haven't been successful for even one day. I simply miss you too much to keep my chin up.

  I'm running out of space, so I shall close. I send this letter to you with all of my love and hope for your continued safety.