When We Had Wings Read online

  Dedication

  For Elisabeth, our friend and champion

  Epigraph

  When you go home

  Tell them of us, and say

  For your tomorrow,

  We gave our today.

  —Patrick K. O’Donnell, Into the Rising Sun

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1941 One: Eleanor

  Two: Penny

  Three: Eleanor

  1942 Four: Lita

  Five: Penny

  Six: Lita

  Seven: Eleanor

  Eight: Lita

  Nine: Penny

  Ten: Eleanor

  Eleven: Lita

  Twelve: Penny

  Thirteen: Lita

  1943 Fourteen: Penny

  Fifteen: Eleanor

  Sixteen: Lita

  Seventeen: Penny

  Eighteen: Lita

  Nineteen: Eleanor

  1944 Twenty: Lita

  Twenty-One: Eleanor

  Twenty-Two: Penny

  Twenty-Three: Eleanor

  Twenty-Four: Lita

  Twenty-Five: Eleanor

  Twenty-Six: Penny

  Twenty-Seven: Lita

  1945 Twenty-Eight: Eleanor

  Twenty-Nine: Lita

  Thirty: Penny

  Thirty-One: Lita

  Thirty-Two: Eleanor

  Thirty-Three: Penny

  Thirty-Four: Lita

  Thirty-Five: Eleanor

  Thirty-Six: Penny

  Thirty-Seven: Lita

  Thirty-Eight: Penny

  Thirty-Nine: Eleanor

  Forty: Lita

  Forty-One: Penny

  Epilogue

  Authors’ Note

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Praise for When We Had Wings

  Other Novels

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Manila

  August 1941

  A sultry and sweetly fragrant breeze swept across Manila Bay as Eleanor Lindstrom walked carefully down the gangplank of the just-docked naval transport ship, mindful that her land legs might be slow in returning. A band was playing a cheerful Benny Goodman tune as she and other disembarking servicemen and women stepped onto solid ground. Filipino nationals on the other side of a rope held up by stanchions were waving hello and hawking maps of the islands or taxi rides or paper bags of sweets or bouquets of aromatic frangipani blossoms. The late-afternoon air was thick with their excitement but also with humidity that rivaled anything Eleanor had felt back home on a Minnesota midsummer’s day.

  The mood all around her was festive, despite the stifling heat, and she wanted to linger, to take it all in, and let the buoyant atmosphere energize her. Fortify her. Calm her. Crossing the Pacific, especially for a twenty-three-year-old Midwesterner who had never even seen the ocean before, had been challenging, yes, but it wasn’t just the fatigue of travel that made her want to stop and fully embrace the novelty of her new surroundings. It was far more than that.

  It was deciding on a whim to apply to the Navy and getting accepted so quickly. Leaving for training barely three weeks after signing on the dotted line. Saying goodbye to civilian life. Leaving her friends and fellow nurses at Abbott Northwestern Hospital in Minneapolis. Hugging her parents and sister farewell and knowing a three-year overseas assignment meant it would likely be several years before she saw them or the family dairy barns again.

  And all this change because she’d fallen in love with a man who loved another.

  Eleanor set down her suitcase, closed her eyes, and breathed in deep the smells and sounds and feel of her new world, a world so far from all she knew, all she loved, and the part she needed to stop loving.

  It hadn’t been a mistake to join the Navy Nurse Corps, she knew that. Eleanor had nursing skills they obviously needed, and she needed an abrupt change in her day-to-day life. Both she and the Corps had gotten what they desired.

  She loved being a nurse, had wanted to be one since her earliest childhood memories of pretending her dolls were sick or hurt and needed her kind attention. She loved her country, too, and was proud to now be serving in the Corps. And she’d always hoped to one day travel to a foreign land and experience a vastly different culture. But she knew these were not the real reasons she was standing at that moment on an ocean pier, thousands of miles from home.

