Of Windmills and War Read online

  Copyright © 2012 Diane Moody

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Cover design by Hannah Moody

  Other Titles from OBT Bookz

  (click the title for more information)

  From Author Diane Moody

  The Runaway Pastor’s Wife

  Blue Christmas –The Moody Blue Trilogy (Book One)

  Blue Like Elvis –The Moody Blue Trilogy (Book Two)

  Confessions of a Prayer Slacker

  Tea with Emma – The Teacup Novellas (Book One)

  Strike the Match – The Teacup Novellas (Book Two)

  Home to Walnut Creek – The Teacup Novellas (Book Three)

  From Author McMillian Moody

  Ordained Irreverence – Elmo Jenkins (Book One)

  Some Things Never Change – Elmo Jenkins (Book Two)

  Front cover windmill image | © @ Jaap Hart | iStockphoto.com

  Baseball/flag image | © Leslie Banks | Dreamstime.com

  Beagle image © Jagodka | Dreamstime.com

  Vintage letters © Maigi | Dreamstime.com

  B-17, 390th Bomb Group, Operation Chowhound | Public Domain

  Scripture taken from the New Century Version®.

  Copyright © 2005 by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Though this is a work of fiction, many of the stories and anecdotes included were inspired by actual events that happened in the life of the author’s father. Some names used in this book are those of real people; however any dialogue or activity presented is purely fictional.

  Dedication

  To Glenn Howard Hale

  proud veteran,

  longsuffering Cubs fan,

  and faithful father;

  this one’s for you, Dad.

  To the men of the 390th Bomb Group (H),

  Third Division of the Eighth Air Force.

  For your service, sacrifice, and willingness

  to stand in the gap for others

  both at home and around the world.

  You were so young and yet so brave—

  truly, you were the Greatest Generation,

  and we will never forget.

  He rained down manna for them to eat;

  He gave them grain from heaven.

  So they ate the bread of angels;

  He sent them all the food they could eat.

  Psalms 78:24-25

  On a personal note

  Since 1984, my mother and father attended the yearly reunions of the 390th Bomb Group, for which Dad served as a co-pilot in World War II. These reunions were always the highlight of Mom and Dad’s year, seeing old friends and new. After Mom passed away in 2007, my sister and I started attending the reunions with Dad. We have the best time! These men who served our country at such a young age—eighteen, nineteen, and some even younger who lied about their age to get in—still love to get together to share war stories and never-forgotten memories. With each passing year, we find the descendents outnumbering our war heroes at these reunions. Still, our unique, common bond as we continue the legacy of these great men lives on.

  Year after year, I began to notice something. Whenever one of the veterans talked about the Chowhound Missions, they would tear up. To a man, the mere mention of those food drops to the starving Dutch people in Occupied Holland would stir such strong emotions, they’d have to pause to collect themselves. How was that possible after all these decades later?

  At the 2011 reunion in New Orleans, while discussing Operation Chowhound with our good friend Bob Penovich, I told him I was thinking about writing a novel to tell the story behind this little-known but life-changing mission at the end of World War II. I wish you could have seen how his eyes lit up. Bob was a B-17 pilot in the 390th who often speaks on behalf of his fellow veterans, and particularly about Chowhound. A few minutes later, I told my friend Wendy MacVicar about my idea, and mentioned how interesting it would be to have both sides of this story—from the perspectives of the men flying those missions and the people on the ground receiving them. Wendy grabbed my arm and told me of a friend whose mother had been a young Dutch girl when these food drops took place in Holland and had witnessed them herself. Wendy and I both got chills. Now there was no turning back, and I couldn’t wait to start writing.

  I have never written a historical novel before, and I must admit I was intimidated from the outset at the amount of research required to do the story justice. But once I started, I was totally consumed with the fascinating stories and accounts I read. What was it like for a young man barely out of his teens to sign up to fight in a war of this scope? What was it like for a young girl growing up in Occupied Holland? We’re all familiar with the stories of Anne Frank and Corrie Ten Boom, but I knew there was so much more to tell. What was it like to be a part of the Dutch Resistance movement? And what must it have felt like to be starving during those brutal months of the Hunger Winter? How did it feel to be constantly consumed by death and despair all around you? And what was it like for those young men to fly missions bringing hope and life-saving provisions to these desperate Dutch survivors after years of dropping bombs of death and destruction?

  These were the questions that set up camp in my soul. These were the stories I felt driven to tell. I don’t pretend to be an expert historian. I pray I got it right, but please remember this is a work of fiction. My goal was to write the story in such a way that my readers would feel like they were there, experiencing this crucial moment in our history. And if I have done my job well, perhaps they will better understand in a new and fresh way the tremendous sacrifices of those who gave so much.

  Before I wrote a single word, I dedicated this book to my father, Glenn Hale. I’ve grown up hearing my father talk of his experiences in the U.S. Army Air Force during WWII. Even now, at 89 years young, he can tell you where he was on any given date back in 1944 or 1945. Several years ago we convinced him to write a memoir about those years which have remained so deeply embedded in his heart. The memoir was a tremendous resource for my story. But for the record, while “Danny” has much in common with my father, Danny is a fictional character.

