Winds of Change Read online

  © 1997 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-5855-8579-3

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  To Lillian Finley—faithful friend

  From Johnnie

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE: Before the Deluge

  Prologue

  1. A Slight Case of Assault

  2. “Wendy Has a Man at Last!”

  3. The Stuart Clan

  4. Too High a Price

  5. Man without a Star

  6. Day of Infamy

  PART TWO: Baptism in Fire

  7. Combat Engineer

  8. “Tell Me about My Father”

  9. A Decision for Adam Stuart

  10. Men at War

  11. New Pilot

  12. Fall from Grace

  PART THREE: Wings over England

  13. Death over Germany

  14. “I Still Love You”

  15. Death from the Skies

  16. A New Man

  17. Over the Edge

  18. The Last Chance

  PART FOUR: Enemy Territory

  19. Survival

  20. “They’re the Enemy”

  21. Angel in Black

  22. A Matter of Family

  23. “I’ll Be Back”

  24. Homecoming

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Author

  Back Cover

  PROLOGUE

  A mericans measure time in many ways. One of these methods seems to be counting off history by decades, giving these periods names that indicate their nature—for example, “The Roaring Twenties.”

  The thirties in American history will be remembered as the time of the Great Depression. It was a time Americans went hungry, yet it was also a period when the country grew together as a nation, neighbors learning to help neighbors. There was a solidarity of the people of the republic during this period.

  This decade ended sharply, almost abruptly. It could, in one sense, be said to have ended on December 15, 1939, and one could find a symbol of the old giving way to the new in Atlanta, Georgia, on the evening of that particular date.

  Limousines lined up in front of the Atlanta Grand Theater, which was decorated to resemble Twelve Oaks, the plantation where Scarlett O’Hara dallied with her beaus.

  At six o’clock the theater was roped off to keep the stars from being crushed by the happy mob. Clark Gable put in his appearance at eight-forty, and a few women fainted at the sight. Rebel yells in the street greeted this premiere of Gone with the Wind, and when the three-and-a-half-hour spectacle was over, Margaret Mitchell, the author of the best-selling novel, gave a speech. In quavering tones she said, “It has been a great thing for Georgia and the South to see the Confederates come back.” Gone with the Wind, in one sense, closed the door on hard times. America saw the rich opulence of Tara and the antebellum South as it was enthroned in glittering Technicolor as a farewell to the gritty black-and-white hardships of the 1930s.

  Something called Tara Mania burst on the American scene. Everyone had read the book, and now everyone saw the movie. Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler were discussed as if they were real people. The book won the 1937 Pulitzer Prize and was translated into twenty-seven languages. Across America people were naming their newborns Rhett, Ashley, and Melanie.

  But if Gone with the Wind brought down the curtain on the 1930s—another sort of wind was sweeping over Europe, stirred and fanned by the voice of Adolf Hitler. Many Americans tried to ignore the dark shadow that Hitler cast over Europe, and Gone with the Wind was influential in bringing people out of their homes to a theater to immerse themselves in a past that seemed relatively safe. Americans looked ahead with a hope colored with apprehension, wondering what sort of America would emerge.

  There was in the air the knowledge that a trial by fire was hovering over the world. America was about to be thrown into a crucible—and while Rhett and Scarlett could act out their fantasies on the screen, Americans from Maine to Florida, from Oregon to Virginia, knew that this decade would be unlike any other.

  The fifth decade in the twentieth century would be a time of war.

  A SLIGHT CASE OF ASSAULT

  Ahigh-pitched, keening scream split the night air startling the pedestrians who were strolling down the canyon between two rows of towering buildings. Dwellers of Los Angeles were not unaccustomed to such sounds, and most of them merely gave a glance to the black car with Los Angeles Police Department emblazoned on the side as it careened around a corner, tires squealing.

  Los Angeles, California, had become in some sense the dreamland of America, but as one wag put it, “Everything loose rolls right to Los Angeles.” The invasion of the city by teeming hosts of hopeful actors and actresses had begun in the twenties, and now others were drawn to the movie capital of the world. What had been a sleepy small town in which jaywalking had been one of the most serious offenses handled by police had begun to feel the pressures of a new urbanization sprawl. Hollywood had not yet become what S. J. Perelman would call it—“A dreary industrial town controlled by hoodlums of enormous wealth, the ethical sense of a pack of jackals, and taste so degraded that it befouled everything it touched”—but it was on the way. The morals of the Midwest seemed to evaporate when transplanted to this small area of Southern California.

  Inside the squad car, a huge officer grabbed at the seat to avoid the door handle and to keep from falling into the driver’s lap. “Hey, Irving,” he said, “what’s the rush? There ain’t nothing on fire!” The speaker was an enormous man well known as Jumbo Yates. He had played tackle for the Green Bay Packers during his younger years, and now his bulk spilled over in every direction.

  The driver, a small, trim officer named Irving Marks, did not even glance at his partner. “It gives me a bellyache,” he cut the words off sharply, “having to baby-sit a bunch of drunks—especially rich drunks!”

