by Sarah Sundin
“You’re little but strong,” Rose whispered back. “You can do it.”
Mellie studied Georgie’s pale face. Did she really lack confidence in her abilities or was she scared?
Lieutenant Lambert pointed to one of the men, blond and strapping. “Sergeant Kowalski will take over from here.”
“Ground litter!” Sergeant Kowalski called out.
A private lowered a folded litter to the ground and unfastened the straps.
“Open litter.”
The private did so. A canvas litter with aluminum poles stood on stirrup-shaped feet.
“Private Gibson.”
One of the men lay on the litter, and the other men strapped him in position as the sergeant barked more orders. They assumed rigid positions at the foot and head of the litter.
“Prepare to lift.”
The men squatted and grasped the handles.
“Lift. Forward march. Understand, ladies?”
Mellie nodded. Simple enough, but she couldn’t imagine such a regimented process under fire.
“Break into groups of three and practice. One as patient, two as litter carriers, and rotate.”
Every one of Mellie’s muscles tightened. Why couldn’t they assign groups instead of letting the women form their own? All around her, women coalesced into trios, with a bit of negotiation when friends had to be separated, but no one was left out. Except her.
She edged backward and twisted her hands together. If only she could turn invisible.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Trying to get out of work?”
Mellie spun around and faced Capt. Frank Maxwell, the surgeon assigned to her flight of six nurses—tall, well built, and movie-star handsome. Half the girls swooned over him and bemoaned the fact that he was married and the father of two. “No, of course not. I was . . .”
He studied her through narrowed green eyes. “Miss Burke, isn’t it? I’ve heard about you.”
“Blake. Lieutenant Blake.” And what had he heard?
His eyes narrowed more.
Mellie winced. So he didn’t like being corrected by a woman. She’d worked with doctors like him before.
“Well, Lieutenant, so you think you already know how to do everything and don’t need training like everyone else?”
“That wasn’t . . . I just . . .” How could she admit she was too shy to barge in where she wasn’t wanted? “I don’t have a group.”
Captain Maxwell gave her a flat smile. “So, find one.”
Mellie surveyed the crowd, all practicing and laughing and neatly divided.
“Think you’re too good to work with others, huh? That’s what they’re saying.”
Her mouth dropped open. Why did people couple shyness with conceit? “I never . . . I don’t think that.”
“Good. Find a group or we’ll find a nurse who fits in.”
“Yes, sir.” As Mellie walked away, the physician’s gaze burned a hole between her shoulder blades and straight to her heart. Shouldn’t her nursing skills matter more than her social skills? They said they wanted women who could work independently. When had that changed?
She wound her way through the groups. Three. Three. Three. No one looked at her.
Off to the side, Georgie and Rose carried a litter holding Private Gibson. Georgie caught Mellie’s eye. “Philomela! Don’t you have a group?”
Mellie’s fingers hurt from all the twisting she’d given them. She shook her head.
“Come join us and give the private a break.”
He scrambled out of the litter. “You’ve already given me plenty of breaks. A broken arm, a broken noggin . . .”
Rose laughed. “Don’t worry, Philomela. It’s Georgie’s turn to be dropped.”
Gratefulness turned up Mellie’s smile before she could cover her mouth. “I won’t drop you.”
“Why not?” Georgie lay on the litter, hands tucked under her head. “That’s the fun part.”
Mellie fumbled with straps and handles, and she and Rose lifted the litter.
“Do you think they’ll send us back to Alaska?” Georgie asked Rose. “It was beautiful there but so cold.”
“Maybe.” Rose led them on a zigzag course around the other groups.
“Where do you think we’ll go, Philomela?”
Mellie glanced at Georgie’s smiling face below her, surrounded by a puff of brown curls. People rarely asked her opinion. “The Pacific, I hope. We could support the Guadalcanal campaign or bring patients home from Hawaii.”
“Ooh, I like that idea. Eating pineapple on the beach and learning the hula.” Georgie wiggled her hips, which set the litter swaying.
Mellie grasped the litter poles and almost laughed.
