On Distant Shores Page 12

  For his sake too. He tried to ignore how nice she felt in his arms, how her head nestled perfectly under his cheek, how her hair smelled like grass and flowers, how it felt smooth and slippery under his lips.

  Under his lips? What was he doing? He twisted his head to the side, his heart racing. Georgie had turned to him for comfort, not so he could make a pass. What a jerk he was.

  He should let go, but she clung to him. At least the crying had tapered off to sniffles.

  “I don’t know anymore.” Her words blew hot on his chest. “I just don’t know anymore.”

  “Hmm?” He zoomed his focus back to her words. “What don’t you know?”

  “All my life, everything’s been smooth and easy. My family loves me, lots of friends, I never wanted for anything. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. I knew God loved me. But now . . .”

  “He still loves you, sweetheart.” Hutch winced, and his cheeks flamed. Why on earth did he call her sweetheart?

  “I know. But I’ve always been good, and my life’s always been good, and now . . .”

  “Now your life stinks.”

  She lifted her face to look at him, so close he’d barely have to move to kiss her. He wouldn’t mind the taste of tears.

  “It does stink.” She buried her face in his shoulder again.

  “And you haven’t stopped being good.”

  “No. I know the Lord doesn’t make bargains like that. I know good people suffer and the wicked prosper, but I always thought . . .”

  Hutch sighed and rubbed her back. “You always thought you were the exception.”

  “It sounds stupid.”

  “No. It was a reasonable assumption based on observation.”

  Georgie sagged in his arms. “I also thought God spared me because I’m weak. He knows I can’t handle tragedy.”

  “Well, then.” He gave her a squeeze. “This tragedy shows you what I already know. You are strong enough. This is hard, the hardest thing you’ve ever gone through, but you can handle it if you lean on God. You’ll come through stronger and wiser and even more compassionate because of it.”

  “Thank you. You’re such a good friend.” Her arms loosened around his waist, and she pulled back slightly, staring at his chest. “I should get going. I just wanted to say good-bye.”

  “This place won’t be the same without you.” A surge of manliness and affection and loneliness, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. Warm and silky.

  A brotherly kiss. Just a brotherly kiss.

  She raised her face, her eyes soft and liquid.

  His heart slammed to a stop. She was going to kiss him. And he’d kiss her back, long and hungry and so, so sweet.

  But she didn’t. She ducked to the side and kissed his cheek. Every muscle in his body ached to turn and meet her lips, and every fiber of his will fought the urge. His will prevailed.

  He released her from his arms, from the danger of his desire.

  She picked up the letters and package—the package for his fiancée. “I’ll never forget you.” And she dashed out of the tent and out of his life.

  Hutch rubbed his hands down his heated face and groaned. More than anything, he needed to forget Georgie Taylor. And fast.

  17

  Prestwick Air Base, Scotland

  October 1, 1943

  How sad to visit Scotland for the first time in her life and not enjoy it. Georgie’s eyes registered the green hills and rolling sand dunes, the wooly clouds and quaint stone houses, but her heart didn’t delight.

  Everything dimmed in the gray haze of grief.

  The five nurses followed Captain Maxwell and hauled their gear across the windy tarmac toward a C-54 Skymaster. The large four-engine transport plane would take them across the North Atlantic to Newfoundland, to Maine, and then to New York.

  On board, Georgie stashed her barracks bag in the back and extracted her overcoat and blanket for the chilly flight. She found a seat toward the front of the plane beside Mellie, with Kay Jobson on Mellie’s other side. Vera and Alice sat across the aisle to the rear of the plane with Captain Maxwell.

  The rest of the seats were occupied by Eighth Air Force flyboys who had survived their combat tours and were headed home. A couple of the airmen tried to flirt with the nurses as they passed, but stopped short. The women’s slowed movements and dull expressions had to be as obvious as full black mourning clothes.

  Georgie hugged her musette bag to her stomach. Almost a year of trials and triumphs failed to bring this group together, but Rose’s death united them. Would the unity last?