  Jumbo Yates glanced out at the towering hotel on the right, ahead of them. “Well, if they’re in the Sky Room, they’re rich all right—don’t usually get a squeal for a spot like this.”

  Marks brought the patrol car to a screeching halt directly in front of the Lawrence Hotel, blocking off all traffic. He grinned at his partner saying, “Let ’em drive around if they want to get in. Come on, Jumbo.”

  As the two officers climbed out of the car, the doorman, a tall, distinguished looking man with a worried look began, “Officer, couldn’t you park your car—”

  Jumbo simply brushed him out of the way with one massive arm, saying, “Take it easy, Pal; we’ll be back with John D. Rockefeller under arrest. Don’t let nobody touch that car, you get me?”

  Entering the massive lobby of the Lawrence, the two officers made their way to the elevators. Marks jabbed the button with his thumb and, when the door opened, stepped in quickly, snapping his fingers impatiently. “Come on, Jumbo, we ain’t got all day!” As soon as Yates was inside, he punched the button marked Sky Room and the elevator shot rapidly upward.

  Jumbo Yates was a rather pl
acid man, dangerous when angry, but ordinarily good natured enough. He also had a streak of cynical realism that caused him to say, “Hey, Irving, let’s be a little bit careful around here. What do you say?”

  “What do you mean careful?” Marks’s dark eyes came to rest on Jumbo and he shook his head, a sour expression on his lips. “These people are just like anybody else!”

  “Yeah, just like anybody else—except they’re rich. That means they got pull down at city hall. Just watch it, OK?”

  The elevator came to a smooth halt and the door opened, but Marks did not bother to answer his partner. They stepped out into what appeared to be a reception room, and their ears were immediately assaulted by the crescendo from a swing band in the Sky Room. Marks, not even glancing at the guests in tuxedos and evening gowns, forged his way across the room. Jumbo Yates followed, like a huge ship guided by a small tug. He knew that Irving Marks had ambition, that he intended to go straight to the top of the Los Angeles Police Department structure. Since Marks had no influence, the only way he could do that was to make an impressive record. It had led him to do such strange things as charging into a dark alley to face an unseen gunman. Jumbo had halted on the outside that night and had listened as gunshots rattled the night air. He had seen Marks come out dragging the victim, a wanted murderer, by the collar. This was not the kind of thing that Jumbo himself was interested in! Now as he looked around with some apprehension, he found himself impressed by the Sky Room and by the denizens of its space.

  Most of the Sky Room was roofed with glass so that the stars outside and the silver moon could be seen overhead. An enormous glass ball covered with tiny facets of silvered mirrors swung slowly and cast yellow, red, and green reflections over the room, giving it an unearthly appearance.

  Glancing to one side, Jumbo took in the long table covered with food, noting rather hungrily the turkey, lobsters, fruits, and cheeses. Adjacent to it was another table lined with whiskey, wines, champagnes, and beer, all handed out by white-coated attendants. Jumbo’s glance shifted to the dance floor, where strange things seemed to be happening.

  “They didn’t dance like this back when I was dancing!” Jumbo growled to Marks. “What is that stuff?”

  Marks had hesitated for only one moment. His hooded, black eyes fell on a group parading in a circle, noting that their hands soon joined and a caller was telling them to go to the middle and “shine.”

  “I think that’s called the Big Apple,” he said. “Come on; there’s the trouble over there!”

  Some sort of argument or disruption was happening out where the doors of the Sky Room opened onto a balcony. Marks spotted a man, obviously an employee of the hotel, who was trying to quiet down a group of shouting people.

  “That’s the trouble, Jumbo; let’s put the quietus on it!” Marks said, a grim light of enjoyment in his eyes. He pushed forward demanding, “What’s the trouble here?”

  “Oh, Officer, I’m glad you’re here!” The speaker was a small, pale-faced man wearing a double-breasted gray suit. He was obviously not one of the paying crowd, for all the other men were wearing tuxes, the women evening dresses. “We’re having a little difficulty—”

  At that moment, a young woman, wearing a daringly low-cut silver-and-black evening dress, pushed forward and slapped the manager on the chest. She was obviously drunk, for her speech was slurred and her lipstick was grotesquely smeared across her lips. “Why, you dirty little shrimp—you called the cops!” she yelled loudly over the sound of the music and the raucous shoutings.

  “Miss DeCamp, I’m so sorry—” the manager said, wringing his hands tensely, “but the other guests have complained—” With a shock, Officer Irving Marks recognized the young woman. He had seen her in a movie only the night before—not a leading role, but she certainly had caught his eye. Suddenly she began screaming and slapped the manager’s face, a string of obscenities falling grotesquely from her smeared lips.

  “Enough of that!” Marks stepped forward at once in front of the manager, who had turned pale and touched his cheek where the imprint of her hand stood out plainly. “You’re going to have to hold it down, Miss!”

  “Hold it down, nothing!” Jean DeCamp had enormous eyes, and they flared with anger. She turned and screamed, “Hey, look at this; the gendarmes, are here, the cops! And look at ’em; they look like Laurel and Hardy!”

