Forcing the Hand of God

By Jacquie Ream

A World War II Fighter Pilot
Wagers Love, Family and Honor

For those who love history, family, and honor, Forcing the Hand of God is engaging from the first page to the last. Author Jacquie Ream does an amazing job of intertwining love, longing, and family complexities into a compelling tale of a military fighter pilot and the internal decisions he must make for himself and others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danforth Book Distribution
• Release date: Dec 15, 2009

Jacquie Ream

Jacquie Ream was born in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and was raised in San Bernardino, California. She attended college on writing scholarships (Pitzer, Claremont and Cal-State SB) completing her master’s degree in Creative Writing at the University of Washington. She has written one how-to-write book, KISS; a historical fiction novel, Forcing the Hand of God, and three children’s books, Bully Dogs and YNK: You Never Know. She currently lives in Seattle with her husband.

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Forcing the Hand of God

Jacquie Ream

Copyright © 2008 by Jacquie Ream

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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LCCN 2007940496

ISBN10 1-887542-63-9 (Hard cover)

ISBN13 978-1-887542-63-0 (Hard cover)

ISBN10 1-887542-69-8 (Soft cover)

ISBN13 978-1-887542-69-2 (Soft cover)

Editor: Vicki McCown

Proofreader: Julie Scandora

Cover Design: Laura Zugzda

Typographer: Stephanie Martindale

DEDICATION

I haven’t always had a computer to facilitate the mechanical aspects of writing; however, I have had people in my life that made writing worthwhile by their love and support for my endeavors.

Particularly for the flying aspects of this book, I would like to thank my mentors and flight instructors, Col. Jack Hayes and Larry Vogel, as well as all of the aviators from Queen City Aviation. Jack Hayes read the very first drafts and consulted on the accuracy of the flight maneuvers, as well as executing the aerial maneuvers during our flying lessons.

I would like to thank Bob Jarvis, the trainer at Hillman City Boxing Gym, for allowing me to interview boxers and putting me in the ring to spar, do the warm-ups and actually get the movements down accurately for the Golden Gloves’ scenes. This was in 1982, before ‘girls’ were allowed in the ring, and I appreciated just getting in the door of the Hillman Gym, let alone the time and effort all of the guys put forth on my behalf.

And there are those whom I cannot fully express the heartfelt gratitude that I have for the unswerving faith in me that I did not always have in myself: Debbie, Stephanie, Patti, Stephany, my brother Stan and my husband Norm, daughter Brandy, my mother and JoAnn Woodward-Mercer.

Thank you.

CHAPTER

1

Resting his hand on the prop of the P40 Warhawk, Major J. Rodger Brown paused in his preflight and looked skyward. Haloed by early morning sunlight, Eastern grey-legged geese spread into formation, their haunting cries echoing in the blue skies over Kunming, China, the City of Eternal Spring. Another flock took wing and another, heading for the distant pass between Golden Horse and Green Rooster Hills that towered either shore of Lake Dianchi, where a rosy mist dissipated over the water. Masses of white-winged ducks blossomed into flight from the lake, clouding his view of the gate to the Kwan-yen Temple covered in lush vegetation. Thousands of bleached-white grave markers peeked through the camellia, magnolia, giant azalea and primrose blooms.

He sighed, thinking to himself how much like a once-beautiful aged woman this place was: beneath the make-up you could see the ravages of time and war.

And those damn snow-covered mountains on three sides made for some tricky air currents: he’d lost a good pilot and one plane downed in Lake Dianchi. Already the fishermen would be scavenging the plane, mainly for the rubber from the tires for shoes.

He studied the white, tufted cirrus clouds, reminded of his home town, Wilmington, Illinois. He tugged on a glove. He had left home without regrets. There is no one, nothing, more important to him now than winning at this small game of war. He and his few remaining Flying Tigers, knighted the Aces Up, mercenaries of the sky.

The humidity and buzzing bugs irritated him more than the paperwork after each sortie. He waved away the sixty or so coolies clad in filthy unbleached cotton blouses and pantaloons, clearing the airfield. Shouldering eight-foot long bamboo poles with attached brown fiber baskets filled with debris, the men, women and children scurried about like a swarm of winged worker bees. Rodger wondered, as he leaned against the fuselage of the P-40, which of them had radios given out as part of Chennault’s warning system throughout this war-torn land. Rodger had trained pilots in the Chinese Air Force Task and had agreed with another pilot who had called them fighting rascals.

He had a deep respect for the poor Chinese peasants who had little to eat, diseases of every imaginable kind, from colds to leprosy, and maybe one in ten had a water buffalo to work the rice paddies. On top of that, many of the women hobbled about on four inch feet bound from birth.