  One by one, the four engines started, the sound foreign to her ears. So different from the familiar C-47.

  She closed her eyes during taxiing and takeoff, her heart pounding. Perhaps it was best they were flying home instead of sailing, all these little hopping flights, all these takeoffs and landings. As an equestrienne, she firmly believed the adage about getting back on your horse.

  Still, the sensations of the crash, the fire, the plume of vile black smoke before the volcano wouldn’t leave her, the mental image of Rose sitting on Clint’s lap, the engine plunging into the radio compartment, the instant of terror. The quick and horrible death.

  Georgie’s eyes ached from tears, from dryness, from being squeezed shut too much for too long.

  The plane leveled off for its long trek. In a few days she’d be home for a ten-day furlough before training started at the School of Air Evacuation. Home, where memories of Rose would assault her from every hill and dale.

  Not so long ago, home promised safety. Now she knew the promise was false. Daddy and Mama couldn’t keep her safe. Ward couldn’t keep her safe. Even God wouldn’t necessarily keep her safe.

  He allowed tragedy. For a reason. For a good, if unfathomable reason, but he allowed it.

  All her life, safety and security had been her goal. Rose’s death showed her she shouldn’t aim for safety but for strength to stand in an unsafe world.

  Through the khaki canvas of the musette bag, she felt the hard metal disc Hutch had given her. He believed she could change and be strong with God’s help, and that spurred her to believe it too.

  In her mind she could hear the deep timbre of Hutch’s voice, see the kindness in his eyes, feel the strength of his embrace, smell the medicinal scent of his shirt, and taste his rough cheek under her lips.

  Georgie shivered and wriggled into her overcoat. Thank goodness she’d meet Phyllis soon. Once she saw her as a human being and a friend, she’d be able to kill the silly crush she had on the woman’s fiancé. When she went home and savored Ward’s kisses, she could bury the crush forever.

  Beside her, Mellie shifted, and her head slumped forward in sleep. Rose’s death had been hard on her. Rose had been one of her first friends ever.

  And Rose had been Georgie’s best friend ever.

  Although they’d parted on poor terms, truth drove away guilt. How many fights had she and Rose come through? They always made up. Always. Their love overpowered their differences. Rose knew how much Georgie loved her.

  Georgie hugged the musette bag tighter. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she heard the letter crinkle. Rose’s last words to her.

  When they’d arrived in Algeria in February, Lieutenant Lambert made the nurses write “just in case” letters to family and friends.

  She hadn’t had the courage to read it yet. Two weeks had passed. It was time.

  With a deep breath, she opened the flap of her bag and found the envelope. Rose never had pretty handwriting, but what did things like curlicues and frilly dresses and girly games matter? She was everything a friend should be.

  Georgie had coaxed Rose from her shell. Rose had coaxed Georgie from her shelter.

  She unfolded the letter.

  Dear Georgie,

  If you’re reading this letter, it means I beat you to heaven. No big surprise. I always beat you in footraces. Of course, you always beat me in horse races, but that’s more to the horse’s credit than
yours. As always, you know I’m kidding. It takes great skill to be an equestrienne. See, I even used the prissy spelling.

  Okay, now I’ll be serious, because that’s the purpose of these letters.

  Since that first day of school, when you befriended the shy tomboy, you’ve been an anchor for me. You helped me make friends and even trained me to be a proper Southern lady. Yet you still loved me when I was quiet or had dirt on my knees. You helped me become a better version of me.

  I’ve always loved your warm heart, your happy spirit, and your ability to turn any occasion into a party. Life without you would have been dull.

  I hate that Lambert made us write these stupid letters because it makes me think of what I’d do without you—and what you’d do without me.

  Now, listen. I know I’m the only reason you came to Africa. You hide your fear well, but I know you’re scared and you’d rather be home. I never said anything because adventure is good for you. That’s always been my job, to push you to push yourself.

  But if God’s taken me home, it means I’ve finished my job and so have you. Go home, honey. Find some way and go home. We both know you belong in Virginia, close to your parents, in Ward’s farmhouse, with a sunny kitchen and lots of sewing projects and horses in the barn.