  On 2 March 1945, Dad and his crew had to bail out of a crippled B-17 into Poland. It would be two months to the day before he got back to Framlingham on 2 May 1945—just in time to take part in Operation Chowhound. And like so many others who flew those food drops, Dad was tremendously moved by the experience. Not only gratified to be able to help the starving Dutch people, Dad felt it was a fitting way to thank the thousands of Dutch Resistance workers who had helped so many downed Allied airmen avoid capture by the Germans.

  Over the years, Dad has had several opportunities to take some rather nostalgic rides in the vintage B-17s still flying, primarily the Liberty Belle and the Memphis Belle. On two of these occasions, I had the privilege of accompanying him on these flights. To see the local media gathering around my rock-star Dad was such a thrill. With all those microphones thrust in his face and cameras rolling, his message has always, always been the same—“We must never forget.”

  With textbooks sparing only a short paragraph or two to cover the entire scope of World War II, our future generations will know nothing about the great sacrifices made for them in the name of freedom. Not long ago we heard about a group of students visiting the Eighth Air Force Museum in Savannah, Georgia. The docent leading their tour, a P-47 veteran from WWII, was asked, “Did you serve in World War eleven?” Sadly, the person asking the question was the teacher.

  God help us.

  If my story helps remind even one person abo
ut the hard-fought and precious gift of freedom, then I shall consider it a success.

  Diane Moody

  November 2012

  For more information on the 390th Bomb Group, please visit their website at http://www.390th.org/

  Or visit the 390th Memorial Museum

  Located on the grounds of

  the Pima Air & Space Museum

  6000 East Valencia Road

  Tucson, Arizona 85756

  520.574.0287

  Diane Moody

  Part I

  1

  June 1938

  Chicago, Illinois

  “For Your many provisions, we give thanks, O Lord. For Your grace and mercy and love beyond measure . . .”

  With his head still bowed as his mother prayed, fifteen-year-old Danny McClain slowly crawled his fingers into the basket of biscuits resting just beyond his glass of tea. Working his hand beneath the cloth napkin covering the warm biscuits, he grabbed the closest one and slid it silently onto his plate.

  “And today, we thank You especially for the occasion of Joey’s graduation. Bless him as he begins this new chapter in his life.”

  Danny peeked across the table at his brother, surprised to find Joey’s head bowed. Ever the family clown, Joey had been his role model for mischief as far back as Danny could remember. Sneaking biscuits during Mom’s prayer was practically a ritual between them.

  “And now, O Lord, we ask You to bless this food for our nourishment and us for Thy service. Amen.”

  “Amen,” they echoed around the table. Everyone except Dad, that is. Danny’s father tolerated Mom’s prayers, but otherwise he just ignored God. As usual, he quickly changed the subject.

  “I want you to run the route with me tonight, Joey. I’ll expect you ready to go at midnight sharp.”

  “Tonight?” Joey stabbed a pork chop and dropped it onto his plate. “But I’m meeting up with the guys tonight. We just graduated and we’re all going down to the—”

  “Precisely,” Dad snapped, plopping a mound of mashed potatoes on his plate. “That little stunt you pulled at graduation was a disgrace. If you weren’t eighteen, I’d take you out to the shed and make sure that never happened again. But you’re out of school now, and it’s time to grow up. You’ll have plenty of time for your friends later. Tonight you come with me. It’s time you learned the family business. Might as well be tonight.”

  Danny looked at Joey and watched his brother’s face crimson as he spooned green beans onto his plate. He noticed the little nerve along his brother’s jaw line twitching. Never a good sign.

  “Frank, don’t you think Joey deserves a night off?” Mom asked quietly. “This should be a night of celebration with his friends, and—

  “And when I want your opinion, Betty, I’ll ask for it.”

  Mom didn’t respond. She took a small bite of her potatoes but said nothing.

  Why does she let him talk to her that way? Why does she put up with him? Danny hated dinners that started this way. You could cut the tension with a butter knife. They always ended the same—with everyone all worked up and saying stuff he didn’t like hearing. He focused on the butter he was slathering on each half of his biscuit, hoping to tune them out.

  After a few moments of uneasy silence, Danny said, “Hey Joey, did you see the carrot cake Mom made you? Five layers!”

  “Yeah, Danny, I saw it.” Joey put his fork down. “I keep telling you, Dad. It’s your business, not mine. I never wanted it. I’m real proud of you and all you’ve done, but it’s not what I want to do with my life.”

  “It’s good work and you’re mighty lucky to have it,” Dad answered, mumbling a few choice words.

  Danny heard his mother’s long sigh. “Frank, please,” she said.

  “I’ll say what I want to say. It’s my home. I built it. And no one’s gonna tell me how to talk in my own house.”