The wind had died down to a hundred knot headwinds. Rodger felt a familiar rush of excitement, hoping for a little action in the air as he began his preflight. Maybe the rest of the airmen from the American Volunteer Group who dubbed this place Shangri-La relished their leave at the Wensham Hot Springs, but his playground is here, in the air. He wanted neither R&R, nor reassignment stateside.

He inspected his P 40, noting its every detail. With its fierce painted shark’s scowl and soulful eyes, it was more than a machine, more than metal and parts. It was a part of him. He ran his hand along her belly, completing his walk around preflight. Before climbing into the cockpit, he checked his sidearm.

He settled into the seat, making final adjustments to his parachute straps, yanking the seatbelt across his lap, snapping it quickly. He smoothed his leather pilot’s helmet; the goggles fit snug and secure but the frayed chin strap chafed. He scanned the instruments, resetting the altimeter and positioning switches and fuel controls. Stretching, turning his head from side to side, he watched for clearance hand signals from the ground crew. He pulled forward slightly out of the revetment, nodded, and began the start engine procedures.

As the engine settled into its friendly, throbbing roar, Rodger checked for the engine instruments lights in the green. He reached over and adjusted the directional gyro.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the other three Warhawk and Tomahawks ready to go, their props churning. Rodger switched on his mike. Red Flight to tower. Ready to roll.

Red Flight cleared to runway. Remain clear. Call when ready for take off.

The others checked in. Red Two.

Red Three.

Red Four.

He did his run up. The high pitched, pulsating engines galvanized Rodger’s every cell. As he sucked deeper, filling his lungs with the vibrations and the smell of the fumes, his breath seared the inside of his mouth. He searched through his pockets for a piece of spearmint gum. The juice flowed down his throat, relieving the ache. The snap snap became the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He looked over his left shoulder, then his right. McGree, Barnes and Freeman flipped their thumbs up.

His hands tingled as he gripped the controls, his feet pushing hard on the rudder. He leaned side to side, holding his breath against the burnt exhaust fumes as the P-40 snaked along the runway. Rodger rammed the canopy shut and called the tower again. Ready for take off.

As he rotated the stick and became airborne, he concentrated on the job before him. Just a bandit or two for them, he prayed. At least one for me. Like squaring off in the boxing ring with a formidable opponent, he felt his senses sharpened to a painful degree. His next round would be in the sky.

That same moment he looked over his shoulder, visually checking his formation. McGree flew beside him as Element Lead, dogging his every move like a bloodhound after his prey. McGree would be right there if Rodger made a mistake, right there.

The two new pilots, Freeman and Barnes, eased into their positions. Freeman lined up on his wing and Barnes was number four to McGree. Excellent positions. Both men were fair haired and light-eyed, almost indistinguishable from one another, except for their voices. Freeman’s softly slurred, yes siree amused Rodger. It could be put on.

With the casual indifference of experienced flyers, they hadn’t bothered to acknowledge one another before, during or after the briefing, although their very lives depended on one another’s skill.

No sane man would do what they volunteered to do, thought Rodger. It’s the ultimate game of high stakes, and God held all the Aces.

The clouds rolled behind them. The engines hummed in unison, and each silent man listened, watching the sky for any sign of action. The sun shimmered through a layer of clouds. Rodger squinted, looking again at the yellow orange orb. From the right, directly at them, came bombers. With Rising Sun insignias.

They crossed the border into French-Indochina. As Rodger banked on a new heading and gained altitude, the blood ran savagely up his neck. He climbed to a position up-sun from the bombers. He must not be too quick, too fast, or he’d lose the element of surprise. He readied for battle, adjusting his gun sight and test-firing the six fifty-caliber machine guns. He knew his men did exactly the same as he.

Rodger eased into a half roll, leading the flight through a split s. They swooped down onto the unsuspecting fleet. The sky lit up with tracers streaking air with trails of orange. A Mitsubishi KI 21 bomber fell from the sky, black smoke billowing from an engine. The formation broke apart, then reformed.

McGree cried out, Rear flight for me!

Rodger aligned himself with the enemy lead bomber. Enemy escorts appeared, coming straight in for an attack. Rodger had to break hard into the Nates. As he out turned the lead escort, the Nates dropped off and climbed up-sun for altitude. With a quick glance, Rodger saw that his men were in combat spread, line abreast. He focused on the sky in front of him, looking for the Japanese lead bomber. He snaked back and forth, never holding a heading for more than a second or two, continuously checking six, all of the time, clearing his own tail and his men’s.

He sighted the bomber.