  Please don’t mourn me. Well, maybe a little. Then get up and move on. Mellie needs you, and so do all the other lonely souls you can rescue. You’re so good at that.

  Thank you for loving me, believing in me, and helping me grow.

  All my love, Rose

  A sob gurgled in Georgie’s throat, but she swallowed it back down.

  She had permission to go home and seek the security she craved. Yet somehow Rose’s death was having the opposite effect on her, as if her friend had left behind a trace of her feistiness and determination.

  Rose had been a great flight nurse, and her death left a hole in the squadron. Georgie wanted to do something in her memory. A new goal swelled in her chest—to do something big and brave and bold. To honor Rose by being a bit more like her.

  Lieutenant Lambert had sent Georgie to Bowman Field to fail and exit gracefully.

  But what if she applied herself at Bowman? What if she could learn to be an excellent flight nurse? What if she leaned on God for courage in crises and wisdom in decisions?

  Georgie opened the musette bag and slipped the letter inside. Her fingers brushed the soft cloth of the little stuffed nightingale. The backbone of the group had departed, leaving wings and heart unsupported. Georgie would have to become backbone too.

  “From Rose?” Kay Jobson stared at the musette bag.

  “Pardon?”

  “The letter? Was it from Rose?”

  Georgie nodded. “She wrote me a ‘just in case’ letter.”

  Kay let out a long breath. “I don’t understand.”

  Irritation sparked. How could Kay understand deep friendship? All her relationships were superficial. She never mentioned her family, never exchanged any letters. She enjoyed the company of Vera and Alice, and she had a boyfriend on every air base. “Rose and I were best friends.” Her tone came out snippier than intended.

  Kay flashed her a glare. “Not that. I understand that, believe it or not.”

  What was it about this girl that rubbed her wrong? Oh, she knew perfectly well. While Georgie tried to be good, Kay seemed to try to be bad.

  Yet, she sought out Mellie as a friend. And Georgie rarely gave her a chance. She might not understand the girl, but she could at least be kind. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. What did you mean?”

  Kay gave her a long hard look, and Georgie raised an encouraging smile.

  With a flip of her wrists, Kay pulled her blanket over her head like a peasant. For once, she looked small and ordinary. “I meant, why Rose?”

  A question Georgie had asked herself a dozen times. “I don’t know.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Rose and Mellie and you—you’re so good.”

  “And bad things don’t happen to good people?”

  “They’re not supposed to. They’re supposed to happen to bad people.”

  “They don’t always.”

  Kay waved one blanket-encased hand. “Vera and Alice, they’re not good. And me—you know what I am.” Her words puffed up with her usual defiant pride, but something quivered in them. Fear. Hurt.

  Georgie’s heart crushed. A dozen phrases came to mind, but she rejected them all. Too contrite. Too judgmental. Too naïve. But a question hovered in the corner of her mouth, and she let it slide out. “What are you, Kay?”

  The blanket came up higher, obscuring the shiny strawberry blonde hair. “It should have been me. Not Rose.”

  If Mellie weren’t sleeping in the seat between them, Georgie would have put her arm around the girl. “No, it shouldn’t have been you.”

  Kay peeked around the edge of the brown Army blanket. “What? I’d think you of all people would agree.”

  Georgie’s cheeks heated. Of course Kay would think that, not just because Georgie loved Rose but because she thought little of Kay—and Kay knew it. She had a lot of making up to do with Miss Kay. Perhaps the Lord was giving her a new project—her most challenging ever.

  “You honestly think it’s better that Rose is dead rather than me?”

  Georgie studied the curved ceiling of the fuselage. “I think God took Rose home because he’d done everything he wanted to do with her on earth. But you—I think God has more he wants to do with you. Lots more.”

  Kay shuddered and snapped her gaze to the side. “Why would he? He’s never wanted anything to do with me. And I certainly don’t want anything to do with him.”

  Something quiet in Georgie’s head told her to let it go, to wait, and she obeyed and stifled her pretty words.

