Diary Of A War Bride

The land girl and the US officer

July 1942

Dear diary, despite the war raging around me, I find I can’t stop thinking about the American officer, Sergeant Dale Johnson. I’ve never known anyone as brave, kind and handsome! But I promised myself I wouldn’t care this much about a man again, especially when he could be transferred at any time. Yet that only makes me want to relish our time together. Now fighting my heart feels like the biggest battle...

“Readers will laugh, cry and rejoice.”

—RT Book Reviews on In the Sheriff’s Protection

“Robinson’s latest Harlequin Historical entry will delight both longtime and new fans alike.”

—RT Book Reviews on Married to Claim the Rancher’s Heir

A lover of fairytales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men—and women—who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset…or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren. Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com, facebook.com/lauri.robinson1 or twitter.com/LauriR.

Also by Lauri Robinson

Saving Marina

Western Spring Weddings

Her Cheyenne Warrior

Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret

The Cowboy’s Orphan Bride

Mail-Order Brides of Oak Grove

Winning the Mail-Order Bride

Western Christmas Brides

Married to Claim the Rancher’s Heir

In the Sheriff’s Protection

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Diary of a War Bride

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07386-8

DIARY OF A WAR BRIDE

© 2018 Lauri Robinson

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my uncles, Ralph and Dale.

This one’s for you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

1st of January, 1943

Dearest Diary,

Little did I know how important you would become when Charlotte gave you to me. You’ve been my confidant in what has proven to be the greatest journey of my life, and though I’m saddened that our time together has come to an end and I shall never forget the people I wrote about between your pages, it’s a new year and I’m embarking on a new journey, one of being a married woman...

Chapter One

26th of April, 1942

Dear Diary,

Our life in the country has been so very different from those who remained in the cities, where bombs have destroyed so much and killed so many, and I fear all that is about to change. Lately, I’ve insisted that the children sleep holding on to their gas masks, ready to put them on at my command, and wear their clothes to bed so they’ll be somewhat warm if we need to run to the bomb shelter. It’s so very frightening.

I wrote about the arrival of American troops back in January. How everyone claimed the Americans will help us give the Nazis what they deserve. I can’t say that has happened, but I can tell you this. They built a Bomber Command Station right here in High Wycombe!

Shortly after the American servicemen arrived, the headmistress of Wycombe Abbey girls’ school received an official notice to evacuate all the girls within a fortnight to make room for the United States Army Eighth Air Force. That caused a tremendous influx of students into the small village school. Local children now attend lessons in the mornings and the evacuees in the afternoons, which includes all of the nine children living here with Norman and Charlotte. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the past week planes started flying in and out of the base like flocks of birds. There is nothing to stop the German bombers from following those planes, intent upon dropping bombs on the base, which would have them flying directly over the farm!

Norman insists Father assured him there is nothing to worry about, that having the base so near should make us feel safer and that air raid sirens would sound if the German planes flew near, but there are no sirens close by us. Furthermore, by the time the sirens sound, it could be too late. That has happened elsewhere. No one can say it hasn’t.

When I was evacuated out of London, here to Norman and Charlotte’s, I did feel safe and have continued to for the past couple of years, but I truly fear there is no safe place in our country right now. Nowhere that families are safe. I also fear there soon won’t be anything left of the country we are all working so hard to protect.

I also wonder why we are expected to put so much faith in the Americans. These aren’t their homes. Their families. Their children.

I don’t mean to sound so harsh, but I am weary, Dear Diary, and dare only share these thoughts with you. Unlike so many others, I can’t put all my faith in the Americans. If they really cared about us, about what has been happening the past two years, they would have arrived long ago. Long before our cities and villages were little more than piles of rubble and long before our children became orphans.

Those planes flying overhead scare me, almost as if I somehow know one of those planes will change my life for ever.

The rumble of planes growing nearer sent Kathryn’s nerves on edge. She tried to pedal faster, but the road was rutted and wet from the heavy spring rains that had fallen the night before. Her hands and arms, even her legs, shook as the noise overhead grew louder. Afraid to look, but unable to stop herself, she twisted enough to glance towards the sky behind her.

Fear grasped her entire body. Not only was the sound deafening, she’d never seen a plane so close. It was flying right at her, would hit her. Frantic, she tried to steer the bicycle off the road, but it wobbled uncontrollably and then toppled.

