On Distant Shores Page 4

  “There’s your answer.” He returned to the telescope. “Want to see something else?”

  “Oh yes.” She sprang to her knees and scooted closer.

  Hutch caught his breath and edged to the side. “It’s a little group of stars that looks like a coat hanger. Right there below Cygnus’s beak. Almost as if the swan dropped it in flight.”

  “Isn’t that cute?” She gazed through the telescope while the moonlight cast arcs of light on her curls.

  He looked away, down the slight rise to the hospital complex, its tents in perfect military order.

  “How’d you end up here, Hutch?”

  “Drafted.”

  “When?”

  “First round. Got inducted December of ’40. I was only supposed to serve a year, but you know the story.”

  “Pearl Harbor.”

  “I was there.”

  She gasped. “You were there?”

  “Well, I was on Oahu. Serving at Tripler Army Hospital. We weren’t bombed, but we dealt with the casualties.”

  “Oh my goodness. Then you transferred to the 93rd?”

  A wave of fatigue caught up to him. It had to be close to midnight. “The Army transferred me to the 5th General Hospital at Fort Dix in January ’42. Got sent to Northern Ireland, then to England. This May, I got orders to transfer to the 93rd in Algeria. Got off the boat, and there’s Bergie. Turns out it was his doing.”

  “So . . .” A teasing lilt danced through her voice. “Do other people always make decisions for you?”

  He laughed. “Okay, I deserved that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “In the Army, the only decision I made was being a pharmacist, and that was only because my dad has friends in Congress who yanked strings.”

  “Friends in Congress?”

  Hutch drew in his feet to sit cross-legged. “He’s a pharmacist too, a leader in the American Pharmaceutical Association. They’re working on legislation to create a Pharmacy Corps, so the Army will use pharmacists properly and as officers, and the soldiers will get the same safe care they do at home. The state of pharmacy in the military stinks, so Dad wanted me to provide eyewitness testimony. Which I’ve done.”

  “You’re a good son.”

  “Yep.” A firm nod. “I’m Isaac.”

  Georgie’s laugh bubbled low like water in a brook. “Isaac? Like in the Bible?”

  “My father’s like Abraham, a great man and leader, and I’m the ‘son of the promise’ set to follow in his footsteps. Like Isaac, I even needed help to find my future wife.”

  “So . . .” There was that lilt again. “Did your daddy ever put you on the altar?”

  He laughed. “In a way. I could have taken an officer’s commission and served in another capacity, but I chose to practice my profession instead.”

  “So you went willingly, like Isaac.”

  “Yes. I sacrificed for a good cause.”

  Georgie rested her chin on her knees. “That must help you be content.”

  Hutch screwed the telescope off its tripod. He needed to get some sack time. “Content? Nope. Contentment would mean surrender to the status quo. I’m fighting for a better system.”

  “Hmm.” She rolled the edge of the blanket in her fingers. “Does that require sacrificing your peace?”

  Peace? In the middle of war? But after all, wasn’t that what God promised? Hutch laid his telescope in its case.

  The petite brunette sat beside him in the moonlight. He’d challenged her, and now she challenged him. Beneath that charming vulnerability lay admirable strength.

  He held out his hand. “How about a deal? You learn to make your own decisions, and I’ll learn to be content.”

  “Deal.” Her tiny cool hand slipped into his.

  He shook her hand and dropped it. Quick. He never ran from a challenge, but he always ran from temptation.

  5

  Valle dei Templi, Agrigento, Sicily

  July 24, 1943

  “Can you believe this is 2,500 years old?” Georgie’s gaze climbed the columns of the Temple of Hera. The roof was long gone, but columns still soared skyward. “I never thought we’d see Greek ruins in Sicily.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Mellie Blake looked down the sun-baked slope to the Mediterranean.

  Georgie and Rose exchanged a worried glance. Only depression could dull Mellie’s interest in sightseeing.

  That morning, Vera and Alice framed Mellie and made it look as if she’d pulled a nasty prank on them. To top it off, Lieutenant Lambert believed Vera and Alice’s side of the story.

  Rose hooked her arm through Mellie’s. “Don’t worry. We believe you.”

