Matt and Mary Ann: A Love Story from Not so Long Ago

By Robert D. Davis

Following the the successful
publication of his last book,
Before I Forget, which is in
process of fi lm adaptation, the
author now unfolds the story
of U.S. fl ier Matt Roberts, and
his attempts to balance the
unrelenting demands of WWII
with the world he left behind.
Dont miss this compelling tale
of love and adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468595772

Robert D. Davis

Following the the successful publication of his last book, “Before I Forget,” which is in process of film adaptation, the author now unfolds the story of U.S. flier Matt Roberts, and his attempts to balance the unrelenting demands of WWII with the world he left behind. Don’t miss this compelling tale of love and adventure.

Book preview

Chapter One

Hi, would you like to dance?--one, two, three, four--

No, she replied without looking up.

Your partner seems to be enjoying himself at the bar so I think one dance might be in order.

Now she looked up--right in my eye and said, I don’t dance with flyers.

Since most of the fellows there that night at the base N.C.O. club were non-flying personnel, I thought that was a too easy choice for her to make. She and the sergeant must be a steady twosome. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be ignoring her by leaving her alone with him sitting at the bar.

What do you have against flyers?

They have a bad habit of not showing up when they say they’re going to. Not a trace of a smile. Very cool.

It was the middle of April, 1944, and I had just finished flying four bombing missions over Germany in the last five days.

Saturday night and the rest of my crew had opted to go into Kings Lynn to visit the pubs.

I knew the N.C.O. club had dancing on Saturday nights and that some of the local girls would be there--so why not? I was too tired for pub-crawling anyhow. I leaned against the wall, nursing my beer, and found myself watching this girl dance. Very attractive: white blouse, plaid skirt, white bobby sox and saddle shoes. She could have easily stepped off a sidewalk in my hometown in Ohio. Plus, she knew how to dance to the swing music coming from the jukebox. All good things in my book.

Well, I’m not asking you to ask you about dancing with me tomorrow--or next week--I’m asking about a dance now. I said this with a smile--keeping it light--even though I desperately wanted to hold something feminine in my arms right then--right now.

Just then a record started to play on the jukebox--Glen Miller’s Old Black Magic.

She sat thinking for a moment, then stood and held out her hand to me. I took her hand. Hi, again. I’m Matt Roberts.

Wynn Hickman.

We had danced before--it seemed. Just a little stiffness at first and then it was a perfect first dance.

I was definitely in the present and completely guilt free. I hadn’t gotten a letter from Marie in two months, although I was getting them from everyone else. For some reason, I didn’t feel any regret. Not a bit. No letter was the same as a ‘Dear John’ as far as I was concerned. I thought, well, the engagement was probably just a wartime ‘thing to do’ and had become just another casualty. I was already accustomed to casualties.

The music stopped and I didn’t let her go. Just stood there and so did she. Close. Another song begins--Artie Shaw’s Begin the Beguine.

You are a very good dancer--you dance like an American girl.

She smelled so clean and so nice. Some kind of light perfume. Memories came flooding in. Saturday night dance at the Y. Home. Ah’ man.

My mother is American. My Dad is English.

Another song, and by the time this dance is over, I see the Sergeant has returned to their table--so I take her back and thank her for the dance.

Another song--they sit.

Another song and he’s back at the bar. I catch her eye and nod, and she nods back. Just like that and, ’hey, we’re dancin.’

I really think we should talk about your ideas about ‘flyers’, because I would really like to see you again.

I was trying very hard to keep a sense of urgency out of my voice, for I knew full well what she was talking about flyers not showing up for dates. It seemed to be happening now for some crew every time we flew.

I was the flight engineer on a B-24 crew stationed near Kings Lynn.

There were many bomber bases all around the area northeast of London. Both U.S. and British.

When the weather permitted--and sometimes when it didn’t--you could always hear the sound of aircraft engines in the sky--us in the daytime or the British at night.

When the weather was good, they were really pushing us: hard. Sometimes missions were flown three or four days in a row--at times, even twice a day by a bomb group. Mostly German airfields or marshaling yards.

The invasion was coming, and we all knew it. But there had become a primary purpose in our missions, although it was unstated, and that was to get the German fighters up in the air so our fighters could shoot them down.