She hit the ground so hard, the air was knocked out of her. It was a moment before she could gather the gumption to cover her head as a powerful gust of wind tugged at her scarf and coat.

The noise was so great that her ears were ringing and she felt as if time had stopped, or wondered perhaps if this was how it felt when time ends. Life ends.

It was a moment or two before she realised the noise was fading and another before she concluded the plane hadn’t landed on her. That it was still in the sky, flying higher now and away from her.

A sense of relief washed over her, until she saw the contents lying around her. The eggs, cheese and milk that had been in the wicker basket attached to the handlebars of her bicycle. Anger began to coil its way through her system. Every morsel of food was precious right now.

She scrambled on to her knees, reaching for an egg, hoping to salvage at least a few, when a powerful force grasped her from behind and lifted her completely off the ground.

‘Miss, are you hurt?’

The egg she’d been about to save tumbled to the ground, cracking and oozing into the muddy gravel.

‘Are you hurt?’

A boot, a man’s boot, stepped right on the egg she’d been hoping to rescue and a shiver raced over her as her gaze travelled upwards, over the brown trousers tucked into the boots, a waist-length leather jacket and finally a billed hat that sat a bit off-kilter atop a short-cropped head of brown hair.

Twisting, she broke the hold he had on her and stepped aside, trying hard to swallow. ‘N-no, I’m not hurt.’ He was tall, very tall. She had to swallow again.

‘I’m sorry.’ He gestured towards the plane disappearing into the horizon. ‘Rooster wasn’t trying to scare you. He was fooling with us.’

‘Fooling?’

He pointed towards an army vehicle. An American one. ‘Yes, the pilots do that once in a while, fly low over one of the Jeeps, just as a joke.’ The two dimples that formed, one in each cheek as his grin grew wider, showed just how humorous he found the situation. She didn’t find anything about any of this funny. Not in the least.

‘A joke?’ Anger rippled every nerve in her body. ‘With an aeroplane?’

He shrugged slightly. ‘Yes. I’m really sorry. I’m sure he didn’t see you.’

So mad she wanted to scream, Kathryn took a deep breath and glanced towards the ground, trying to gather her wits and nerves into some sort of semblance.

‘Are you sure you’re all right? Nothing’s broken, is it?’

No! She wasn’t all right. She’d nearly been scared to death.

He frowned as he gazed to the ground near his feet.

Anger had her hands balling into fists. Disgusted, she snapped, ‘What’s broken—ruined—is a week’s worth of food!’

‘That’s hardly a week’s worth of food,’ he said.

She pulled the scarf off her head and used that to wipe some of the dirt off her hands. ‘It is when every single egg is rationed.’ Mud covered her hands, her coat, everything. A fresh bout of anger joined what was already boiling inside her. Clothes were rationed as tightly as food. ‘Oh, you Americans. You’re as bad as they say.’

‘Who says?’ He’d picked up her bike and set the brace so it would stand on its own before bending down to pick up the two crocks of cheese. ‘I thought all you Brits were happy we’d arrived.’

Arrogant fool. ‘Not all of us.’ She snatched the crocks out of his hands. They were unbroken, but mud had saturated the cheese cloth as deeply as it had her coat. She’d known this was how it would be. That the Americans would do more harm than good. ‘I assure you. Not all of us are happy in the least.’

He’d picked up the milk bottle, which had lost its cap and now held more mud than cream. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked.

She set the crocks in the basket and took the bottle, setting it between the crocks. A fair amount of straw, which had been on top of the crocks to give the eggs cushioning as she pedalled, was still in the basket. How, she had no idea.

‘Are you a spy?’

Not only did he capture her full attention, but she couldn’t remember being so insulted, or mad. ‘How dare you!’

He cocked his head while looking at her up and down. ‘Why else would you hate Americans?’

‘Because—’ Her mind wasn’t working fast enough. ‘Oh, you and your stupid planes! How dare you go around scaring people like that! You’re—you’re rude and pompous and...and accident-prone.’ It was the best she could come up with.

His laugh sliced through her, increasing her anger.

‘No, we aren’t.’ He bent down and picked two unbroken eggs out of the mud. ‘We are friendly and helpful.’ Handing her the eggs, he said, ‘See?’

She reached for the eggs, but a mean streak she’d never quite encountered before rose up inside her. Instead of taking the eggs, she squeezed them, cracking the shells. Then as the eggs oozed out over his outstretched palms, she spun about and hopped on to her bike.

