The Gift

Author: John M Jeapes

CHAPTER ONE: THE ORCHARD
Kingsley Family Farm – Willamette Valley, Oregon – July 1938
The apples weren't ripe yet.
David Kingsley knew this, the way he knew the sound of his father's truck sputtering up the gravel drive, the way he knew Eddie Hart would be waiting by the mill bridge with a pack of stolen cigarettes, the way he knew his little sister Ellie would follow him anywhere—even when he told her not to

"Quit pacing," Ellie called from her perch on the fence. At fourteen, her legs were too long for her overalls, swinging like a metronome against the weathered wood. "You're making the chickens nervous."
David ignored her, plucking a green apple from the nearest branch. He took a savage bite, the tartness making his jaw clench.
"Christ, Davey." Ellie hopped down, snatching the fruit from his hand. "You'll ruin your teeth before you're twenty."
"War will ruin more than that," he muttered, wiping juice from his chin with the back of his hand. The words landed like a stone between them. Overhead, the droning whine of an aircraft engine cut through the summer haze—a Douglas DC-3 on its way to Portland. David's neck craned automatically, his eyes tracking the silver gleam until it vanished behind the fir trees.
Ellie threw the apple. It hit the chicken coop with a hollow thunk, sending the hens squawking. "You're going to do it, aren't you? As soon as you turn eighteen."
David's pocketknife was in his hand before he'd made a decision. The bone handle, worn smooth from Eddie's endless fidgeting, caught the late afternoon light as he walked to the patriarch of the orchard—an ancient Baldwin tree his great-grandfather had planted.
"What are you—" Ellie began, then stopped when the first curls of bark fell away.
DK + EK 1938
The blade slipped on the final curve, biting into the pad of his thumb. Blood welled bright against the pale wood.
"Idiot," Ellie hissed, yanking the bandana from her back pocket. Her hands were steady as she wrapped the wound, though her voice shook. "You're gonna get that infected and lose the whole damn hand before you ever fly anything."
David watched a drop of blood soak into the fabric. "Would you visit me in the hospital, at least?"
"Not even once."
But when he looked up, Ellie's eyes were glistening. The distant growl of Hart's Model A rattled down the county road, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The carved letters stared back, fresh and vulnerable.
David snapped the knife shut. "Come on. Let's steal some cider before Dad gets home."
Ellie didn't smile. But when she punched his shoulder, it lacked her usual force.

CHAPTER 2: THE BOY WHO WOULD BE A BOMBARDIER
Portland, Oregon – June 1939
The first time David Kingsley saw a B-17, he was elbow-deep in engine grease in his father’s auto shop. The Flying Fortress roared overhead, its four propellers carving through the coastal fog like the fist of God Himself. "Jesus," whispered his best friend Eddie Hart, wiping his hands on oil-stained coveralls. "That’s the future right there."
David didn’t answer. He was already running down the gravel driveway, through the orchard, to the hill where the whole Willamette Valley spread beneath him. The bomber banked east, sunlight glinting off its wings.
That’s where I’m going, he thought.
Behind him, his sister Ellie’s voice cut through the dream:
"Davey! Ma says if you’re late for supper again, she’ll—"
He turned, grinning, and hurled an apple at her head.

CHAPTER 3: THE CREW THAT FATE BUILT
Miami Beach Airbase – March 1943
They came together like spare parts in a salvage yard:
• Capt. Jack Russo, the Brooklyn-bred pilot with two crash landings and a Silver Star to his name.
• Sgt. Eddie Hart, the wisecracking Texas tail gunner who’d followed David through enlistment.
• Lt. Paul Varga, the Hungarian navigator who’d escaped fascists only to bomb them.
• Baby-faced Danny Pearson, the 18-year-old ball turret gunner who still blushed when nurses walked by.
And David – now 2nd Lt. Kingsley – who won them all over the night he traded his officer’s liquor ration to get Hart out of jail after a bar fight.
"You’re gonna get yourself killed saving other people’s asses," Russo warned as they hauled a drunken Hart back to the barracks.
David just smiled. "Better than the alternative."