  Georgie cringed. They came on this trip to take Mellie’s mind off her troubles, not to focus on them.

  Mellie lifted a feeble smile. “I know.”

  If they were on the subject, they might as well talk it all the way through. Georgie took Mellie’s other arm and led the ladies along the ridge toward the next of the seven temples. “I don’t understand why they’d do such a thing.”

  “They’re just mean,” Rose said.

  Georgie shook her head and found the path through the olive trees. “They’re nurses and good ones. They care. There has to be a reason, but I can’t imagine what it could be. What do they have against you?”

  Mellie’s chin lifted, and pain flickered through her exotic dark eyes. “I refuse to gossip.”

  “It’s not gossip if you’re defending yourself.”

  “In this case, it would be. Can we talk about something else?”

  “You want to talk about Tom?” Rose asked in a gentle voice. A week before, Mellie had evacuated her pen pal to Tunisia with a raging fever. He still hadn’t figured out her identity, and Mellie refused to tell him.

  Mellie gazed into the distance as if nothing lay before her. “I wish I knew how he was doing.”

  Georgie patted her arm. “They have us flying so often, you’re sure to get a chance to go to Tunisia. You said he’s at the hospital right by the airfield in Mateur.”

  “True.” Some light returned to her eyes. “I’m praying hard for him.”

  “We are too, honey.”

  “Yes, we are,” Rose said.

  “You two are the best of friends. I’m so glad I met you.” Her pace picked up. “You and Tom have been good for me. You know a relationship is strong when it makes you grow.”

  Georgie and Rose murmured their agreement. Georgie had seen that with Clint and Rose as well. And with her and Ward . . .

  She frowned and ducked around an olive tree, its leaves fragrant and dusty. Ward helped her grow, didn’t he?

  “Oh my,” Mellie said. “Would you look at that?”

  Farther along the ridgeline stood a temple, completely intact, the Temple of Concordia.

  Rose shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun. “Why do they call it the Valley of Temples when it’s along a ridge?”

  “The Ridge of Temples.” Georgie cocked her head to one side. “Not very poetic.”

  “It would be if you said it in Italian.”

  Georgie smiled at the perk in Mellie’s voice.

  Before long they stood in front of the Temple of Concordia. Triangular pediments crowned elegant Doric columns with their simple capitals. Hutch would enjoy the Valle dei Templi with his knowledge of constellations and Greek mythology.

  A ripple of sadness. She probably wouldn’t see the quiet pharmacist again. Although the British were bogged down on the east coast of Sicily, the Americans had cleared the entire western half of the island and seized Palermo on the north coast. Today the 802nd had transferred forty miles north to Agrigento. Who knew where the 93rd Evac would go?

  Still, Georgie treasured their short friendship. Hutch had made her uncomfortable when he implied she didn’t make her own decisions, but he had a point. Perhaps she needed to change and grow. What if something happened to Ward? To her parents? Where would she turn?

  She studied the classic lines of the Gree
k temple. Concordia meant peace, and Georgie needed to grow to find it.

  A bowl of Atabrine tablets sat on a table in the doorway to the officers’ mess tent.

  Georgie picked out her daily dose, and the clerk checked off her name.

  She stepped away and stared at the little yellow pill. What if she didn’t take it? What if she left a gap in her mosquito netting? A rip-roaring case of malaria could get her sent home.

  Heart pounding, she slipped the tablet in her trouser pocket. She didn’t belong here. Lieutenant Lambert would welcome the excuse to replace Georgie with a competent nurse.

  A medical discharge, and Georgie could marry Ward and settle down on his farm and raise lots of apples and tomatoes and babies. She could still help the war effort at home. With her energy and enthusiasm, she could raise money, gather scrap, and improve morale.

  She belonged in Virginia.

  Georgie settled on a camp stool next to Rose and Mellie, and gave them a cheery greeting, although the Atabrine tablet sat heavy and hot in her pocket.

  “Mail came.” Rose passed Georgie a square V-mail envelope.