  She turned again. “Are you Stanley, the stupid one?” she asked Marks. “You look stupid to me!”

  “I’ll have to put you under arrest if you don’t calm down, Lady!” he said, his lips thin and his eyes glowing with anger.

  Jumbo Yates took a step closer, for he had seen the crowd behind the young woman beginning to coalesce, forming a line. Most of them, he noted with a practiced eye, were dead drunk, and he fingered the night stick on his belt thoughtfully, giving it a tug to see that it was loose. His mild blue eyes grew hard as he thought, I didn’t expect no trouble out of these rich people—but I guess they’re no different from the drunks down on Skid Row when it comes right down to it. A drunk is a drunk!

  The two officers had been lectured on how to handle trouble, and both of them had handled enough of it in the course of their duties. Los Angeles was, in some sense, a wilder place than the old Wild West towns of Cheyenne and Deadwood. There were at least as many people carrying guns, although they were not worn on their hips in plain sight. Both Marks and Yates had seen other officers die in the streets, and now as the crowd began yelling and screaming, they grew tense and their eyes more alert. Yates eyed the young woman thinking, She’s the one that could set it off! He moved to Irving’s left, light on his feet for such an enormous man, his eyes sweeping the crowd for possible troublemakers.

  Yates muttered, “We better just get the dame, Irving, and that’ll stop the rest of ’em from causing trouble!”

  This was Marks’s idea as well. His eyes shifted, and he met those of his partner, who nodded at him slightly and eyed the young woman. She gave Marks an excellent opportunity, for she decided to slap the manager again and tried to shove by him. Instantly Marks clamped his hand down on her wrist. “That’s enough, Miss!”

  Suddenly Jean DeCamp twisted, trying to get away, and when she couldn’t, reached out and, with a swift, catlike motion, raked her sharp claws down the policeman’s face. Taken off guard, Marks released his grip and shut his eyes, for the nails had come dangerously close to his eye. He felt the skin pull away, and anger suddenly raged through him. “All right—all right,” he said grimly. “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer!” He reached behind his back and had his cuffs out at once. Before the young woman had moved he had clamped one wrist and was about to clamp the other one when suddenly something hard struck him across his chest. It drove him backwards, and he nearly fell to the floor.

  “Take your hands off her!”

  The speaker was a young man around twenty years old, wearing a tuxedo and looking trim and fit. He was drunk, of course, as they all were, and anger had drawn his wide mouth into a white line. He had a rather square face, a wide forehead, a strong nose, and ears that lay close to his head. His light blond hair was mussed, and his most outstanding feature was his eyes, light blue and cold as polar ice.

  “What’s your name?” Marks said as he stepped forward and stood with his feet apart, ready for trouble. He saw the broad shoulders and narrow waist of the young man, and something about him told Marks that he would not be an easy man to handle.

  “Adam Stuart—what about it?”

  “Mr. Stuart, I’m going to have to arrest this young lady. Unless you move aside, I’ll have to arrest you, too!”

  “You’re not arresting anyone! We don’t need you here; get out!”

  Adam Stuart saw the officer as if he stood in the middle of a single light. He had learned to eliminate everything except what he wanted to see, and the other guests, the dancers, the band, the great ball overhead, all faded away until he could see only the narrow face of the officer who stood before
him. He spoke in the careful tone of a drunk, pronouncing each syllable: “Get out and leave us alone! We’re just having a little fun—and keep your hands off of her!”

  Marks knew, at once, he could not pass this by. He stepped forward saying, “I’m taking you in, Miss.” He reached out to touch the young woman, but, as he had expected, Stuart’s face flushed and he pulled his shoulders together and his fist shot out. Irving was surprised that, even drunk, the man’s reflexes were so quick. The blow caught Marks on the neck—the force of it driving him off balance. He was propelled backward against the manager, and before he had time to recover, Stuart pummeled him with blows that seemed to come from everywhere. They were strong, powerful blows and Irving Marks had time to think, If he wasn’t drunk he’d kill me! As it was, he could not stop the onslaught. One blow caught him squarely in the mouth, and the room seemed to go around. He felt a blow catch him over the eye, and blood spurted out, blinding him. He knew that he was being whipped, and he fumbled for his night stick, but he was overwhelmed.

  Jumbo Yates had been taken off guard by the assault of the fair-haired young man, but he leaped forward, in one motion pulling the night stick. Lifting it in the air he brought it down expertly on Stuart’s head with just exactly the right amount of pressure. Yates was not a smart man, but he was an expert in such things. He knew that if he did not hit hard enough it would only inflame the man—but if he hit too hard, he would crush the skull. The stick tapped Adam Stuart on the head, making a slight thunking sound.

  For Stuart the pain was nothing, but it seemed to drain his strength. He felt the stick as it struck his head, but followed through the blow he had started by sheer instinct. The lights around him exploded into an enormous orange shimmer of light. He tried to go on, wanting to kill the officer whose face was fading. The last he saw was the blood streaking down Marks’s face, and the last desire he had was to hit him again!