  Danny mouthed his father’s words along with him. The discussion was another family ritual, one he didn’t like at all. He snuck a peek at Mom and wasn’t surprised to see her eyes glistening. How come she always cries? She’s heard it a thousand times before. Surely she’s used to it by now. Still, Danny often marveled at his mother’s gentle ways and wondered how on earth someone so kind and loving ended up with someone so hateful and mean.

  She cleared her throat and tried to smile. Danny didn’t even try.

  Suddenly Joey stood, the legs of his chair scraping against the hard wood floor. “May I be excused?”

  “Sit down and finish your dinner,” his father growled. “There’s plenty of folks that would be happy to have a hot plate of home-cooked food right now, so you just park yourself back in that chair and clean your plate.”

  Danny rolled his eyes. He watched Joey take a long, deep breath then turn toward his mother. “Mom, thanks for dinner.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, picked up his plate and glass, then left the room.

  “You get back here this instant!” Dad yelled.

  The squeaky hinge of the back door preceded a mighty slam. His dad launched into a tirade laced generously with four-letter words. He cursed the day Joey was born and railed at Mom for being too easy on him. Then he threw down his knife and fork and stormed out of the room.

  Danny and his mother sat there listening as the door slammed a second time and the colorful language gradually faded. He just hoped Joey had high-tailed it out of the neighborhood.

  Danny forked another bite of potatoes and smushed it into the remaining beans on his plate. “Joey’s never gonna work for Dad. How come Dad won’t let him just do what he wants?”

  Mom carefully folded her napkin and set it beside her plate. “Your father’s a complicated man, Danny.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. He knows Joey wants to join the Navy. If you ask me, he’s just being stubborn.”

  She peered over her glasses. “It’s not your concern, son. Best you stay out of it.”

  “But Mom, it is my concern. I see the way he treats Joey. He treats me the same way. It’s not right!”

  “That’s enough.”

  Something in her tone slowed the anger boiling inside him. He finished off his biscuit and washed it down with a gulp of tea. He waited, wondering if his father would come back. He waited, wondering what his mother would say if he did. But he’d heard it all before.

  In the fall Danny would be a junior in high school. In two years, he’d be the one graduating. He wasn’t about to let this scenario play out when his turn came. He wanted to go to college and get a degree. Like his brother, he didn’t want to carry film cans from one theater to another all night every night. He’d go crazy doing the same thing over and over, night after night.

  Right then and there, Danny decided to make a plan. He’d work extra hard to make good grades so he’d be accepted at Northwestern—maybe even get a scholarship. He’d work hard each summer mowing yards and doing as many odd jobs as he could. In the winter, he’d shovel snow for his neighbors and see if Mr. Chaney needed help at the corner grocery store. He’d open a savings account and save every dime he made.

  Because when it was his turn to walk across that stage in a cap and gown, and his turn to sit down to a family dinner afterward, Mom and Dad would both know Daniel Howard McClain had plans. Big plans!

  With his newly resolved determination, a wave of relief washed over him. He reached over and squeezed his mother’s hand. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to celebrate. How about we cut us a couple pieces of that carrot cake?”

  Danny sat straight up in bed, his heart pounding. “What?” He looked around in the darkness, wondering what had awakened him. He turned on his bedside lamp and looked at his clock. Eleven fifty-five. He’d only been asleep for a couple hours. He could hear the yelling downstairs and wondered what on earth could have happened. Suddenly his mother appeared at his door.

  “Mom? What is it? What’s going on?”

  She covered her face with her hands and wept, her
shoulders shaking.

  Danny threw back the covers and crossed the room, grabbing his mother’s arm. “Mom, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

  She took a moment to compose herself, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. “It’s Joey. He’s gone.”

  “What? You mean he still hasn’t come back since dinner?”

  “No, he came back. He told us he was going to lie down for a little while before going with Dad on his routes. And . . . and I went to bed. Your father had set the alarm to get up at eleven forty-five like he always does. And when he did, he went to Joey’s room to wake him up and he was gone. His bed was made. He was just gone. He left a note . . .”

  “A note?”

  “It said he’d enlisted in the Navy way back in March. He was leaving to report for duty.” Suddenly she looked up at him. “Danny, did you know? Did he tell you he was doing this?”

  “No! I would have told you if he had, Mom. He never said a word to me about it.”

  She sniffed a couple more times and wiped her eyes again. “Your father . . .”

  “Dad must’ve hit the roof.”

  “I’ve never seen him so angry. He said such horrible things.”

  “Every time Joey brought up going into the service, Dad got upset. Why? Why’s he so dead set against it?”

  She walked over and sat on the end of Danny’s bed. “I don’t really know. He lost a lot of friends in the Great War. I suppose maybe he’s afraid of losing Joey if we should get pulled back into the trouble over in Europe.”

  “But if Joey wants to serve his country, why can’t Dad just be proud of him and let him do it?”

  She smoothed her cotton robe and took a deep breath. “I can’t speak for your father.” She shook her head. “Oh Joey, what have you done? What have you done!”