On Distant Shores Page 32

  The fires were out, but the next tent over was ablaze. Hutch ran over and slung streams of sand at the flames. Others aimed fire extinguishers or pumped water from a water tanker.

  When the sandbag was empty, Hutch grabbed another. Leaning, bending, moving his arms—all sent pain skittering over his back, but he worked despite the pain, through the pain.

  They killed the flames. Canvas hung from the poles in charred shrouds, and voices rang from inside—shouts, cries, orders.

  Hutch charged inside. Doctors and nurses and medics worked frantically among the wounded. He touched the arm of the closest physician. “Can I help, sir?”

  It was Bergie, his eyes stark white in a face smudged by soot.

  The men stared at each other. They hadn’t spoken since landing at Anzio.

  “Sir,” Hutch repeated. “What can I do?”

  Bergie blinked. “We need help. We’ve got to get these men to pre-op and stat.”

  “I can do that.” He spun around, recognizing men from laundry, mess, lab. “You guys! Are you fit to carry litters? They need help.”

  The men sprang to action. Hutch and the lab tech grabbed a litter.

  “Follow me.” Bergie led the way. “I’ll be needed in surgery.”

  “Come on, men.” Hutch kept up with Bergie’s brisk pace, although the strain of carrying the litter sent warm trickles down his back.

  At pre-op, they laid the wounded inside the tent, also marred by scorched holes.

  Bergie sent them back to the ward tent. “Captain Sobel will tell you which patients to bring.”

  Hutch and his crew made two more runs. He breathed hard. Sweat ran down his neck and stung the wounds on his back. But he kept moving, fueled by adrenaline and the knowledge that he was doing great good.

  When the last patients had been delivered, Bergie met them in pre-op. He shook hands with the litter-bearers, ending with Hutch, a penetrating look in his eyes. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  “I’m not needed in surgery. We have more doctors than wounded. And we have about three dozen wounded. One more if we count you.”

  “It’s nothing.” Hutch shrugged and regretted it when fresh hot pain rippled down his shoulder blades.

  “Stop being pigheaded. Your jacket’s shredded, and you’re a bloody mess.”

  Hutch ventured a smile. “You already knew that.”

  Bergie studied him then marched out of the tent. “Come with me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Now he had an opportunity to make amends.

  The physician led him into Receiving, deserted and relatively undamaged, and he lit a lantern. The 94th Evac had opened at Anzio earlier that day and had taken all new admissions—ironically to lighten the load at the 93rd so the engineers could dig them in deeper and protect them from air raids. A bit late.

  Bergie motioned to a cot. “Sit down. Take off your jacket and shirt.” He opened a medical chest and gathered supplies on a tray. “How’d it happen? A bomb hit near your tent?”

  “Nope.” Hutch took off his jacket, gritting his teeth. “I was stargazing at the beach, saw the planes come in. I ran back and raised the alarm.”

  Bergie faced him. “I heard someone shouting. That was you?”

  “Yeah.” He unbuttoned his shirt. This would hurt. “Ran into a tent to help. A nurse threw herself over a patient, and I shielded her. That’s when I got hit. Better me than her. Your Lillian.”

  He spun and stared. “My Lillian? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. Hard at work last I saw her.”

  “Thanks.” He waved his hand at Hutch. “You have to take off your shirt. If you don’t, I will.”

  Hutch braced himself and peeled off the shirt, grunting as the fabric separated from his torn flesh. A cry escaped despite his best efforts to stop it.

  “Lie down on your side, your back close to the edge.” Bergie set up two stools, one for himself, one for his tray, and he pulled on rubber gloves. “Let’s see what we have here.”

  Hutch eased himself down, facing rows of empty cots, the cool air stinging his wounds. “By the way, you were right.”

  “Yeah? About what?” He tucked a towel under Hutch’s right side.

  “About my goal becoming an obsession, about how sometimes surrender is better than fighting.”

  “Mm.” Bergie plucked something from Hutch’s back, and it tinkled into a basin at his feet. “What prompted this?”

  He gripped the edge of the cot. “I didn’t get into the Pharmacy Corps.”