CHAPTER 4: THE WAR BEFORE THE WAR
Algeria – November 1943
Their first mission was supposed to be a milk run – a quick hop to bomb Italian rail yards. Then the Luftwaffe showed up.
Hart’s voice screamed through the intercom: "Bandits! Six o’clock high!"
David’s bombs found their mark. His hands didn’t shake. Not even when they landed with 187 holes in the fuselage and Danny sobbing in the turret.
That night, while others got drunk, David sat on the tarmac writing a letter:
"Dear Ellie – Flew over the Mediterranean today. Water’s bluer than Ma’s Sunday dress. Don’t tell her I compared the Holy Ghost to saltwater..."
Hart found him there at dawn, still writing by flashlight. "Christ, Kingsley. Save some heroism for the rest of us."

CHAPTER 5: THE POINT OF NO RETURN
Cerignola Airfield, Italy – June 22, 1944
The briefing tent stank of sweat and terrible coffee.
"Ploiești." The colonel slapped the map. "Again. Third time this month."
A collective groan. The Romanian oil fields were defended by more flak guns than Berlin.
Afterward, Russo gripped David’s shoulder. "You don’t have to fly this one. You’re at 19 missions."
David shook his head. "One more."
That evening, he wrote two letters. One to Ellie ("Apples should be ripe when you get this..."). The other he tucked in his flight suit – just three words:
"No regrets. DK."

CHAPTER 6: "THE CHUTE THAT WASN'T MINE" Eddie Hart – Somewhere Over Bulgaria – June 23, 1944
The sky was on fire above him.
Eddie Hart spun in the air, Kingsley’s parachute straps digging into his shoulders, the B-17 Lady Luck a dying comet in the distance. He’d bailed out too low. The chute snapped open with a jerk that stole his breath, and then--
Silence.
Just the wind, the sway of the harness, and the bloodstains on his sleeves that weren’t his.
Kingsley’s blood.
The morphine made everything soft at the edges. He floated down like a leaf, watching the plane—his plane—plummet in a slow, terrible spiral. No one else got out.
No one.
He hit the ground hard, rolling into a field of barley. The chute—Kingsley’s chute—collapsed around him like a shroud, and for a long minute, he just lay there, staring at the sky.
Then he screamed.
Not from pain. From the wrongness of it.
He should be dead.
Kingsley should be here.
But the straps around his chest were real. The silk in his fists was real. The name stitched inside the parachute pack—2nd Lt. D.R. Kingsley—was real.
The Bulgarian farmers found him at dusk.
He didn’t fight when they took his sidearm. He didn’t care.
One of them pointed at the chute, then at the smoke on the horizon.
“Tvoy?”
Yours?
Hart’s throat closed. He shook his head.
“Nie.” Not mine.
Never mind.
The Dream (That Night in Captivity) The Germans threw him in a cell with Collier, the co-pilot. The bastard was alive. Of course, he was.
Hart dreamed of Kingsley standing in the bomb bay.
No chute. Just that quiet smile.
In the dream, Hart tried to give it back.
"Take it, you selfless son of a—"
But Kingsley just shook his head.
"You’ve got people waiting, Eddie."
Hart woke up choking.
The Letter He’ll Never Send (Stalag Luft III – July 1944)
They gave him paper. He wrote:
Dear Mrs. Kingsley,
Your son died because I wasn’t fast enough. Because my chute was garbage. Because war is a goddamn joke where the wrong men keep living.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
Then he burned it