  Eleanor felt a hand on her arm and opened her eyes. A fellow naval officer was standing in front of her. The single gold bar on his lapel indicated he was an ensign; the lowest ranking of officers, so fairly new to military life, like she was. He carried a clipboard in his hand.

  “Hey, are you feeling alright? Do you need to sit for a moment?” Concern etched his face.

  Standing with her eyes closed after just getting off the ship had surely suggested she was about to faint. “I’m fine.” She laughed nervously and he withdrew his hand. “I was just . . . enjoying the fresh air.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He peered at the name tag on her uniform. “Nurse Lindstrom. Good. I found you. I’m Ensign Mathis from Command, and I’m here to make sure you and the other new Navy arrivals get to where you’re supposed to be today. You are the only new Navy medical staff on this transport, yes?”

  “Yes. Just me. I was told someone would meet me dockside. Thanks for being here.”

  “Certainly. Headquarters has arranged a driver for you.” Ensign Mathis pointed to a shiny black sedan parked just on the other side of a chain-link fence.

  “What about my trunk?” Eleanor held tight to her hat as a breeze kicked up.

  “It will be brought up from the hold and taken to the Yard.” He referred to the Cavite Naval Yard the way all the sailors and naval officers had during her days aboard the ship. “You’ll find it waiting for you when you arrive at your quarters later tonight. Right now, you’re expected at the ANC for this week’s welcome briefing.”

  He picked up her suitcase and walked toward an opening in the fence.

  “The ANC?” Eleanor rushed to keep up, feeling like her legs were made of rubber.

  Ensign Mathis looked back. “Sorry.” He slowed his pace. “The ANC is the Army Navy Club.”

  “A club?”

  “For officers of the U.S. Armed Forces, active and retired, and for service nurses too. And a few carefully screened American businessmen living here. It’s a pretty popular place. Big. Ballrooms, bars, a tearoom, a couple restaurants, hotel rooms. Very nice. And not far.”

  The ensign handed her suitcase to the Filipino driver who’d stepped out of the car as they drew near. “Alright, then, you’re all set. From the ANC you’ll be driven to the Yard to get settled in whenever you’re ready to leave the club. After the briefing a lot of people stay for drinks and dinner. The food is really good. It’s pretty much a party atmosphere there.”

  She glanced down at her uniform. “I’m not exactly decked out for a party.”

  “It won’t matter. A lot of people go there in uniform, so you’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  The driver closed the trunk and then came around to open her door.

  “Thanks for your help, Ensign Mathis.” Eleanor turned to get into the car.

  “Enjoy your tour at the Yard,” he replied with an easy smile. “You being a nurse, I sort of hope I don’t see you again. If you know what I mean.”

  She grinned in return as she got inside. “How about only at the . . . uh, ANC now and then?”

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  He shut the door, waved, and then turned back for the ship, no doubt to assist other naval newcomers.

  In a sna
p the driver was behind the wheel, then pulled the car out onto a street full of vehicles, people walking and riding bicycles, sailors milling about. Vendors in stalls were selling prepared food with names on the signage she had no idea how to pronounce. Palm trees and flowering vines abounded, and birdsong drifted in through the car’s open windows, the likes of which she’d never heard before.

  For a moment Eleanor wanted to hightail it back to the ship. She was out of place here, a stranger to this city, an alien to its way of life.

  And yet the magical view on the other side of the window was welcoming. It was as if Manila was opening its arms to her, as if the island on which it lay yearned to soothe the ache of having lost what had never been hers, that it was already promising it would. She hadn’t known a place other than home could do that. The desire to bolt evaporated as quickly as it had stolen across her.

  “First time in the Philippines?” The driver cast a warm glance back at her.

  “First time anywhere.” Eleanor nodded.

  * * *

  Punctuality had never been Lita Capel’s strong suit, and sadly today was no exception. As she wove her way down the bustling sidewalk headed for the ANC, a typical chiding from her oldest sister—make that all three of her sisters—echoed through her mind: “Daydreaming again? What a dillydallier you are. I swear, bunso, only you could make turtles seem quick.”

