On Distant Shores Page 16

  Bergie nodded and smiled at the girl, but his hand clenched onto Hutch’s forearm. “Don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

  23

  School of Air Evacuation

  Bowman Field, Louisville, Kentucky

  October 11, 1943

  A year before, Georgie had stood by the same green lawns and utilitarian white buildings, smiling over her fears.

  All those fears had been realized. She’d experienced the first great tragedy of her life. She’d lost her best friend. She’d let down patients under her care. She’d been proven helpless and incompetent.

  Yet she stood.

  Beside her, Mellie sighed. “Bittersweet memories.”

  Georgie strode toward HQ, reminders of Rose everywhere. “Yes.” This was also where she met Mellie. A friendship with a shaky start but now a source of joy and comfort.

  “It’s good to be back. I can’t wait to see what they have to teach us.” Mellie hooked her arm through Georgie’s. “Have you decided? Your family sure wants you to resign.”

  “I’ll give it a week, since I’ve come so far. I’m sure I’ll fail by then, and the Army Air Force will decide for me.”

  Mellie squeezed her arm. “Nonsense. You won’t fail.”

  A groan collapsed Georgie’s chest. “But then I’d have to decide, and I don’t know what to do. My family and Ward want me to resign and get married. When we start a family, the Army will discharge me, and I can go home where I belong. But that seems unethical, don’t you think? Taking marital vows for the purpose of breaking military vows?”

  “Mm.”

  “Then I think of Rose. I think of the men fighting so hard in Italy and getting sick and wounded, and my heart goes out to them, and I wonder if I have it in me to be the flight nurse they need.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  She stopped and faced her friend. “What should I do?”

  Mellie shook her head, and her dark curls lashed from side to side. “Oh no. If I can learn to make friends, you can learn to make decisions. I learned right here, and you can too.”

  Georgie tipped her head to the blue sky. A fleet of C-47s roared by and drowned the sound in her head of Hutch’s rich voice speaking similar words. Then she batted her eyelashes at Mellie. “Remember, honey. I helped you learn.”

  The corners of her exotic dark eyes crinkled. “I can help you too. I’ll listen and help you weigh your options, but I will not tell you what to do. I won’t baby you like your family does.”

  “That obvious?”

  “They even call you baby.”

  The pet name used to feel like a snuggly blanket, but now it suffocated her. “I just want to make everyone happy.”

  “You sound like the old Tom.” Mellie spoke in a love-softened voice. “But he learned—and you will too—that you can’t and shouldn’t make everyone happy. Do God’s will, not man’s.”

  If only the Lord would rearrange the wispy white clouds to spell out his will. He wrote sixty-six books in the Bible. Certainly he could spare one word for her.

  No amount of frowning at the clouds changed their formation.

  Feminine laughter floated up the walkway ahead of them. Six nurses approached, all wearing the official gray-blue flight nurse trouser uniforms. The women eyed Georgie’s and Mellie’s uniforms and whispered to each other.

  Georgie felt frumpy in the old dark blue Army Nurse Corps service jacket she’d refashioned to waist length and the trousers she’d bought at J. C. Penney’s. They’d shipped to North Africa on too short of notice to be properly outfitted.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, I’ll ask.” A nurse with light brown hair stepped forward. Her wide-set eyes sparkled with determination and a hint of fun. She saluted Georgie and Mellie. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m Louise Cox. A rumor’s floating round that nurses who really, truly flew in North Africa and Italy are here.”

  “Some rumors are true. We’re from the 802nd.” Mellie held out her hand with a warm smile, such a different woman than a year before. “I’m Mellie Blake.”

  Louise squealed as if Mellie had said she was Katharine Hepburn. “Really? You flew? What’s it like?”

  The other women gathered around, faces bright. Questions and answers and introductions flitted around like fireflies on an August night.

  A firefly glow built in Georgie’s chest. These women longed for what Georgie had. They’d worked hard to be accepted into the School of Air Evacuation. They shared her passion to help the boys overseas.