  Hands stilled. “I’m sorry. That meant a lot to you.”

  “It meant too much. Somewhere along the line, I let pride take over, and it made me bitter.” He fought to keep his voice even.

  “Stop squirming. Gotta find the shrapnel in this forest of hair.”

  “I don’t have hair on my back.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  Hutch’s grin turned to grimace as pain sliced into his left side. He bit off a cry.

  “Sorry. It was in deep. Got it.”

  “Thanks.” Sweat dribbled over the bridge of his nose, and he blew out a deep breath. “Wish you could have cut out my bitterness. I lost Georgie. I lost your friendship.”

  Bergie paused in his work. “You didn’t lose my friendship. You misplaced it.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “Depends. You back to normal?”

  “I hope not. Hope I’m somewhere new and better.”

  “Mm. Good. I’ll forgive you if you lie still and stop whining like a girl. I’ll get you cleaned up and bandaged, then send you to X-ray to make sure I didn’t miss anything. I rarely do.”

  Thank goodness for the change in subject. This kind of talk hurt almost as much as the wounds.

  Bergie cleaned his back with moistened gauze. “You don’t need stitches. All surface wounds. It’ll hurt like the dickens but won’t get you out of work.”

  “G-good.” Hutch shivered from spasms of cold and pain.

  “Baby.”

  “Butcher.”

  He laughed. “Careful. I’m the one with the scalpel.”

  The tent flap swished open, and footsteps thumped down the aisle.

  “Hiya, Chad. You hurt?”

  “Just a small burn. Got hit by magnesium from the incendiaries. You can’t stop the burning from that. I pulled it out though, so the damage is minimal.”

  Hutch steeled himself. Capt. Al Chadwick would test his resolve to show genuine respect when shown none in return.

  Chadwick sat on the cot in front of Hutch and rolled up his left sleeve.

  “I’ll take care of that as soon as I finish here.” Bergie dabbed at the wounds.

  “Good evening, sir,” Hutch said.

  Chadwick acknowledged him with a brief glance. “No need, Berg. I can handle it.”

  “Let me know if you need a hand.” Bergie pressed Hutch’s shoulder. “Onto your stomach so I can apply sulfanilamide powder.”

  Hutch rolled over and rested his head on his forearms, facing away from Chadwick.

  “Injured in the back, was he?” Chadwick snorted. “Running away. Should have known.”

  Though Hutch tensed, he didn’t take the bait.

  “Actually . . .” Bergie drew out the word in a strained tone. “He ran to the hospital. He’s the one who raised the alarm. He was injured protecting Lillian. He saved her life.”

  Another snort, some rummaging through supplies. “That’s revolutionary—a druggist saving lives for once.”

  Bergie’s hand tightened on Hutch’s shoulder. Hutch raised one hand to silence him and turned to face his nemesis. Something ran deeper here than mere professional rivalry.

  Even if he got in trouble for insubordination, he had to speak. “Excuse me, sir. That’s the second time you’ve made a comment about druggists and saving lives. May I ask what you have against my profession?”

  “Your profession?” He smeared petrolatum over an angry red mark on his forearm. “Your prof
ession is nothing but snake-oil salesmen masquerading in white coats.”

  “Chad—”

  “No, Bergie, let him speak.” Hutch watched the man’s jaw shift from side to side. “‘Snake-oil salesman’ is a strong term, sir. Would you care to explain?”

  Those gray eyes pierced like shrapnel. “Why not? The truth will bring you down a peg.”

  The smell of sulfanilamide powder filled his nostrils. “I’ve been brought down several pegs lately. I can handle it, sir.”

  Chadwick placed a square of gauze over his wound. “When my little sister was five, she had digestive problems. My father prescribed a mild tonic of nux vomica.”

  Hutch drew in a sharp breath. “Strychnine.”

  “Yes.” He tore off a piece of tape with his teeth, then secured the gauze pad. “The druggist increased the strength tenfold. Isabella died a horrible and painful death.”

  Compassion replaced the last trace of animosity. That explained everything. Such tragic loss, such deep pain, such betrayal often failed to submit to reason or forgiveness.