  An endearment in Tagalog for the baby of the family, bunso inadvertently carried the needling reminder of where Lita, even at twenty-two, stood in the pecking order of four children. In fact, the nickname appeared at the start of every letter her sisters sent from New York, where together the siblings were building exciting new lives while working as nurses at some fancy hospital in a city called Brooklyn. Always included in their updates were assurances that their petition to the American government, requesting permission for Lita to immigrate and join them, would meet approval any day.

  Of course, they’d been saying this ever since she graduated from nursing school more than a year ago. Rising tensions between America and Asia seemed to have slowed the process. Still, she prayed her sisters were right, now more than ever given the recent onslaught of headlines—like those being shouted at this very moment, in both English and Tagalog, by paperboys as Lita passed by.

  “Emperor Hirohito condemns U.S. embargo!”

  “Japan refuses to surrender airfields in Indochina!”

  “President Quezon implores keeping peace!”

  The Filipino leader, unlike Lita, was surely old enough to remember when the U.S. acquired the Philippines from Spain, setting off a bloody, three-year-long conflict with Filipino rebels.

  Needing to cross the street, Lita waited anxiously for a break in the near-constant flow of motorcars. Honks punctuated the rumbling of engines and exhaust fumes choking the air. Holding her nurse cap atop her head, she dashed through an opening and away from the newsboys’ warnings that intensified her brewing dread.

  Over the past two weeks, as punishment for the Japanese invasion of Indochina—a reality reinforced even now by the throngs of Chinese refugees mixed within the crowd—America had not only frozen Japan’s assets but also established an embargo on its oil and gasoline exports. Should the countries go to battle, a violent tug-of-war would surely ensue for control of the Philippine Islands, thanks to their strategic locations for bases, communications, and supplies.

  The Great War was meant to end all wars, she’d heard since childhood. And yet with Hitler’s forces wrangling for domination over all of Europe and now invading the Soviets’ lands, was another world war looming? If so, would Lita be trapped here, caught in the cross fire?

  “Oh, stop already,” she muttered. As life had mercilessly taught her, there was no point in dwelling on things beyond her control. A social evening would serve as a fine distraction.

  Plowing onward, she cut through a waft of spices from a vendor hawking empanadas and adobo. As she rounded the corner, between hats and heads she spotted the familiar three-story building, stately and elegant with its thick columns and a circular drive teeming with vehicles. Potted palms and climbing bougainvillea adorned the front, along with a sign identifying it as the Army Navy Club. Servicemembers and civilians—of which she was one, though cross-trained with U.S. Army nurses—filtered in and out of the entrance.

  Finally there herself, she trailed impatiently behind a trio of American sailors. The fairest of them turned and grandly kept the door open for her. With a polite smile she stepped past him to enter. Whether from his carelessness or her own, his arm brushed the chest of her uniform, and she bristled.

  “Sorry about that.” He looked genuinely abashed, and Lita realized she’d flashed him a glare. Not intentional. A reflex, and for good reason.

  Being a mestiza, the product of a Filipina mother and an American-missionary father—or “half-breed” according to the crueler girls in school—she’d learned long ago that many American boys viewed girls like her as easy. Either way, considering her future plans, there was no reason to invest in any courtship when she wouldn’t be sticking around.

  Thus she merely nodded at the sailor before continuing into the large foyer. Waved through by a familiar receptionist, Lita reapplied her usual cheerful veneer. It wasn’t difficult in light of her surroundings.

  Although beautifully appointed with fresh flowers in vases, ample sitting areas, and plush carpeting, the space’s most marvelous feature was its air cooler. Despite being a good fifteen minutes late to meet her friend, she couldn’t help but pause in the midst of passing an icy breeze from an overhead vent. A pleasant shiver ran the length of her back, making her aware of the sweat dampening her blouse.

  A native of a fishing village on the island of Leyte, where air-conditioning was unfathomable, she couldn’t imagine ever taking the luxury for granted.