  The temperature drop in the cabin made her shiver. She found Mellie’s blanket on the floor and tucked it around her friend’s lap and shoulders, and then she wrapped herself in her own blanket.

  She sneaked a glance at Kay. Reaching the redhead would be far more difficult than teaching a tomboy to skip rope or a shy nurse to smile. But it might help her see God’s reason for Rose’s death.

  18

  93rd Evacuation Hospital, Montella, Italy

  October 2, 1943

  “Pitch tent!” Lieutenant Kazokov shouted.

  As the other men from pharmacy and laboratory rolled out the tent, Hutch pulled eight short tent pins from a canvas bag and distributed them—one to each corner marker, and two for each door.

  The air rang with calls of men at work, canvas flapping in the wind, and blunt ends of axes clanging on tent pins.

  Rain pattered on Hutch’s helmet and mackinaw, and damp brown grasses squished underfoot. The field would be a muddy mess by the end of the day.

  Behind the veil of rain, steep green mountains soared around him, capped by castles, convents, and tiny villages. Montella lay north of Paestum, east of Naples—which the Allies had entered the day before—and only ten miles south of the front. The way the Army charged for the Volturno River, the 93rd would soon be far to the rear.

  “Hoods and storm guys out!” Kaz called as if the men hadn’t already done this seven times since arriving in the Mediterranean.

  The men stretched out the canvas flaps and tossed the anchoring lines toward the front of the tent area.

  Either Hutch or Technical Sergeant Paskun, the head laboratory technician, was supposed to supervise, but Kaz insisted on doing it, probably to ensure that Hutch and Paskun didn’t undo his “modernization.”

  The reorganization irked the lab guys too.

  “Keep your eyes open.” Ralph O’Shea shifted the ax closer and nodded to the crowd of locals watching.

  “Mm-hmm.” Hutch pulled his corner of the tent taut and stretched the loop over the pin.

  Theft was a serious problem in Italy, not that Hutch could cast blame. The country hadn’t been rich to begin with, and Mussolini had impoverished the nation with
his foolhardy entry into the war. Now the Germans left a path of devastation in their retreat, slaughtering or stealing all the livestock, confiscating all vehicles, blowing up aqueducts, and ruining food supplies.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant.” Why was Bergie talking to Kaz?

  “Captain Bergstrom, what a pleasure. What brings you here?”

  Bergie stood with his back to Hutch. “Thought I should pass on the good news. I overheard Colonel Currier talking about you.”

  “You did?” Kaz’s voice lit up. “What did he say?”

  “Didn’t hear much. Not polite to eavesdrop, you know. But I might have heard something about him looking for you.”

  “Oh!” Kaz peered at the tent space next door for Headquarters.

  “He’s not there. Saw him over by Morgue.” Bergie shot an imaginary basketball. Morgue sat at the far opposite corner of the hospital complex. “Say, I could take over here if you want to find him.”

  “Could you? Thanks.” Kaz scurried away.

  Bergie grinned at Hutch. “You can thank me now.”

  “Liar.”

  “Not a lie. I did hear Currier talk about him. Something about a report ten times longer than necessary. And I didn’t say the colonel was looking for him. Just that he might be.”

  “Well, Captain, I’ll thank you.” Ralph stood and swept a deep bow. “We are forever in your debt, kind and gracious sir.”

  “Hear, hear!” one of the lab guys shouted.

  “See, Hutch?” Bergie clapped Ralph on the back. “That’s how you show gratitude.”

  “Gratitude, huh?” Hutch stood, crossed his arms over his soggy mackinaw, and gave Bergie half a smile. “You said you’d take over. Ever pitch a tent before?”

  “In Boy Scouts.” He raised a three-finger salute. “On my honor—”

  “A big old Army ward tent?”

  “Nope. But I’m willing to get dirty. What’s mud compared to the blood and guts I usually swim in?”

  Hutch turned to Paskun. “Why don’t you supervise? Ralph can take your spot. I’ll put the captain on my team and mess up his pretty officer’s manicure.”