  Louise, obviously the ringleader, filled them in on the rigorous curriculum—aeromedical physiology, crash procedures, ditching procedures, neuropsychiatry. While the new girls were halfway through a six-week program, the women of the 802nd would study for only three weeks, filling in gaps in their original training.

  Georgie didn’t need the clouds. God’s will was as plain as the glow on Louise’s face. She must apply herself and stretch herself.

  In her mind, she could see Hutch nod his approval, his brown eyes warm and serious.

  Georgie shook off the thought. She shouldn’t consider Hutch’s opinion, only Ward’s.

  “No,” she murmured under her breath. She should only consider God’s.

  Charlottesville

  October 16, 1943

  “Good solid crop this year, and the War Department paid well.” Ward clicked his tongue at his horse, Clyde, and urged him forward through the orchard.

  “I’m glad.” Georgie stroked Hammie’s ebony mane, the long stiff hairs welcome to her touch.

  The sun blinked in and out through the branches of the apple trees, leafy but plucked bare of fruit. Scents of soil and fresh air swirled together in autumn crispness, and Hammie’s gentle gait rocked her, lulled her.

  Ward talked on and on about the fall apple crop and the summer tomato crop and his plans for winter. Why couldn’t she concentrate? This would be her life.

  Her thoughts glided back over the Appalachians to Bowman Field. The bereavement leave for the nurses offered generous travel vouchers. Every weekend she could catch a C-47 from Bowman to Richmond, Virginia, and back again.

  The past week, she learned so much at the School of Air Evacuation, and she didn’t fail. Not at all.

  Rather the training energized her. She saw how it could be applied in the field, and something deep inside her wanted to apply it.

  A branch stuck out in her path, the leaves as dusty and old as her fears, and she swept it aside.

  How could she bask in the glory of a Virginia October when men suffered in New Guinea and the Solomons and Italy? And Hutch would suffer very soon. Two weeks had passed since Georgie had mailed Phyllis’s confession.

  She nuzzled Hammie’s russet ears and cooed to him as if it would comfort Hutch too. The poor man. All his dreams dashed.

  “Glad it’s over.” Ward headed out of the orchard and toward the stable. “Can’t stand seeing the Yankees win.”

  “What Southerner could?” Georgie managed a smile, although talk of the World Series dredged up memories of how Rose and Ward argued sports, great heated joyful discussions, and Georgie would sit back and laugh.

  “Four games to one. The Cardinals couldn’t pull it off for us.”

  “Well, St. Louis isn’t really in the South anyway.”

  “More than New York.” He spat out the last two words with disgust.

  Georgie had met too many Northerners in the past year to share his contempt any longer.

  Ward approached the stable with its shiny coat of white paint and its white rail fence, pretty as could be. “Hammie will like his new home.”

  Something lurched in her chest. It wasn’t Hammie’s home yet, not until they married. But she gave Ward the smile he expected. At least he’d thought of her.

  After they dismounted, they led the horses into the corral to graze. Georgie fed Hammie one of Ward’s gorgeous red apples, savoring the tickle of horse lips on her open palm. She pulled the horse’s head down so she could lean her forehead against his, the wa
rmth of his brown velvet eyes assuring her. “I don’t suppose you’d decide for me either, would you?”

  He puffed air out through his nostrils.

  “No, I didn’t think so.”

  “What was that?” Ward waited by the gate.

  “Telling him what a wise old horse he is.”

  Ward cracked his familiar grin and reached for her. “Come see the house.”

  “I can’t wait to see inside.” She took his hand. The farmhouse didn’t have the grandeur and scope of the Taylor home, but the simple, trim lines appealed to her.

  “Four up, four down, and plenty of room to add on if we need it. And I hope we need it.” He squeezed her hand and gave her a shy smile.

  Georgie’s cheeks warmed, more aware than ever that they weren’t chaperoned. Mama had given her a strict one-hour deadline before she sent out the cavalry. Ward had always been a gentleman, but men were men.

  A broad shady porch, a narrow entry, a cozy parlor. Yellow curtains hung in the windows, and Georgie flipped the fabric to inspect the stitchery.