Her escape wasn’t quick or coordinated and she was hopping mad by the time both wheels managed to reach the grass beside the road where she could pick up a bit of speed. It dawned on her, then, that she was going in the wrong direction. She no longer had anything to deliver to Oscar and Ed, but she kept on pedalling anyway.

* * *

Dale Johnson’s insides flinched at her departure. The women he’d met since arriving in England had flocked towards American GIs like the soldiers were shaking a feed bag. For the most part the women had been friendly, cute and more than ready to get to know an American soldier. This one certainly hadn’t been. She was cute, though, even covered in mud and eggshells and spitting mad.

He did have to admit she had reason. Rooster had flown right over the road.

He waited until her bike rolled along smoothly before he turned about and walked back to the general-purpose vehicle commonly called a Jeep and climbed in the open passenger side. He’d gotten used to not having doors on the topless square-shaped cars. That wasn’t the only thing about the Jeeps that reminded him of his father’s tractor back home. They went through as much mud and muck as that old tractor had without any troubles. The ride they gave was about as smooth, too.

‘Hey, Sarge,’ Rusty Sanders said, grinding the gears while trying to hit the right one. ‘You ever see that wizard movie? The one with the girl and her dog?’

Every GI had seen the movie. Watching that film ranked right up there with making your own bed. You did it daily and didn’t complain. Flinching slightly until the Corporal found the right gear, Dale said, ‘Sure have. Why?’

The Jeep sputtered before it took off. With the tyres rolling, Sanders nodded towards the bike rider they were quickly gaining on. ‘Remember that scene where the old woman rides off on her bike?’

Dale tried not to laugh, but lost that battle. He lost his next battle, too. The one that told him not to turn around for a final glance after they drove past the rider. And the one that told him not to touch the brim of his hat. Even at this distance, he could feel her glare. Her eyes were as big, round and dark brown as a newborn calf’s and her hair as black and shiny as the feathers of a red-winged black bird. Although far more beautiful, the way she was pedalling did hold a resemblance to the old witch in the movie Sanders mentioned. This girl was as angry and about as friendly as that old witch had been, too.

He didn’t turn around until after she’d brought the bike to a halt by lowering both feet on to the ground and then swiftly manoeuvred it about and started riding back the other direction.

She certainly wasn’t like the other women he’d met in England. He’d only been here a few months, but every other person he’d met had gone out of their way to let him know how happy they were that the Americans had arrived to save the day. Other than acknowledging their optimism, he’d kept his thoughts to himself. It would take plenty to stop the Nazis and he was willing to do his part, whatever that might be, but he wasn’t willing to let anyone believe the war would soon be over. There was too much unknown for that.

Another thought hit him as the Jeep approached the fork in the road. ‘Go left,’ Dale told Sanders.

‘Why? Where are we going now?’ the Corporal asked.

The young man had a lot to learn, but that would happen in time. It always did. Such as learning that orders were followed without question. ‘There’s a roadhouse up ahead,’ Dale replied. Unlike the young Corporal, the army hadn’t had to teach him to follow orders. His father had taken care of that years ago.

‘I’ve heard about the roadhouse,’ Corporal Sanders said. ‘It’s called the Village Pub.’

Dale nodded.

‘That’s where we’re going?’

Dale nodded again.

‘Why?’

‘Reconnaissance,’ Dale said.

‘Oh.’

Yes, Corporal Sanders had a lot to learn. They, he and Sanders, were mechanics and mechanics didn’t usually embark upon reconnaissance missions.

Then again, they hadn’t been doing a lot of engineering work up until the past few weeks. Since shortly after arriving in London and being convoyed out here to the country, they’d been building an air force base. You name it, they’d helped build it. Nissen huts, much like the Quonset sheds back home, made out of corrugated iron and built over concrete floors, runways and a number of wooden buildings that were now being used for numerous functions, and tents. Big ones, little ones and those in between. Even with all the buildings they’d erected, a fair number of men would continue to be housed in tents. What had been little more than a field was now almost as big as most of the towns back in North Dakota.

There were several small towns around this area, or villages as the locals called them, and they were only a few miles apart from each other. Back home, people had to drive for miles to reach the next town over. Miles and miles.