It crossed from his right to left, slightly high. Max RPM prop. Full throttle. Readjust trim. He climbed left in a curve of pursuit turn.

He was exposed. Vulnerable. But he concentrated on the target, holding the gun sight pipper on the compartment of the pilot. He waited. The Nate came into view, looming larger. Timing would be critical. Just as Rodger squeezed the trigger, the strident voice of his wingman blasted into his headset.

Red Lead! Bandits, six o’clock! Break right!

Rodger steadied his hand upon the trigger, maintaining his position. He released the red button. Strikes appeared on the fuselage and left engine. The Japanese bomber shuddered, plunged nose down, and turned wing over wing.

There was a pause, as if an honorable breath had been drawn. Rodger could see into the cockpit as the plane spiraled downward. The pilot lay a little sideways, slumped forward on the stick, a ghastly, twisted smile on his face.

Rodger broke into a hard right turn. He had a Nate on his tail. McGree and his wingman closed in on the enemy. Rodger’s heart skipped a painful beat. No sign of his Number Two. Freeman hadn’t been able to hang on during that last hard break. Rodger knew Freeman would furiously seek them out like a snow goose cut off from the flock.

Red Leader! What’s your position? Freeman’s voice exploded into his headset.

He breathed out a sigh of relief, but kept silent. The enemy jock closed in on him.

On the edge of a high-speed stall, his blood sucking away from his face and neck, Rodger forced himself through the pain of high G forces to look over his right shoulder. He bit his tongue smiling and sucked the familiar taste of his own blood mixed with the gum. McGree had reached the deflection angle, assured of a strike.

A sudden burst of flaming metal rained through the sky around him. The hunter was felled, and he was free once again.

Good shot! Rodger shouted. Relaxing against the back of the seat, he spoke low to them. Skies all clear. Let’s round ’em up and head for home.

An electric feeling passed from man to man, plane to plane. They all knew it, felt it, welcomed it.

They landed, screeching tires heralding the return of all the warriors. Mechanics and ground crew waved and shouted at them as they quickened their pace for a hurried debriefing at headquarters. Rodger walked up front, absorbed in his own thoughts, yet tuned into the conversation behind him.

Jesus, good shooting, cowboy! Gonna get you some hot spurs!

Well, I thought I’d been railroaded outta the sky that one time!

Lucky. We’re real lucky, yes siree.

We have our mechanics to thank.

Rodger smiled. But the image of the Japanese pilot with his grotesque smile intruded on his thoughts. Some were lucky, some were not. They were too damned lucky. And Rodger felt unjustly cursed by this luck.

As he came into the debriefing room, he stopped to stroke the cheek of a ragged doll nailed to the doorjamb. McGree also brushed hurried fingertips across the face of it, setting the strings of hair moving back and forth.

This was a ritual for Mary Elizabeth, the Chinese English eleven-year-old who cooked and cleaned for them, and scolded them every time for the dust they brought in, the daughter of their best mechanic. If they didn’t need LinChing for his mechanical skills and translations, Rodger would ship that girl and her father stateside.

Well, gentlemen, Rodger turned to the room of men. They all quieted immediately. If McGree is through with his critique of this day’s events, Rodger lowered his palm when McGree responded with a curt nod, and there are no further questions, you are dismissed. The shuffling of feet whipped up dust balls.

I would like to add a few words. Wary faces turned to him. A job well done.

After he showered, he walked over to the club for a round of drinks. He stood against the bar, sipping scotch neat, listening to the animated voices rising and falling.

And there, up front, all ammo blasting at one time was this—-

Look, you jelly kneed bastard, if it wasn’t for the rear cover, you’d be smokin’ still!

Hey, who you callin’ jelly kneed?

Every man here is a hero of one sort or another, mused Rodger, assessing the men around him. Escaping death once, twice, the game of it; it wasn’t, and never would be enough—not for them, not for him.

As he turned to leave, several of the men stopped talking to yell, Good night, sir!

Sir! Want to go duck hunting with us tomorrow?

Rodger shook his head, No thanks!

Going out the door, he raised his arm in a half wave, half salute to them. Warmed by the scotch, he whistled softly into the stagnant night air.

Abed in his quarters, he thought of his wife Adele. He had been deployed to London for more flight training and met her, wooed her away from an RAF pilot and proposed to her. How pretty she had been in her white wedding dress, her quirky half-smile, the twinkle in her green eyes, and her silky brown hair with golden highlights. The image of her became almost real and he ached for her.