  “Pearline made those.” Ward dug his hands in his trouser pockets, without a trace of telltale red in his cheeks. “I told her yellow since it’s your second-favorite color after pink.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Miss Pearline had cheap taste in fabric and second-rate seamstress skills. “May I see the kitchen?”

  Ward grabbed her hand. “Come see. You’ll love it.”

  She did. Sunshine streamed through ample windows over wide counters and modern appliances.

  Ward stroked the icebox. “The previous owners put in new appliances a few years ago. Thank goodness, since you can’t buy any with the war on.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Georgie leaned over the sink. The window overlooked a grassy slope toward the orchard, with the stable to her left.

  “We both know you belong in Virginia,” Rose had written in her final letter, “close to your parents, in Ward’s farmhouse, with a sunny kitchen and lots of sewing projects and horses in the barn.”

  Her throat clogged shut. All of that lay before her.

  He set his hand in the small of her back. “Do you like it?”

  “Of course. It’s perfect.” She spun away and out onto the porch, where she gulped a deep breath.

  Ward leaned his thick forearms on the porch railing beside her.

  The blue sky and green grass and neat white buildings. The rustle of trees and nickering of horses. The earthy smells and the taste of autumn in the air. It was all she’d ever dreamed of. “Ward, have you ever wanted to travel?”

  “Travel? Out of Virginia? Why? It’s perfect here.”

  “Yes, it’s perfect, but there’s so much more in the world.” She looked into his puzzled eyes. “This past year I ate coconut in Florida, sailed past the Statue of Liberty, shopped in a Casablanca bazaar, traipsed the streets of Algiers, swam in the Mediterranean, strolled down winding Sicilian streets, and explored ancient Greek temples. I heard people speak French and Arabic and Italian and Spanish and even German. It’s all so fascinating.”

  Ward’s mouth compressed. He stared down at his clasped hands, one thumb tapping the other. “I was afraid of this. Afraid going away would make you discontent with plain old home.”

  “I’m not.” She covered his hands with hers. How could she word it? “I’m not discontent with home, but now I like other things as well. My horizons have expanded.”

  He wouldn’t look at her. He cleared his throat. “Have they expanded past me?”

  “No. No, honey, no.” She squeezed his hands hard.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “So why are you going through this training program? Why didn’t you resign on Monday as we agreed?”

  “We didn’t agree. I never said I’d resign.”

  “I don’t understand. It’s the only way to get you out of this crazy mess.”

  Georgie waved her hand eastward, toward the Mediterranean. “What if this crazy mess is exactly what I need to grow?”

  He rubbed her back as if she were a toddler needing a nap. “Baby, you don’t need to grow. You’re perfect the way you are.”

  “But I want to grow. I need to learn how to make decisions.”

  “Why? Your family and I—we’ll always be here for you. We’ll always take care of you.”

  “Will you? Can you honestly make a promise like that? What if something happened in the house with a half-dozen children, and you were off in the orchard, and I had to make a decision? What if you got hurt and I had to help you?”

  He coiled one finger into her hair. “See, the war’s made you into a worrywart. That’s not like you, baby.”

  She resisted the urge to swat his hand away. “I’m not a worrywart. I’m just more realistic. I need backbone.”

  “Why would you need backbone if you’re surrounded by people with backbone?”

  “I want it. I want to be decisive.”

  His hazel eyes softened into the most infuriating condescending look. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  Georgie’s face tingled as the blood drained from her face and the confidence drained from her soul. “You don’t think I can do it.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, baby.” He nuzzled her cheek. “That’s like a thoroughbred trying to be a big old draft horse. It’s not in your nature, and that’s okay. I love you the way you are. Backbone would ruin you.”

  The fog of his words blurred her vision. Hutch thought she could learn to make decisions, but what did he know? The people who knew her best knew she couldn’t do it.