  “I’m sorry, sir. For your sister, for you, for your whole family. I can see why you don’t trust pharmacists.”

  “I understand too, buddy. I do.” Bergie applied bandages to Hutch’s back. “But isn’t that like little Lucia hating all IV fluids because her brother received some before he died? Isn’t that like the patient back in Sicily who said all physicians were quacks because a surgeon mistakenly amputated his dad’s good leg back in World War I? The poor man was left with no legs.”

  “That’s not the same.” Chad tore off another length of tape.

  “Sure it is. All professions have good and bad apples, you know that. Even the best physician—the best pharmacist—can make a mistake. Judge each man on his own merits.” Bergie thumped Hutch in the arm. “Sit up now, but slowly. Don’t want to pop off the bandages. I’ll walk you over to X-ray, where they’ll praise my stupendous surgical skills once again.”

  He eased himself up to sitting and met Chadwick’s eye. “Thank you for telling me, sir.”

  The physician’s eyes glazed, and he gave a brisk nod.

  Hutch pushed himself to standing. His vision darkened, and he wobbled. “What’d you do, Captain Bergstrom? Carve your initials into my back?”

  Bergie took his arm and guided him out of the tent. “My initials? I carved my entire given name.”

  Hutch laughed and paused, lightheaded. Sweat tickled his upper lip. “I’m glad our friendship is no longer misplaced.”

  “Me too, buddy. Me too.”

  50

  Marina Piccola, Capri, Italy

  April 5, 1944

  Georgie picked her way along the rocks on the shore in her new leather sandals, and a cool wind ruffled her pink sundress.

  A dozen shades of blue and green shimmered in the water, and to her left, the Faraglioni, three large rocks, jutted out of the ocean.

  A week’s R & R on the island of Capri served as her reward for the ditching incident. But what kind of reward was solitude? A party—that would have been a reward.

  With a huge, multilayered decision to make, she missed her friends, not so they could decide for her, but so she could discuss her options with someone—aloud.

  She passed three soldiers lounging on the rocks, and she angled her straw hat as a shield. Plenty of men begged for her company this week, but she didn’t want that kind of company. Even the handful of nurses she’d met wouldn’t do. She needed someone who knew her well.

  Behind her, the Via Krupp wound down steep limestone cliffs in stacks of hairpin turns, braced by stone walls overflowing with bougainvillea. Whitewashed homes with red tile roofs dotted the green hillsides, unmarred by war. A carriage had brought her down from her luxurious hotel in the town of Capri to the Marina Piccola, led by charming horses with plumes on their headdresses.

  She’d seriously considered discussing her decision with the horses.

  Georgie stood on a spit of land poking into the bay and tugged her cardigan tighter around her waist. “Lord, it’s you and me.”

  If she could survive a ditching, she could make the decision the ditching sparked. The Army smelled publicity, and they wanted to send her on a one-month bond tour. A cute, plucky nurse who had saved ten lives at sea could sell tons of war bonds and bring attention to the flight nursing program. After that, they’d give her a nursing position at Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington DC with full weekend leaves to visit home.

  A year ago, her decision would have been easy, but not now.

  She pulled a notepad and pencil from the pocket of her dress and perched on a rock, far enough away from the water to keep her toes dry from chilly waves. This choice called for Hutch-like rationality.

  She drew a T-shaped chart on the paper and labeled one column “Virginia” and the other “MTO” for Mediterranean Theater of Operations. Her decision had multiple layers, so she marked four rows—comfort, professional, people, and spiritual.

  For comfort, Virginia won—no air raids, no strange diseases, soft beds, and good food. The MTO side was empty. That felt wrong, and she knew why. “I don’t care about comfort.” She wrote it down.

  The professional aspect was a wash. Either way she’d use her talents and skills to care for the sick and wounded. Either way she’d aid the war effort.

  People. She nibbled on her pencil. Her family wanted her. Freddie’s need for bed rest stretched the family thin as they cared for Freddie’s children and grocery while running their own homes and farms. Georgie would only be home for the weekends, but every bit would help.

  And Ward. At regular intervals, his letters declared his undying love, his wish to marry her at the time of her choosing, and his willingness to fulfill her every wish. She could do worse than to marry a good man who adored her.

