Книга Lone eagle — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

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"“Fine? You call this fine?” He plunged a fork into his mashed potatoes, they were like wallpaper paste, and her chicken was so tough she couldn't eat it. “It takes me two days to get over the stomachache I get every time I eat dinner with you.” But all Kate could think about were the rations that Joe was getting in England. It would have seemed shocking to her if she were going to expensive restaurants with Andy, and she just wouldn't do it. If he wanted to spend time with her, he had no choice but to eat in the cafeteria at school.

Other than Kate refusing to go out with him, Andy had an active social life. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and one of the few eligible men left on campus and not going off to war. Girls were practically lining up to go out with him, and he could have had just about anyone, except the one girl he wanted. He wanted Kate.

Andy was consistent about coming to visit her, and over the months, they established a strong bond of friendship. She liked him enormously, but she felt none of the things for him she did for Joe.

What she felt for Andy was solid and quiet and comfortable, it had none of the fire and passion and irresistible pull she felt toward Joe. Andy seemed more like a brother. They played tennis together several times a week, and finally around Easter time, she let him take her to a movie, but she felt guilty about it. They went to see Mrs. Miniver with Greer Garson, and Kate cried all the way through.

She was getting letters from Joe several times a week, and she could only guess that he was flying Spitfires on missions with the RAF.

But as long as the letters kept coming, she knew he was alive and well. She lived in constant terror that she would read in the paper that his plane had been shot down, and her hands shook as she opened the newspaper every morning. She knew that, as well known as he was, and because of his association with Charles Lindbergh, she would read about it before anyone would have a chance to warn her. But so far, in his letters, he seemed to be in good spirits and well. He had complained bitterly about the cold and the bad food all winter in England. And in May, he wrote about how beautiful the spring was, he said there were flowers everywhere, and even the poorest people had lovely gardens. But he hadn't told her he loved her since he left.

At the end of May, the RAF flew a thousand bombers in a night bombing raid over Cologne.