“Careful there, hula girl,” Rose said. “I’m hoping for England. Those handsome wounded airmen need a lift home.”
Georgie clucked her tongue. “You sound like Vera, Alice, and Kay. Look at them now. And he’s a married man.”
The threesome stood by their litter, chatting with Captain Maxwell. Vera leaned close, said something, and patted the doctor’s arm. He tilted back his head of shiny black hair and laughed. He didn’t seem to mind that they weren’t working.
“Left turn,” Rose called. “You don’t have to search. You’ve got a fine boyfriend.”
“I do,” Georgie said with a sigh. “Ward is fine indeed. Don’t worry, Rose. We’ll find you someone. How about you, Philomela? Do you have a boyfriend?”
No one had ever asked her that question before. “Me? No. No, I don’t.”
“We’ll look for you too. Won’t that be fun?”
Oh dear. Mellie shifted her gaze up to the back of Rose’s head. That would be a long, painful, and fruitless search.
“All right, ladies,” Sergeant Kowalski said. “That’s enough for today. Tomorrow we’ll learn how to transport the litters into the plane.”
Mellie and Rose set down the litter and unbuckled the straps.
Georgie got to her feet. “We have free time before dinner. What should we do, gals?”
Mellie blinked. Georgie actually looked at her. But Rose’s smile stiffened, and Georgie’s head tilted a bit too much.
Her heart sank. She’d drag down any activity, Georgie wouldn’t be as happy as she thought, and Rose would be annoyed at her for ruining their fun. Mellie would feel more awkward and out of place than if she were alone. Best to stay in the forest.
“Thank you, but I need to . . .” She gestured toward the buildings. “I need to run errands.”
She strode toward the Post Exchange, her stomach churning, and she poked loose bobby pins back into her coil of braids. What was wrong with her? First she wanted to make friends, then she turned down an invitation. No wonder she didn’t have any friends. That would be the last time Georgie reached out to her.
The PX radiated warmth from a furnace, the smell of coffee, and the laughter of people who actually had social capabilities. The mail usually arrived by this time, although Mellie hadn’t received any yet. But every day she checked. What if she heard word about Papa today?
“Do you have any mail for me?” she asked the clerk. “Lt. Philomela Blake.”
He reached into a cubby, flipped through a stack of envelopes, and pulled one out. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her heart flew into her throat and blocked her voice. Papa! Finally she’d know if he was alive and well. She mouthed a thank-you to the clerk and took the letter in trembling hands. A thick letter. How was that possible? The Japanese placed strict limits on the length of letters from prisoners, and the State Department or Red Cross would only send one thin sheet.
The return address read, “Lt. Edna Newman, Walter Reed General Hospital.”
Mellie’s heart landed with a thud in her stomach. Still no word about Papa. Oh, Lord, you’re the only one who knows how he’s doing. Please keep him safe.
“Anything else, ma’am?” the clerk asked.
“A—a coffee please.” Why did she ask for coffee? She was alre
ady shaky, and now she’d have to stay in the PX until she finished the beverage.
She took the cup and saucer from the clerk and surveyed the PX. Booths ran down one side of the building, where nurses and pilots sipped Cokes and coffee. One empty booth stood in the far corner, and Mellie slipped in, her back to the crowd.
Why had Lieutenant Newman written her? Perhaps she’d sent paperwork from Walter Reed.
Mellie opened the envelope. Another envelope lay inside, sealed and unaddressed. A short note from Lieutenant Newman accompanied it.
Dear Lieutenant Blake,
I hope all is well with you. Please give my best to Cora Lambert.
Thank you for participating in the letter-writing campaign. Here is your response. Since you are no longer at Walter Reed, it would be more efficient to mail your response directly to my husband. I’ve let him know to expect your reply. To maintain anonymity, please put your letter to the gentleman in an unaddressed envelope inside an envelope addressed to my husband: Capt. Richard Newman, O-111897; Co. “B” 908th Engr. Bn. (Avn.); APO 528, c/o Postmaster, New York, N.Y.
Your pen pal will give his letters to my husband, who will mail them directly to you.