  Georgie sighed and opened the letter from Ward. V-mail was patriotic but not terribly romantic. His single sheet of paper was photographed stateside, the film was shipped overseas, and the letter was printed one-quarter size and delivered. The V-mail system freed precious shipping space for troops, weapons, and supplies, but Ward wasn’t required to use it. Why couldn’t he send a long letter like Tom sent Mellie?

  She smiled and peered at the tiny handwriting. For Ward, V-mail was a long letter.

  Dear Georgie,

  How are you? All is well here. I have a bumper crop of tomatoes, and prices are solid.

  I wish you could be here to see the harvest, but I’m looking forward to showing you the farm soon. You’ll like it.

  How much longer until you come home? I want to marry you more than ever. It’s hard to run both the farm and a house. I had to hire Pearline Gibbs to clean and cook for me. Don’t worry though. You alone have my heart.

  Myrtle Ferguson came home on furlough last week after training with the WAVES. You wouldn’t recognize her, she’s gotten so hard and headstrong. That’s what the military does to girls, and it isn’t natural.

  Every night I pray that won’t happen to you. I don’t want you to change one whit. I want my Georgie back same as she’s always been.

  Around the tent, nurses laughed and chatted. Nothing hard or headstrong about them. While strong and confident, they remained compassionate and feminine.

  Georgie alone lacked strength.

  Ward didn’t want her to change one whit. But what if she needed to change? Everyone did. Only the Lord was perfect.

  Hutch was right. She needed to learn to make her own decisions.

  Although she longed for the comforts of home and family, comfort wouldn’t help her grow. Perhaps she needed discomfort, a little dirt and danger in her life.

  Only one question mattered. What was God’s will? Did he want her home with Ward? Or did he want her in Sicily with her friends?

  Georgie rested her hand in her lap, on the hard lump of Atabrine. Her plan to get a medical discharge was unethical, and worse—she was trying to manipulate God’s will to match hers.

  She slipped the tablet out of her pocket and into her mouth. If the Lord wanted her to go home, he’d make a way.

  6

  Highway 117, Sicily

  July 25, 1943

  On the horizon, the gibbous moon cast pale gray light on the battered landscape.

  Hutch poked his arm out the truck window and twisted his wrist until he could see his watch. One thirty. The 93rd Evac convoy had been on the road for ten hours, heading north from Gela through Sicily’s rugged heart.

  The truck wrenched down into another pothole. Hutch banged his helmet on the roof of the truck. Again. Height had some disadvantages.

  At the wheel, Dom Bruno cussed. Beside him, Ralph O’Shea snored. How could the man sleep? And how could the equipment and medication bottles survive the journey?

  Dom leaned over the wheel and squinted at the road. The hospital traveled in complete blackout conditions to prevent attack from the air. Their new location at Petralia would be only four miles from the front and twenty miles from Sicily’s north shore.

  “Not again.” Dom stomped on the brakes, and Ralph’s head flopped onto Hutch’s shoulder.

  “Another hairpin turn?” Hutch nudged Ralph away.

  “Yeah. This road’s more treacherous than Hitler.”

  “No kidding.” Hutch climbed out of the truck to help navigate the tight turn to the right.

  Roads built for peasants, mules, and wagons couldn’t handle US Army two-and-a-half-ton trucks.

  He jogged behind the truck and around to the driver’s side. The moonlight illuminated a steep drop-off to the left side of the truck, perhaps a hundred feet, with only scraggly bushes to break the fall. Better that Dom didn’t know.

  “Ready?” He stood by the left rear tire and shivered in the cool mountain air.

  Dom gave the thumbs-up and threw the truck into reverse.

  Hutch motioned him backward, watching the road, the truck, and his own step. “More. More. A little more. Stop!”

  The vehicle halted about two feet from the rim. Dom cranked the wheel to the right and eased around the bend. Good. Only one reverse on this hairpin. The last one took three tries.

  Hutch ran around and hopped back inside. Ahead, the landscape opened up to reveal the remains of a village. Large dark letters on the first building proclaimed, “Viva Mussolini!” But the dictator’s name had been crossed out, and it now read, “Viva Americani!”

  The Italians seemed to have lost all heart for fascism and the war it created, and they surrendered gladly and in droves. The Germans, on the other hand, fought tenaciously.