CHAPTER 7: "THE ENEMY WHO SALUTED HIM"
Oberleutnant Erich Vogel – Near Suhozem, Bulgaria – June 23, 1944
1. The Kill
The B-17 was already dying when Erich Vogel lined up his final burst.
His Messerschmitt Bf 109 shuddered from cannon fire as he closed in. The Fortress trailed smoke, its left wing chewed to hell, but it still flew—how?
Through his sights, he saw a man standing in the gaping bomb bay.
Unmoving. Unafraid.
No parachute.
Vogel’s finger hovered over the trigger.
Then, he didn’t fire.
The Fortress pitched down, spiraling toward the earth. The man in the bay disappeared into the flames.
A voice crackled in his headset: "Vogel, was ist los? Schieß!" (Shoot!)
But the fight was already over.
The Wreckage
He landed his fighter in a field near the crash site. The stench of burning metal and flesh hit him before he even climbed out.
Bulgarian militia swarmed the wreck, prying at smoldering debris. One of them waved him over.
"Amerikaner. Tot." (American. Dead.)
There, half-buried in the twisted fuselage, was the man from the bomb bay.
Blond hair. Young face. Eyes still open.
No burns. No terror. Just acceptance.
A farmer held up a bloodied dog tag: Kingsley, D.R.
Vogel knelt. Closed the dead man’s eyes.
Then—against every rule, every ounce of Nazi discipline—he stood to attention and saluted.
The Iron Cross
Back at the Luftwaffe base, his commander berated him.
"You let the co-pilot escape! And now you mourn a bomber pilot?"
Vogel said nothing. He just placed his Iron Cross on the desk.
"I will not wear this again."
That night, he drank alone, replaying the moment in his mind:
A man who chose to die so others might live.
A hero.
An enemy.
The Letter He Sent
(Mailed to the International Red Cross – July 1944)
To Whom It May Concern,
The American bomber pilot, 2nd Lt. David R. Kingsley, died with honor near Suhozem on 23 June 1944. He gave his parachute to a wounded comrade. I witnessed this act. It was...
He crossed out the next word (noble) and wrote:
...human.
Oberleutnant Erich Vogel, JG 53

CHAPTER 8: "THE LETTER FROM THE ENEMY"
Eleanor Kingsley – Portland, Oregon – August 1944
The Telegram That Never Came
The porch swing creaked under Eleanor’s weight as she watched the mailman walk up the path. Again.
Every morning since D-Day, she’d done this—hands clutching her coffee, eyes scanning for that dreaded War Department envelope. The one her neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, got when her son died on Omaha Beach.
But today, the mailman handed her something else.
A battered envelope.
Swiss stamps.
Red Cross markings.
And in the corner, a handwritten line: "Sender: Oberleutnant Erich Vogel, German Luftwaffe."
Her fingers trembled. The coffee cup hit the floor.
The Enemy’s Words. Inside was a single sheet of paper, the English translation clipped to the original German:
Fraulein Kingsley,
I'm writing to inform you, with regret, that your brother David died near Bulgaria on June 23rd, as I'm unsure if you've already been told. Badly damaging his aircraft, he remained inside to save a wounded crewman, giving away his parachute. I saw this with my own eyes from my fighter plane. He stood in the open bomb bay as his aircraft fell. did not run and did not scream. I'm sharing this because such courage deserves recognition, even from an enemy.
He died as a soldier wishes to die—without fear, for others.
—Oberleutnant Erich Vogel, JG 53
The paper shook in her hands.
David gave away his parachute.
David stood there and let the sky take him.
She could see it. Oh God, she could see it—her reckless, grinning baby brother, staring death in the face like it was just another high dive at the quarry.
The War Department’s Knock (Three Days Later)
When the official notification came, the lieutenant at the door looked startled when Eleanor didn’t cry.
"I already know," she said flatly.
The officer blinked. "Ma'am?"
She thrust Vogel’s letter at him. "A Nazi had the decency to tell me before my own country did."
The man palmed his hat awkwardly. "We... we have to confirm these things, ma'am. Procedures—"
"Procedures." She laughed, sharp as broken glass. "My brother’s been dead for six weeks, Lieutenant. The man who killed him knew that mattered."
The Keepsake
That night, she took David’s last letter from her dresser. The one that ended:
"Don’t worry about me, Ellie. I’ll be home before the apples ripen."
She folded Vogel’s note inside it.
Then she screamed into her pillow until her throat bled.