Mellie stared at the note and read it again. Who on earth would respond to her letter?
It had to be a mix-up. The letter must be meant for another woman. She’d scan the letter to make sure, then send it back and let Lieutenant Newman sort it out.
She opened the envelope. Square, manly handwriting covered a piece of paper, and a suspension bridge was penciled across the top with a firm, practiced hand.
Dear Annie the Anonymous Nurse,
Pardon the nickname, but I couldn’t address a letter to “blank.”
You’re probably surprised to get a reply. As you thought, most of the men are looking for romance. I’m not, but I am looking for a friend.
If we met, you’d think we had nothing in common. You’d find me sociable, cheerful, and surrounded by a crowd. But in that crowd, I have no true friends.
You say anonymity appeals to you. Well, it sets me free. For reasons too numerous to mention—and forbidden by anonymity—I can’t be myself in public. I always have to be sunny. But in anonymity, perhaps I can be myself.
You offered encouragement, prayer, and a listening ear. If that offer still stands by the time you get to the end of this letter, I’ll take it. I offer the same to you.
Who am I? I’m a nameless civil engineer. I serve in an Engineer Aviation Battalion, the Army Air Forces’ version of the Seabees but without the catchy name. Someday soon, we’ll land with the first or second wave of an invasion force and build airfields from rubble or wilderness under fire. The odds of our meeting in a professional manner are high.
Like you, I have no brothers or sisters. My father is gone, and my dear mother raised me alone. We have more in common than you’d think.
To me, your background sounds intriguing, and I’d like to hear your stories. I don’t mind odd. In fact, I enjoy it. However, if you’re apprehensive and don’t want to write back, I’ll understand.
No matter what, I’ll pray for you. You nurses put yourselves in danger and deal with the messes we men make. I hope we never meet professionally, and if we did we’d never know it, but I’m sure I’d be in good hands.
Sincerely,
(make up a nickname for me if you have the guts to write back.)
The letter rippled in Mellie’s shaking hands. It was for her. It was genuine. One lonely soul reaching out to another.
Now what? Her mind spun, and she stuffed the letter back in the envelope. She strode out of the PX, her coffee untouched, her head down, her eyes misty.
A chance for a real friendship? Just what she’d wanted. Yet her stomach filled with acid. She didn’t know how to be a friend. She only knew how to be a daughter, a nurse.
“No. I can’t do it.” She belonged in the forest. The forest was safe. If she stepped into the clearing, something horrible could happen.
A bird twittered on the roof of a building she passed.
“My little nightingale,” Papa always said when Mellie sang to him, when she tended him when he was sick. “My angel of mercy.”
Papa said mercy was the Lord’s gift to her, the gift she gave back to others. Mercy came easily on the hospital ward, but in the outside world?
Mellie stepped between buildings, out of sight of passersby, and leaned back against the wall. She pulled out the engineer’s letter and scanned it until her vision blurred.
Something barred him from friendship just as her unconventional looks and shyness barred her. She needed someone who didn’t see. He needed someone who didn’t know.
Most of all, he needed mercy.
Her legs sagged. She glanced up to the rectangle of purpling sky between the buildings. “Lord, you want me to do this, don’t you? Please help me. Please don’t let me fail him.”
6
Arzeu, Algeria
November 8, 1942
Tom surveyed his platoon on the ship’s deck—three squads of thirteen men each, gathered in the darkness. The men masked fear with stoicism or wisecracks or grumbles about it being two o’clock in the morning.
“Sure could use a smoke,” Hal Weiser said.
Nobody offered him one. On this moonless night, even light from a cigarette could tip off the enemy to the ship’s position.
Today the Vichy French were the enemy. After almost two centuries of friendship and support, French soldiers were firing on Americans. Bright orange flashes onshore, crackling gunfire, and booming mortars confirmed it.
While the Western Task Force landed in Morocco and the Eastern Force landed at Algiers, the Center Force was landing on three beaches surrounding the port of Oran. Beach Z at Arzeu lay farthest to the east. After the beachhead was secured, tanks would sweep southwest to airfields at Tafaroui and Le Sénia, and Tom’s battalion would patch up damage.