  24

  Volturno River

  October 24, 1943

  Unlike the US Fifth Army, Hutch crossed the Volturno River backward. While the Allies crossed under machine-gun fire eleven days earlier, Hutch rode in a jeep, turned in the front seat to face Lucia. Her litter was strapped across the backseat, while two more litters were strapped on the hood, a makeshift ambulance. The 93rd would be the first Allied hospital on the north bank of the Volturno.

  Under an overcast sky, the jeep rattled over the Bailey Bridge, an engineering marvel that could span a river in hours.

  A furrow raced up Lucia’s forehead, and she clutched her bambola even tighter. Bergie’s girlfriend, Lillian, had finally convinced the child to let her bathe the doll, and the nurses had fashioned a miniature hospital gown and bathrobe and braided its hair to match Lucia’s clean shiny locks.

  The nurses fussed over Lucia, but she only ever asked for her Signor Oo-chay. She couldn’t say the letter H and she tacked a vowel at the end of most words, so “Hutch” became “Oo-chay.” Dom said the Italians would spell it Ucce. Hutch liked that.

  Time for his treat. “I have a gift for you. For Lucia.”

  She’d picked up a lot of English in the past two weeks, and he’d picked up a smattering of Italian. She tilted her head. “Non capisco.”

  He pulled a tin disc from the pocket of his field jacket and handed it to her. “For Lucia.”

  She ran a finger over the pinpricks, and he showed her how to hold it up and shine a flashlight behind it. He hadn’t learned the word for stars, but he knew Lucia’s name had to do with light, and notte meant night. “Lucia di notte.”

  Her grin rose, revealing two missing teeth in the lower row. “Stelle.”

  “Si. Stelle in Italiano. In English, stars.”

  “Star-zay.”

  “Stars.” He clamped his lips together in an exaggerated manner to show her how to cut off the final vowel.

  “Star-zay.” She clamped her lips shut.

  Hutch laughed, met with her bubbling giggle. She was impossibly cute, lit from within. Her name fit. Something about her reminded him of a tiny Italian version of Georgie. He understood why Georgie’s family had coddled her, because he felt a strong urge to coddle Lucia.

  The convoy halted in the middle of the bridge. Jim Fleischer, the driver, stopped the jeep. “Cute kid. What’s wrong with her?”

  Hutch glanced to the clouds and tensed. The L
uftwaffe loved to target bridges, especially bridges loaded with vehicles. “Got hit by one of our trucks. Two broken legs.”

  Fleischer cut himself off mid-cuss, for Lucia’s sake, most likely. “What about her parents? They’re fine with us hauling her halfway up Italy?”

  “They’re . . . gone. The war, you know.”

  “War is—well, you know what it is.”

  “Yep.” War was bad enough when men shot each other to pieces, but it defied understanding when little girls lost entire families and got maimed.

  That little girl tugged his sleeve. “Il orso!”

  Not just cute but smart. She’d figured out the constellation on the disc. He gave her a deep throaty bear growl.

  She giggled and held out her little hand. “Per favore. Vorrei il orso.”

  Hutch pulled out Lucia’s favorite thing, the handkerchief Georgie had embroidered with Ursa Major.

  Lucia compared the handkerchief and the disc and chattered in delight.

  Fleischer inched the jeep forward. The Bailey Bridge rocked with the river’s flow. “I hate to ask, but what’ll happen to her?”

  Hutch studied the cast-bound legs, out of traction only for the ambulance ride to the new hospital site. “The surgery went well. Now we wait and see how well she recovers.”

  “After that?”

  “The Red Cross wanted her in a hospital in the Naples area, but when they saw how attached she is to the staff of the 93rd, they decided she should stay with us until she recovers.”

  “And then?”

  Hutch drew in a deep breath, marred by exhaust fumes. “She has no family left. She’ll go to an orphanage near Naples.”

  “Too bad.” He wrestled the gearshift, and the jeep lurched forward and up onto the north bank. “She sure likes you. You married?”

  “Engaged.”

  “You gonna adopt her after the war?”

  “I’ve thought about it.”

  Lucia had tied the handkerchief over her bambola like a peasant’s scarf, and she showed the doll the constellation on the tin disc like a teacher with a student.