But as he searched her dream image, a chill swept over him. He recalled her face at their last weekend together in London—a serious, pinched look about her, none of the bantering or the mocking smile that so intrigued him. And there beside her stood his Uncle Kyle, with his hand on her elbow. The irony of it, his uncle, a colonel, there for the wedding of an airman to an American woman who flew transports for the English Women’s Transport Auxiliary; the two people in the world who should have understood his need to be here, united against his re-enlistment.

But he had Ada, his longtime confidante and neighbor. She understood.

Sitting up, Rodger lit a cigarette, flicking the match on the ground beside his cot. He guessed it wasn’t easy for Adele, pregnant now, to be living in the same house with his mother, Madeline.

Hell, it’s a wonder anyone could live in the same house with his mother. But his father, John, and Ada would ease things for Adele, make life interesting and bearable. Until he came home. When he came home. He knew the war would not last forever.

He leaned against the splintering wooden wall, stretching his cramped legs. It would be a long and sleepless night for him, filled with visions—those faces, both beautiful and monstrous.

And he would be obligated to listen to every one of them. Every damned one of them.

CHAPTER

2

Words will take us back

To that night I looked into your eyes

And fell in love with you

The refrain to Adele’s newly penned song played over and over in Ada’s mind, obliterating any of her own thoughts. She wrapped damp newspaper around a bouquet of lilacs and secured it with twine, then swept a loose tendril of hair away from her face and secured it with a bobby pin before slipping her arms into her cardigan, leaving it unbuttoned. The screen door whispered shut as she stepped outside. Today the new morning sun shone warmly on her, and she inhaled the sweet smells of spring as she began the two-mile trek along the familiar route to Wilmington cemetery. She unhooked the latch on the gate and proceeded along the well-tended path to the grave site of her son and husband.

She knelt in front of the grave markers, sinking into the warm grass. Plucking the twine loose, she unwrapped the soggy newspaper and separated the lilacs into two bunches, placing the larger one in the vase beside the headstone marked Daniel Steven Carson, Jr. April 20, 1915-May 21, 1924. She rested her hand on top of her little boy’s grave, oddly at peace for the first time in eighteen years.

She heard a car off in the distance, a bird chirp and rustle through the pine trees, and the skirring of a squirrel. Sunlight poured through the boughs and patterned the graves. Tears trickled down her cheeks, but the pain subsided quickly and she sighed, pushing herself to her feet, brushing her hands along her hem. She leaned down and picked up the newspaper, wringing it out as best she could before stuffing it along with the twine into her bag.

Scooping up the smaller bundle of lilacs, she bent and placed it in the vase next to her husband’s marked gravestone that read Dr. Daniel Steven Carson. Beneath the date, at his sister’s insistence, had been added beloved husband, father, son and brother.

Which was a lie. The love she had felt for Dan the first year dissipated with every sarcastic comment he made, implying with a small sneer that, whatever she did, it was never enough. On their first wedding anniversary party, in the midst of friends and relatives, his friend David had toasted her with To the nurse who got her doctor, and Dan had smiled in acknowledgement. As if she had pursued him! She had tried, Lord knows, to discuss issues with him, but he would dismiss her concerns with a comment about monthly hormonal surges. He would have nothing to do with family outings with her relatives—"They bore me"—only holidays with his sister, Stella, her husband and children.

What difficult times those were! Ada had tried to please, to make herself fit into the Carson structure, but she seemed always one step out off. But when Stella was diagnosed with brain cancer the year after she lost Stevie and Dan, it was Ada that had gone and tended to her those last months of illness. Out of sorrow though comes blessings; she had gotten to know and love her niece and nephew in those years before their father remarried and moved to Salina, California, with his new wife. Ada had been happy for Nick, but she missed Wyona and Gregory terribly. They still wrote to her, although less often now that both had their careers and family.

Enough! Ada reprimanded herself aloud. She had quite a nice life now, and why tango with those ghosts?

She lingered, shielding her eyes from the glare with a hand as she glanced from one side to the other, deciding which route to take back home. Again drifting along with the words to Adele’s song, Ada retraced her way home. Once inside her house, she threw away the sodden newspaper and rewound the twine onto its ball before she began the busy work of mending clothing to be given to the poor. The grandfather clock tolled noon when Adele tapped on the door.

Come in! Ada pulled the door wider for Adele and her five-string guitar. I hope you have a melody for me today, Miss Songbird!

Oh, Ada, Adele grumped, dropping into her favorite plump, green chair opposite Ada at the sewing machine. It’s easier to think about how wonderful to have written this song as to have actually done it!

Ada chuckled. Like all my projects! Let me hear what you’ve got. She flipped a shirt inside out and began to re-stitch the seam.