“Okay, men, you can do this,” Tom said, grin fixed. “Make sure your helmet’s unfastened and your shoes untied.”
“Ain’t that cheerful?” Bill Rinaldi squatted to unlace his shoes. “If the Frenchies shoot up our boat, our helmets won’t drag us down. Ain’t it nice to know it’ll take us longer to drown?”
Tom adjusted his carbine strap over his shoulder. “No one will drown or get shot. The French are putting on a show before they surrender to prove to Hitler they tried.”
A sailor tapped Tom on the shoulder. “Your landing craft is ready, sir.”
“Thanks.” Tom peered over the side to the craft in the dark water below. “Okay, men, let’s go. Africa is waiting.”
“Belly dancers,” Earl Butler said. “Better be some luscious little belly dancers waiting for me.”
Rinaldi poked him with his elbow. “For you, they’d better be desperate little belly dancers.”
“Watch out, or you’ll end up with a luscious, desperate little case of syphilis.” Tom clambered over the side of the ship and anchored his feet in the landing net. “Remember what the sailors said. Hold on to the vertical ropes, not the horizontal ones, so the man above you doesn’t smash your fingers.”
“Smashed fingers would get me out of this racket,” Sergeant Lehman said.
Swell. Just what Tom needed—a squad leader with a bad attitude. “This is the best racket in the world. By the end of the day, we’ll control two airfields. The French will give up by sunset. Then we can push east into Tunisia while the Brits push west. Rommel will beg for mercy.”
“Sure he will, Lieutenant Sunshine,” Weiser said, but humor warmed his voice.
Tom made his way down the net, feeling with his feet for the rope rungs. “Okay, Weiser-guy, you and your squad are next.”
The men eased their way down the net, grumbling and cussing, gear and gas masks and rifles slung across their backs so they wouldn’t get tangled in the ropes.
“You’re almost there, sir,” a British voice said from below, and a hand brushed his knee. “Place your foot
here, sir. Now ease yourself down.”
Tom held on to the net by his waist. With his left foot on the rim of the boat, he stretched his right foot down until it hit the deck.
The sailor braced Tom’s shoulders. “Jolly good, sir.”
“Thanks.” Tom faced a tall, gangly sailor. “Let’s take care of the rest of this gang.”
“Gang, sir?”
Tom laughed. Americans did have a gangster reputation abroad. “Figure of speech. My platoon. Half of it, anyway.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll take care of your ‘gang’ right well.”
Tom and the sailor helped the men into the boat. No one fell overboard, although several tumbled to the deck. Two of his squads boarded the Landing Craft, Assault while Larry Fong and the other squad boarded another LCA.
The coxswain wheeled the landing craft away from the transport and across the bay, covered by gray clouds from the Allies’ smoke screen. The craft’s wake glowed grassy green from phosphorescence. Tom stared, transfixed. Even in times of war, God created beauty.
A whistling sound, a great splash about a hundred yards to starboard, a giant plume of water in the air.
Tom ducked. Men swore. One man retched overboard. After two weeks on the open ocean, he wasn’t seasick.
One of the British machine gunners in the back of the boat cursed the French. “See if we ever defend your country again. How many of our fathers died in the trenches in the last war? How many of our lads died when the Nazis blitzed through? Too many, I say.”
“Easy now,” the other gunner said. “Soon we’ll all be friendly-like again. Then we can take on the Nasties together.”
Tom swiveled his attention to the bow, where the coxswain conferred over charts with the fourth crewman and pointed at various spots on the shore. Were they lost?
The coxswain swerved the boat farther east. Another LCA burst out of the smoke screen and headed right at them. The sailors yelled at each other and pulled parallel, while Tom gripped the side of the boat for support. After a shouted conference, they agreed on a course.
Tom puffed up his cheeks with air, then blew it out. In this war, Operation Torch was the first joint operation between the British and the Americans, the first big landing for the U.S. Army, and the first American land action outside of the Pacific.