  As for people, who would keep her in the MTO? She wrote down the names of her friends, but they didn’t truly need her. Once-shy Mellie had plenty of good friends. Kay hadn’t opened up, and if she ever did, it would be to Mellie, not Georgie. The other ladies had lots of friends. They would do fine without her.

  What about Hutch? She slowly wrote his name, remembering his warm eyes, his passionate kisses, his gentle humor, his wise advice. Love alone wouldn’t bring him back into her life. With a deep sigh, she drew a line through his name. No, she wouldn’t let that lingering dream sway her decision.

  “Spiritual.” She jabbed her pencil in the next box, tearing her thoughts from the man she shouldn’t still love.

  Her smile rose. This was where the MTO won. “Challenges me,” she wrote. “I’ll continue to grow.” But in all honesty, she had to write in the Virginia column, “I proved myself.”

  The ditching incident showed how much she had grown. She’d overcome her fears and been strong and capable in a life-threatening crisis. More importantly, the change felt permanent. Back in Virginia, she wouldn’t revert to the pampered baby role, no matter how hard her family tried to make her. And they’d try.

  Georgie held the notepad at arm’s length, and the page fluttered in the wind. The Virginia column was longer and more convincing. Maybe she was done in Italy, her lessons learned, her job finished, free to go home and seize her lifelong dreams.

  If so, why did she feel a strong urge to pad the MTO column?

  Georgie tapped her pencil against her chin. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Lord?”

  Deep down inside, she wanted the MTO side to win. Because she wanted to stay. Because she needed to stay. Her work here was not done.

  Naples, Italy

  April 8, 1944

  The strains of “Star Eyes” floated out onto the circular terrace of the Orange Club overlooking the Bay of Naples, and Georgie blinked rapidly. If she and Hutch were still together, that song would have been perfect for them.

  Instead she tried to concentrate on Lt. Larry White’s dissertation on how many crates of rations his battalion had unloaded today. Never again would she let Kay Jobson set her
up.

  Kay insisted Georgie couldn’t be the seventh wheel. Mellie danced with Tom, Louise Cox laughed with Tom’s friend Rudy Scaglione, and Kay was fending off the advances of Lt. Hal Heathcock, who served with Larry White in Quartermasters.

  The entire 64th Troop Carrier Group had left the MTO for India on April 2, taking half of Kay’s flyboy boyfriends. The Quartermasters fellows filled the gap.

  “A 45 percent increase over last month. But we’re keeping up.” Larry folded his napkin with long tapered fingers.

  “That’s wonderful.” Georgie nestled her chin in her hand and tried to focus on his gray-blue eyes. A good-looking man, but not for her. Her gaze drifted over his shoulder to Vesuvius, dark and solid in the twilight across the bay, and still sending up plumes of smoke, but no longer menacing.

  “That new penicillin. That gives us headaches.” Larry pressed his hand to his temple. “It has to be refrigerated. You can imagine the challenges.”

  Georgie’s smile faltered. “I can imagine.” Why all the reminders of Hutch? She was trying to celebrate. Her flight of six nurses had all decided to stay with the 802nd.

  “Star Eyes” ended, and Tom and Mellie breezed onto the terrace, flushed from dancing.

  Tom held out Mellie’s chair for her, then sat beside her. “Have I ever told all of you why I love bridges?”

  Mellie smiled but raised one eyebrow. “Okay . . . ?”

  “You know why, Mellie.” He tucked her hand in his on top of the table. “But do your friends?”

  An odd topic of conversation. Georgie gave Mellie a faint smile. “You said Tom wants to build bridges all over the world.”

  “I do.” His blue eyes lit up. “Bridges connect people, and the best bridges are also works of art that inspire the soul.”

  “True.” Georgie glanced around the table at the polite smiles.

  Mellie patted his hand. “Are we to be blessed with a lecture on the differences between suspension and cantilever bridges?”

  Tom laughed. “Not today. Unless you want one.”

  “That’s all right.” Kay shrugged Hal’s arm off her shoulders. “Though I’m sure it’d be fascinating.”