We were bait; plain and simple.

So, we were losing a lot of bombers and crews, which we could afford--but the Germans were losing most of their fighter air force--which they could not afford.

Wynn said she lived with her mother in Scarning, a small village close by the base, and worked as a long-distance switchboard operator in Kings Lynn.

I pressed on--Tell you what, if I find I don’t have to fly this coming Saturday, how about you being with me? I can ride my bike to your home. I know they provide transport for you to the N.C.O. club, so we could finish the day dancing--and I could talk to you more about ‘flyers’--I could call you Friday and let you know for sure--

The closer we got as we danced, the closer I wanted to get.

A minute or two passed--seemed like years--and she said, Alright, Matt, next Saturday it is, and then we’ll see.

I watched her leave on the truck. At least he helped her on board--but no farewell hug or kiss. Well, just maybe--

A light rain started to fall--but not enough to make me run--as I headed back to my hut.

I kept thinking of her voice, kind of low-pitched, but very clear. I don’t know why, but I had expected more of a soprano quality.

Because she was taller than most girls I knew--say five-six or so--and slender, I couldn’t get over how nicely she fit to me on the slow dances.

Liked her hair, too, not quite an ash blonde but definitely on the lighter side.

Eyes--blue, wide open and straight at you.

I knew she had a serious side--because serious moments were all we really had had up until now--but, for some reason, I wanted to hear her laugh--wanted to make her laugh--wanted to laugh with her--wanted . . . .

Chapter Two

I wasn’t able to call Wynn the next day, Sunday, as we were put on alert for a Monday mission--so no calls allowed.

Rain off and on. My crew straggled in from their night on the town. Not much in the way of conversation from anyone except Ed Cole, the tail gunner. He always had something to say and always talked to an audience. He wasn’t interested in a response--just listen. Good man in the turret though.

The engines coughed and barked their way into life--one by one--then settled into a solid rumble--they sounded good to me. Now with a little encouragement from the throttles, their voices raised, and the ship started to move. The brakes squealed and shrieked as we taxied out of the revetment and onto the taxiway and joined the other B-24’s bobbing and weaving like a line of drunken ducks, waiting to take-off. We waited. And waited. The weather was bad, the clouds were very low; and although it hadn’t rained, the runway still appeared to glisten. Apparently enough moisture for that. Finally, finally, finally--after what had seemed to be hours of waiting--in reality, maybe only fifteen or twenty minutes--a flare rises in the air over the tower, and the first plane starts to roll. Soon it’s our turn. We’re rollin’ and no thoughts now except those of the moment we’re in and what’s to come.

We finally break out on top around five thousand feet and there’s the sunshine. And lots and lots of airplanes. We begin the slow circling and steady climbing as we assemble into our assigned group and wing formations. In some ways it was somewhat like a formal dance--just don’t get too close.

We’re carrying one-hundred pound bombs today and heading for a marshaling yard in France. Clouds covering the target.

Some dunderhead in operations forgot to order a Pathfinder for the mission. So--if you can’t see the target--you can’t bomb.

A few fighters. A long way away. They didn’t close with us.

The cloud cover didn’t bother the flak gunners.

Even though we were bringing back a full load of bombs, Lt. Eiger still sat the ship down so smoothly--like on glass.

We could see where someone who had landed before us hadn’t been so lucky and had strung their bombs, which hadn’t exploded, all along the side of the runway. Didn’t see their ship.

Other than getting shot at, it might have been considered a rather uneventful day.

A cigarette, a shot of scotch and the de-briefing, then back to the hut. I had been looking forward to making the phone call to Wynn--but found our crew had been put on alert status for tomorrow.--No calls.

I’m a little surprised that the thoughts about this girl keep circling around in my head.

What if she is as interested as I seem to be?

Tomorrow has been my only focus for the future for such a long time--

Tuesday. They roused us at 1:30 A.M.

The latrine is cold. You can see your breath.

No way am I going to shower when the washroom is this cold.

I brush my teeth, wash my face and shave.

I shave, only because if I don’t shave, my oxygen mask gets fairly uncomfortable on a long mission--and this figures to be one.

Breakfast and then