  Many of the village’s buildings had been reduced to rubble. A young woman wrapped in a shawl huddled inside a freestanding doorway and watched the convoy. A beautiful woman, sure to attract many GIs.

  Hutch wouldn’t be one of them. If only he could convince Phyllis. Her last letter reeked of loneliness and anxiety.

  He drummed his fingers on the rim of the truck door. Good thing Phyllis didn’t know he’d spent a pleasant evening under the stars with a cute little nurse.

  As for Georgie, she adored her Ward and wasn’t the cheating type. As for Hutch, he’d had plenty of opportunities in Hawaii and Ireland and England, and never once had a girl turned his head. He was committed to Phyllis, and nothing could shake that.

  But how to convince her? She’d always been insecure in his love.

  Hutch leaned out the truck window and inhaled mountain freshness, tainted by smells of motor oil, dust, and death. He looked up to the stars, but the rough ride bucked the familiar patterns before his eyes.

  Phyllis had never stargazed with him. She always had an excuse. Too cold, too damp, too many bugs. She never minded him going by himself, but he wished she’d come. Something about the dark and quiet encouraged deep and intimate conversation.

  After the war, Hutch would marry Phyllis as soon as he stepped off the boat. They’d spend quiet evenings at home, reading and listening to the radio. But to break the monotony, they’d need occasional evenings out. She’d balk as always, and he’d coax her. And he’d fail as always. Then Bergie would drag them out.

  Hutch sighed and clenched the door rim. He and Phyllis would always need a Bergie in their lives.

  Dom hit the brakes. “Now what?”

  The line of trucks ground to a halt outside the village. Truck doors thumped shut toward the front of the line.

  Hutch craned his head out the window. An officer approached, one he didn’t know.

  “What’s happening, Lieutenant?”

  “A roadblock.” He glanced at Hutch’s sleeve. “Get out and do your job.”

  “My job? I’m a pharmacist.”

  “Listen, pal, I don’t need any smart alecks.
I don’t care if you’re a Rockefeller. Get out and remove that roadblock. That lazy bum beside you too. All but the driver.”

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t mean any disrespect.” Hutch shook Ralph awake and hopped out of the truck. The last thing he needed was to be written up for insubordination.

  Hutch headed for the front of the convoy with the other enlisted men, past trucks filled with equipment and other trucks filled with officers high above the riffraff.

  His hands fisted, and his arms swung harder than necessary. He didn’t mind manual labor, but he did mind how some men sat and watched while others did all the work.

  Wasn’t America about democracy and equality? Wasn’t that what they were fighting for?

  Hutch followed barked orders and grabbed one end of a log while Ralph grabbed the other end. When he became an officer, he wouldn’t treat enlisted men like this.

  7

  Over the Mediterranean

  August 7, 1943

  Sergeant Jacoby stepped into the C-47 cabin from the radio room. “Landing in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant.” Georgie scanned her flight manifest one last time. Her data was complete, every patient well cared for and in good spirits. Perhaps she could handle this job.

  “All right, gentlemen. In a few minutes you’ll be in Tunisia.” She made her way down the aisle. The fighting had intensified the last few days as the Americans grappled with the Germans for Troina and the San Fratello Ridge, which meant frequent evacuation flights.

  A hand grasped hers. “Please, nurse. I’m thirsty. So thirsty.”

  Georgie smiled at Private Hawkins, who was recovering from abdominal surgery due to a rifle wound. “We’ll be in Tuni—”

  He was too pale. Restless. His hand chilled her. Georgie leaned closer, her mind tingling with concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Thirsty.” He rubbed his throat with white fingers.

  She wrapped her hand around his wrist to measure his pulse—rapid as she feared. No doubt about it. He was going into shock, probably from postsurgical internal bleeding.

  “I—I’ll get you some water.” Georgie dashed for the back of the plane. She knew the treatment for shock. Keep the patient warm. Put him in Trendelenburg position with feet higher than the heart—but the litter was clamped into aluminum brackets and couldn’t be tilted. Plasma and oxygen—but how could she administer them safely during landing?