Excerpt of The Victory Club by Robin Lee Hatcher

The Lord is my strength and my song; he has become my victory. Songs of joy and victory are sung in the camp of the godly. The strong right arm of the Lord has done glorious things! (Ps 118:14-15)

February 1943

Chapter 1

Jeb Pratt shifted into second as the lumbering bus began its ascent of the final hill. The whine of the engine sounded anything but healthy. He hoped the old girl wouldn’t break down today. It was colder than all git out this morning. He didn’t figure the thermostat would see 25 degrees. Not with this wind.

“Come on, Bessie,” he muttered to the bus. “Gotta get everybody to work on time.”

Jeb might not be able to serve his country in the Army or the Navy, being he was approaching sixty-five years of age, but he figured he was doing his part since his route included transporting civilian employees to and from the air base south of Boise.

He glanced into his rear view mirror at his four remaining passengers. These ladies were his Gowen Field regulars, and over the last few months, he felt like he’d come to know them. Not because he chatted much with them himself. No, sir. That would’ve been frowned upon by his superiors. His job was to pay attention to the road, especially in weather like this. But he couldn’t help listening in on their conversations with one another, so he’d gleaned a thing or two about each one of them.

Take Margo King, for instance. Nice enough looking woman— mid forties, trim figure, her brown hair worn in a short, no-nonsense style—but she was mighty reserved. Rigid even. Rarely had he seen her smile in all the months she’d ridden his bus. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, and he’d never heard her mention a husband. However, Jed knew there must have been a Mr. King at some point because Margo had a son serving in the African campaign and the gal beside her was her daughter.

Dottie King, not yet twenty from what Jeb had gathered, bore only a slight resemblance to her mother. Her brown hair was curly instead of straight, and she wore it shoulder length. Pretty as the day was long, Dottie also had a Hollywood pinup girl figure. If he couldn’t see it for himself, he’d have known from the wolf whistles he often heard when she got off the bus. But she paid them no- never mind. She had a boyfriend, a soldier who’d shipped out to Europe not all that long ago. She was always talking about him, and she didn’t try to hide how much she loved and missed him.

Ah, young love. Jeb remembered what that was like. For that matter, he couldn’t see that love changed much with age, except for deepening. Assuming, of course, a man was smart enough to marry the right woman and vice versa. He still felt a warm glow when he looked at Martha, his wife of forty-three years.

Speaking of love, his romantic heart just about broke for Lucy Anderson who sat across the aisle from Margo and Dottie. Lucy had celebrated her wedding day on December 6, 1941, and awakened the next morning to find the world at war. Less than a month later, her husband enlisted in the Army Air Corps and was gone soon after. She hadn’t seen him in nearly a year. Even when she smiled, Lucy couldn’t conceal the sadness in her light blue eyes. Must be hard for her, Jeb thought, working as a secretary at the base, hearing the news of different campaigns and wondering if her husband might be involved.

That was one thing Jeb’s last passenger didn’t have to worry about. Penelope Maxfield’s husband was safe and secure right here in Boise. A back injury had kept him from enlisting, and he was still unable to work. With all the bad war news they’d had over the past year, Jeb would’ve thought Penelope would act happier that her husband was not in the military. But from what he could tell, there wasn’t much that made her happy. Most of the time, she sounded more angry than anything else. But maybe Jeb was wrong. Maybe he just expected anger from the fiery- looking redhead.

The stone pillars at the entrance to Gowen Field came into view. Jeb downshifted once again, then stepped on the brake and brought the bus to a halt.

“Do you suppose we’ll get to meet him some time?” Dottie asked in the sudden silence. “Wouldn’t that be something if we did?”

“I wouldn’t count on it, dear,” her mother replied.

After a quick verification, the guards at the gate waved the bus through. Jeb touched the brim of his cap in a semi- salute to the nearest airman before stepping on the gas.

“But he’s Greg’s favorite actor. If I could catch him on the way to mess, maybe I could get his autograph to send to—”

“Dottie, don’t you even think of it. You could lose your job. You leave Mr. Stewart in peace.”

Jeb shook his head. All this fuss over a movie actor. Seemed like everywhere a fellow went in this town, folks were buzzing about Jimmy Stewart’s arrival at Gowen Field. Stewart wasn’t any more important than the thousands of other young men on the base who were training to fly dangerous missions, was he? Not that Jeb didn’t like Jimmy Stewart’s movies. He did. Still, all the excitement seemed like a bunch of nonsense to him.

The bus finished its long trek from the gate to the bus stop, and Jeb braked to a final halt. He reached for the lever and opened the door, letting in a blast of icy air.

Margo stood and stepped toward the exit. “Thank you, Mr. Pratt.”

“See you tonight,” he answered as he watched her descend the steps.

The other three women quickly followed, bidding him a pleasant day as they went.

Jeb figured, if the war news wasn’t particularly bad today, he’d do that. Long as he could keep warm, that is.

----------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------

Chapter 2

Dottie wasn’t feeling well this morning—again—but she didn’t let on to her mother as they said goodbye at the bus stop and headed their separate ways. The upset stomach would pass. It always did. But if her mother found out, she would worry all the same. No one worried more than Margo King. Her usual practice was to anticipate the worst and then stew over it.

The last thing Dottie wanted at the moment was to expect the worst.

She pulled the collar of her wool coat up around her neck and leaned into the bitter wind as she hurried toward the supply depot. Most days she was thankful for her job. It was hectic and physical and it kept her from thinking about Greg too much.

O God, how I miss him. Keep him safe. Please, keep him safe. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

Dottie entered the corrugated metal building that housed the supply depot.

“Good morning, Dottie,” Harriett Lewis called from behind the counter.

“Morning, Harriett.” She unbuttoned her coat. “Cold enough for you?”

“Cold enough.”

Dottie hung her coat on a hook on the wall. “How long have you been here? I think our bus was running late.” She turned and headed toward the counter.

“Not very long.”

Some days, when she wasn’t careful about the direction of her thoughts, Dottie envied her coworker. Harriett drove her own car to work each day. No standing out in the cold at the bus stop for her.

“You okay, Dottie? Anything wrong?”

“No.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You look a bit peaked, I guess.”

As if on cue, Dottie’s stomach churned. She feared she would be sick, right there on the concrete floor. She turned away from Harriett and pretended to rifle through the requisition papers on the counter. Somehow she managed to quell the nausea that roiled through her.

Please, God. Don’t let me be sick. We can’t afford for me to miss work right now. Money’s tight.

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 was 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 did wrong to make her daddy go away. Why couldn’t he love her? And even once she was old enough to understand his leaving wasn’t her fault, there was a part of her heart that still felt to blame. She wondered if those wounds ever completely healed.

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 midmorning.

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 at home 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 do 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 location. The local newspaper had reported 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 the French language was widely spoken. She prayed she’d taught them well.

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 and was trying, even now, to be understood in French? 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, suddenly chilled. “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 there 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 I 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 this 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 her love for her highschool 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 one ruined hers.

*****

As had become her habit over the past two months, Lucy Anderson 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 didn’t try to hide her exasperation. “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 my words to sound heartless. I just 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 onto 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 into 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, she held out her free hand toward Penelope.

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

“Oh for pity 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 takes. I promise to be there 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.”

“So do I.”

“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 an heroic bone in his body. He gave no thought to what this meant to her.

“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 were going to pray, she would ask God to have Stuart drafted and shipped as far away from her as he could get.

© 2005 Robin Lee Hatcher