CHAPTER 9: "WHAT REMAINS"
April 1945 – Stalag Luft III, Germany / Eleanor Kingsley's Journey
Liberation (Hart’s POV)
The gates opened at dawn.
Eddie Hart didn’t cheer when the American tanks rolled in. He just stood there, gaunt as a scarecrow in his ragged uniform, clutching the one thing he’d kept hidden for nine months:
Kingsley’s navigational log.
The pages were stiff with dried blood—not Eddie’s—and smudged with pencil notes from the Ploiești run.
"Flak heavy at IP. Hart hit. Stay sharp."
Danny wounded. Applied sulpha. Keep pressure."
"Chute to Eddie. Tell Ellie—"
The last line trailed off, unfinished.
Collier, the co-pilot (now missing two fingers from frostbite), nudged him. "You gonna mail that?"
Hart shook his head. "Gonna deliver it myself."

The Train to Oregon (Eleanor’s POV)
When the letter arrived from a "Sgt. Edward Hart, 341st Bomb Sq.," Eleanor didn’t tell her mother. She just bought a train ticket to Portland and waited on the platform, gloved hands clenched around her purse.
The man who stepped off the train wasn’t the grinning gunner from David’s letters. This man was hollow-cheeked, leaning on a cane, his eyes older than the war itself.
He took one look at her and whispered, "Christ, you’ve got his smile."
They sat in the Kingsley family barn—where David had once broken his arm jumping from the hayloft—and Hart placed the logbook in her lap.
"Stole it from the wreck before the Bulgarians got me," he rasped. "Figured... you should have his last words."
Eleanor traced the bloodstains. "You were there."
"Yeah."
"You saw him—"
"Stand in that bomb bay?" Hart’s voice broke. "Yeah. And I’d give every goddamn medal back to trade places."
A long silence. Then Eleanor opened to the last page.
There, crammed in the margin between fuel calculations, was a scribble:
"Tell Ellie I’m sorry about the apples."
She made a sound like a wounded animal and clutched the book to her chest.
Hart didn’t touch her. He just sat there, staring at the hayloft, remembering the kid who’d once laughed as he played poker with maps of enemy territory.
The Unasked Question
At the door, Hart hesitated. "That German pilot... the one who wrote you. He saw it all?"
Eleanor nodded.
Hart let out a shaky breath. "Good."
And for the first time since Bulgaria, he slept without dreaming of falling.
The Baldwin tree still stands, the carving now warped by decades of growth
Kingsley Field, Oregon The airbase commander fidgeted as Eleanor Kingsley placed the logbook in the glass case.
"Ma'am, are you sure? This belongs to your family—"
She cut him off with a look. The same steel her brother had when ordering a bailout.
"David belongs to them now." She nodded toward the junior pilots walking along the tarmac, their uniforms crisp, their faces unlined by flak bursts. "Let them see what real courage looks like."
The display read:
"2nd Lt. David R. Kingsley – Medal of Honor – Sacrificed his parachute to save two crewmen. June 23, 1944."
Beneath it, the open logbook showed his last entry:
"Tell Ellie I’m sorry about the apples."
A cadet saluted the case. Eleanor didn’t cry. She just whispered, "You idiot," and walked away. "The tree still bled in spring. Not sap—Ellie knew the difference now—but a memory."
Hart's Dusty Mailbox – Lubbock, Texas.  The postmark on the letter showed Boston. Hart almost threw it out—until he saw the shaky handwriting.
Danny. The kid from the ball turret.
Inside was a photo: Danny standing on new prosthetic legs, grinning beside a pretty nurse. The note read:
Last month, Hart and Sally got married.
Hart stared at the word daughter.
Then he grabbed his crop-duster's throttle and took off, flying straight into the sunset—like they’d done over Ploiești, but this time, nobody was shooting.
Meanwhile, somewhere over Germany, a rusted Iron Cross lies in the dirt beside a crater, where a B-17 fell.