  “Are you lost, dear?” a woman asked, a floral dress draping her matronly form.

  Lita felt a bit foolish for lingering. “Oh. I’m just heading toward Salon B.”

  “Well, in that case, you’ll want to take this hallway to the end, make a left, and you’ll run smack-dab into it.”

  Lita was tempted to explain that she wasn’t new to the place, that since first befriending Penny, a sweet yet feisty U.S. Army nurse, a month ago at the hospital, they’d made an occasional habit of meeting here for chitchat they didn’t have time for when their paths crossed during their daily rounds. Rather, she replied simply, “Thank you.”

  “No, no, my dear, thank you.”

  Bewildered, Lita tilted her head.

  “If it weren’t for nurses like you, my husband wouldn’t be up and walking about. You girls are doing the Lord’s work.”

  At that Lita issued a grateful smile. But as they parted ways, she felt the recurrent burden that never failed to accompany such compliments. For when it came to the devotion and selflessness of her job, in all truth, she remained an imposter.

  * * *

  Penny Franklin needed a drink. She angled toward her favorite table in Salon B. It was nestled in the back corner beside an open window, a convenient distance from the watchful eye of her supervisor, Maude Davison, who was sitting near the front. Since claiming it for herself weeks earlier, Penny thought of her spot as the “bad behavior table,” a place to whisper and gossip with Lita when attending a required meeting in Salon B.

  She smiled at the young soldier who stepped forward to pull out her chair.

  “Thank you.” She tried not to laugh as a blush crept across his face.

  He cleared his throat. “Ma’am.” When he bobbed his head in greeting, she noticed the thin silver scar that ran through his left eyebrow, splicing it neatly in two.

  The boy was sixteen if he was a day. Just another kid who lied about his age and ran off to join the Army looking for adventure. Not so different from her, perhaps. Except for the age. Penny had at least a decade on him. At this point in her life, however, sixteen felt as long ago and far away as Texas.

  Thre
e more upholstered chairs were situated around her table, and like all the others in the room, it was topped with a pressed linen tablecloth. Glinting chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Several naval officers in day dress were arranging papers at the front of the room at a tall, carved podium. Four dozen people were already in the room in little groups, most in uniform, some sitting, some standing around and laughing as they waited for the briefing to begin.

  Once settled in her seat, Penny leaned toward the vase and inhaled the scent of jasmine. A month in Manila and that rich, exotic scent still hadn’t grown old. Nor had the feel of cool air against her warm skin. Her mother’s patio in Houston was covered in geranium-filled terra-cotta pots, and even though she loved their wet-earth smell, they didn’t compare to Philippine jasmine. So yes, perhaps the other side of the world wasn’t such a bad place to lick her wounds after all.

  “Franklin,” came a deep, familiar voice. “Sleeping on the job again?”

  Penny opened her eyes and turned to find Captain Charley Russell, quartermaster, source of unrelenting aggravation, standing in front of her. As ever, his face was unreadable and his presence unwelcome. Penny swept an imperious glance over the highball glass in his hand.

  “Better than drinking on the job.”

  It wasn’t so much a smile that danced at the corner of his mouth—he had never once smiled at her in all the weeks she’d worked with him—but acknowledgment of a barb well traded. Tit for tat. He was in civilian clothes after all, clearly off duty, so the remark could hardly be considered impertinent.

  “Why bother just fighting a war when you can fight a hangover at the same time?” he said, voice so dry and humorless she couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  Penny scowled. “That sounds like a lot to handle at once.”

  He wiggled his fingers. “Ambidextrous.”

  Penny lifted a glass of water in a half-hearted salute and noticed that his eyes, as they had many times before, fell to her ring finger and the ghost tan line that resided there. She’d taken her wedding ring off before leaving Texas, but the truth was there for all the world to see: Lieutenant Penny Franklin had once been married but no longer was. And oh the assumptions that always came with that realization. She waited for Russell to finally broach the subject. Instead he held her gaze for one long, curious second until she broke the connection and looked toward the door.