He’d caught glimpses of the villages while travelling to and from the base the past couple of months, but stopping at the roadhouse would be a first for both him and Sanders. The planes were finally in the air, flying in and out of the base daily, so today was the first free time they’d had since arriving.

‘Looks like this is it,’ Sanders said, pulling up next to a cobblestone two-storey building. ‘It’s hard to tell if they’re open with those blackout curtains.’

Dale climbed out of the Jeep. The dark material hung inside every home and business for the same reason they’d covered the outside of the Nissen huts back at the base with black paint. In order to prevent the German bombers from seeing anything as they flew overhead in the darkness of night. ‘They’re open,’ he said. ‘The door’s open.’

Sanders nodded and then asked, ‘Reconnaissance for what?’

‘We need to know who that girl is and where she lives before Major Hilts learns about Rooster’s flyover.’

‘Oh.’ Sanders visibly shivered. ‘You’re right about that, Sarge.’

A short dark-haired man standing behind a long wooden counter waved as they walked in the door. ‘Welcome, welcome! Good to see you stopping in. You’re from the base, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sanders replied.

‘Been looking forward to you boys patronising our place here,’ the man said. ‘What can I get you both? A cup of ale?’

‘Coffee,’ Dale said.

‘Same here,’ Sanders added.

The man held a finger up in the air. ‘I stocked coffee just for you folks. Only take me a minute to get it started.’

Sanders waited until the man walked into the back room before leaning across the table. ‘Didn’t you read the pamphlet?’

Dale nodded. Every GI was ordered to read several pamphlets, including the one that stated:

The British don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee. You don’t know how to make a cup of tea. It’s an even swap.

‘You ordered coffee,’ Sanders whispered.

‘Because I don’t like tea,’ Dale said. ‘The coffee here can’t be any worse than my father’s.’ For years his father had said strong coffee would put hair on his chest. Both he and his brother, Ralph, had learned that was a wives’ tale, but they’d drank the coffee anyway—every Sunday while their mother was at church. For two young boys, it had been an easy trade-off. Dad’s coffee won out over Pastor Dunlop’s sermons every week. Except for Easter Sunday and Christmas Day. Ma had insisted everyone attend church on those days.

‘Coffee will be ready shortly,’ the man said, walking back into the room. ‘So you boys have been busy on that air base, haven’t you? I’ve not driven out there myself, but I’ve heard all about it.’ Fidgeting with the white apron tied around his portly waist, he walked around the counter. ‘Name’s Oscar. Oscar Fowler. My brother, Ed, is in the kitchen. The two of us own this pub. We’re hoping to get some entertainment in here on Friday and Saturday nights. Just for you boys out there at the base. Hoping you’ll feel right at home here.’

‘That’s kind of you.’ Dale chose not to explain that they probably wouldn’t have any more time for socialising in the future than they’d had since arriving.

‘Least we can do,’ Oscar said. ‘Ed and I don’t think like some others do.’

‘Oh,’ Dale said. ‘About what?’

‘Some think the Germans will follow your planes back here,’ Oscar said. ‘Dropping their bombs.’

‘They won’t dare come this close to a base,’ Sanders answered. ‘We’ve got artillery that will take them down before they could even think about dropping a bomb.’

Dale didn’t respond. Although there was some truth in what the Corporal said, there was no telling what the Germans were capable of.

‘That’s what we think,’ Oscar answered while waving a thick arm towards the counter. ‘Can I get you something while your coffee brews? A pickled egg, maybe? They’re fresh. Ed makes up a new batch every week. We get eggs, cream and cheese from a family up the road every week.’

It had been months since he’d eaten a real egg, yet Dale’s mind was more focused on the young girl and the eggs that had broken when her bike toppled rather than eating one.

‘My grandmother used to pickle eggs,’ Sanders said. ‘One year, my cousin and I copped a jar from the cellar and it just so happens the jar hadn’t sealed, the eggs had rotted. Haven’t been able to eat an egg since.’

There wasn’t a lot to be said about the egg powder they ate regularly, except that it had to be better than a rotten pickled egg. Dale couldn’t even stomach the thought of that.

‘The family has rabbits, too,’ Oscar said. ‘Got a pot of stew in the kitchen if you’d prefer.’

‘The coffee will be fine,’ Dale answered. A hint of guilt struck his stomach at what he’d said about her cargo. Food was tightly rationed and what the girl lost wouldn’t be replaced easily. ‘Would this family have more food to sell? To others besides you?’