Adele’s mellifluous voice crooned the refrain,

When I look into your eyes,

I see my world anew,

When I look into your eyes

I fall in love with you.

Strumming the last notes on her guitar, she smiled shyly as Ada clapped.

Oh, that is nice, Adele! It’s coming along perfectly. What did you title it? She picked up a needle and threaded it.

‘Baby Blues,’ she quipped, setting aside her guitar. Heather and Rachel make me sing it to them every night at bedtime. I let them think it is about this one, she patted her belly, not Rodger.

Which reminds me, here’s the latest letter from him. She took the three pages from the top sewing drawer and walked over to hand them to Adele.

Rodger describes so well the paradox! On one hand he talks about how much he admires the Chinese people for their industry and courage, then how so many of the workers are hooked on opium and are starving to death.

Adele slipped off her sensible pumps and wiggled her toes. From his last letter he told me a lot about the country and customs of the Chinese people. I cannot image how awful it would be to hobble about on four inch feet like those poor Chinese women! I may never wear shoes that hurt my feet again.

Adele took the letter. Ada returned to sit again at the machine and worked the material beneath the presser foot. Adele’s song played in her thoughts as the machine hummed along.

Ada felt Adele’s penetrating gaze. From the corner of her eye she saw Adele refold the blue airmail letter and set it atop her guitar.

So, who the hell is this Dee?

Ada, chafed by Adele’s questions, pushed aside the half sewn tweed jacket, turned off the machine’s light, and faced the pretty, very pregnant young woman. She was Rodger’s first love.

And? Is there a tragic ending to this lover’s tale?

Has Rodger ever mentioned Big Red?

Adele shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The man who taught Rodger how to fight?

Box. He taught Rodger to box well enough to win the 1938 Golden Gloves in Chicago. Ada held Adele’s probing gaze. Katie Simmons, Dee’s mother, married Big Red and wanted to settle here—until someone in town found out he was a quarter black.

What happened?

Rodger’s father, and Sam, the man who taught Rodger to fly, got Big Red out of town the night the KKK burned his house down. Katie and Dee had already left that morning.

Adele tapped her front teeth with her index finger. That explains some of the nightmares Rodger has. Voices…and fire.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I don’t think any one of us ever took the time to explain it all to him. Ada looked away from Adele, pulling down her eyeglasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. Anyway, not enough to make it clear who did what to whom.

But Big Red got away safely? And Rodger still went on fighting. Adele pursed her lips, sighing. It just seems odd that Rodger ever started fighting.

"He boxed. Ada emphasized the word, knowing that only a whole explanation would satisfy Adele. He was badly beaten by the two town bullies, so his father took him to see Big Red."

What in the world would have possessed him to take on two men?

He was only eleven and they were twelve. His mother had made him wear a diaper and play outside the day before.

Madeline wouldn’t have done that! Adele sat straight up, her bulging stomach stretching taut the fabric of maternity dress. Her honey brown, bobbed hair swayed back and forth punctuating her disbelief. The way she dotes on Heather and Rachel, you’d think she was the perfect mother.

Perhaps she understands them better than she did Rodger. Ada stood up, tugging her housedress at the belt, as she stepped into the kitchen. Want some tea?

Yes, please. With milk, no sugar. English habit I got from flying so long with the Women’s Transport Auxiliary. I can’t drink it black anymore.

Do you miss it the excitement of being in action?

Ada’s question hung in the silence between them. She listened with all of her senses, relaxing only a little as Adele’s soft, modulated voice filled the space.

I guess I miss the intensity of it all. Adele entwined a strand of hair around a finger. But being an American woman, I was so different from the English. Now, her voice caught on a choked down sob as she crushed the letter tighter in her hand, being pregnant is so different from anything else. A month’s honeymoon with Rodger was...was…. Her hand dangled, then dropped in her lap. She began to smooth out the crinkles in the envelope.

They had fallen into the habit of being without Rodger so easily that it embarrassed Ada to hear Adele speak of her longing. She brought her tea.

It’s so unfair to have only lived together for a month. Didn’t you know each other for a year? But it’s not the same is it?

She put the cup in Adele’s outstretched hands.

This crazy war we’re not supposed to be fighting, well, it’s like time got all stirred up in a big pot and you just don’t know how the stew’s going to turn out.

Oh, yes, Ada. Waiting—it’s like a hundred razor nicks, just painful enough not to let you forget.

Ada nodded and patted her on the knee as she spoke.

Adele slowly inhaled the fragrance of the mint tea. Loving, too, has an edge to it.

Are you getting along all right with your in laws? It isn’t an easy situation for you, I imagine.

Oh, yes, we get along quite well. But thank God you’re next door!