by Sarah Sundin
If they failed today, it would set back the effort against Germany for a long time.
And the American troops were as green as the wake behind the landing craft.
“We’d better not prove to be yellow too,” Tom muttered.
In a few minutes, the LCA neared the shore. Orange flashes of tracer fire illuminated the scene. Landing craft swarmed. Some had grounded offshore, probably on sandbars.
The LCA pulled up to the beach. A scraping sound on the hull, and the boat stopped fifteen feet from the shore. Tom scanned the beach. No gunfire greeted him.
The bow ramp creaked open and splashed cold seawater on Tom.
He’d get wet anyway. “Come on, boys.” Holding his carbine over his head, he headed down the ramp. He dropped into the chilly ocean, up to his waist, and sucked in a breath. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”
He sloshed to shore. His men followed, directing less-than-fine words at the water.
Once his feet touched African soil, he tried to sprint, but his legs wobbled and the ground pitched around him. His untied shoes didn’t help. Too much time at sea. How long before he redeveloped land legs?
He staggered to a sand dune and ducked into its shelter, his carbine clutched to his chest. Please, Lord, don’t make me fire it. Don’t let me kill someone.
In basic training, his first shot on the rifle range had hit the center of the bull’s-eye. Dead center. “MacGilliver really is a Killiver,” someone had quipped. Tom had directed the rest of his shots to the outer rim of the target. He made sure his score was high enough to pass but low enough to silence the comments. If only he could silence the school-yard rhyme that never left his head.
MacGilliver the Killiver
Needed gold and silliver,
Begged from the DeVillivers.
Old bum MacGilliver.
MacGilliver the Killiver
Shot them through with skilliver.
Our tears will never spilliver
For old Tom MacGilliver.
“Gill! Gill!” Weiser prodded him in the arm. “What now?”
Tom shook out the memory and glanced around. Two dozen shivering dark shapes hunkered by the sand dune, the passengers from his LCA. Now he had to find the rest of his platoon, the rest of his company, and the road to Tafaroui. Easy as Mom’s blackberry pie.
After he tied his shoes, he peeked above the sand dune. All looked clear. He motioned to Weiser, and the signal went down the line. Tom swept his arm overhead, leaped to his feet, and scrambled over the dune. Sounds to his rear assured him the men were following. Just as he thought they would.
No sign of other people. No sounds of gunfire. No roads or paths. He ran for a stand of scrub pines where he could get his bearings. His legs cooperated better, but the land still heaved from side to side.
“Hi yo, Silver!” a panicky voice shouted from the pines.
Tom dropped to the ground and shouted back the campaign’s countersign, “Awa-a-a-ay!” He didn’t want his men shot up by a trigger-happy GI.
“Howdy, Lone Ranger.” Relief tinged the voice now.
Tom got to his feet and led his men to the pines. Sand clung to his wet uniform and made it even heavier. He squatted below the branches and shook hands with a sergeant with a broad face. A dozen men hid in the brush with him. “Which outfit?” Tom asked.
“Sixteenth Regimental Combat Team. Can’t find the rest of my platoon. This whole thing’s a stinking mess.”
“We’re with the 908th Engineer Aviation Battalion. Don’t suppose you know where the road to Tafaroui is.”
“Don’t know where I am.”
“We’re in Algeria. That’s all I can say.”
“Sure about that?”
Tom chuckled and looked around. The beach curved around the bay, and gunfire rang out to the northwest. “Suppose we should go where the action is.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait for the action to come to me.”
Tom stared into the sergeant’s eyes. Although the man wasn’t in his unit, Tom could order him as an officer. “Come on. We need every hand, every gun.”
“Nah. I should wait here for the rest of my platoon. They landed thataway.” He pointed southeast, away from the town of Arzeu, away from danger.
Tom hesitated. The man was lying, but Tom didn’t want to make any enemies.
He turned to Bernie Fitzgerald, Weiser’s assistant foreman, who carried the map and compass. “Fitz, any idea where we are? How far the road is?”
“Don’t know. Can’t find any landmarks. I think we’re about a mile east of where we were supposed to land.”
“All right. We’ll head toward town, see what we find.” Tom led his men away from the shelter of the trees.
Keeping low, he hugged the side of a bluff and made his way west. Soon he spotted a large landing craft unloading a tank. He motioned for the men to get down, and they dropped to the sand.
“Hi yo, Silver!” Tom shouted.
The armored troops glanced around, rifles at the ready. “Awa-a-a-ay!”
Tom rose and lifted one hand in greeting. When the other men lowered their rifles, Tom led his platoon to the landing craft. “You boys with Combat Command B, by any chance?”
“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”
“Great.” The 908th was supposed to follow them to Tafaroui. The day looked a lot brighter.
A GMC truck rumbled down the rough Algerian road. Tom kept a smile on his men, crammed in the back of the truck open to the pale gray sky. The infantry had secured Arzeu not long after sunrise, and the tanks dashed for Tafaroui.
Tom had found truck rides for his platoon. Thank goodness he’d located Larry and the other squad, but he’d heard nothing of the other two platoons in his company.
For lunch, Tom spread canned cheese from his K ration onto a cracker as the truck bounced along. They passed through a vineyard, the foliage snipped off to expose bare, twisted vines, then through an orange grove, bright with fruit.
He had plenty to tell Annie in his next letter. Although he couldn’t mention where he was, he could tell colorful stories. Now he could mail his stack of letters. But would they push her away? Possibly, but they’d served a good purpose, and he wouldn’t change a word.
The soldier in the passenger seat leaned out the truck window and faced Tom’s men. “Village coming up.”
“Get your weapons ready.” Tom gobbled his cracker and made sure his carbine was ready to go. The French weren’t succumbing as quickly as the brass had hoped.
Little stone houses with tile roofs lined the road. Stone walls fenced off each home.
The men fell silent. Tom studied the roofs and trees and walls, and he erased his smile. Couldn’t have the men think he was eager to kill.
A high-pitched zing. A bullet pinged off the roof of the truck.
“Take cover!” Tom vaulted over the side of the truck. The shock of landing reverberated up his legs.
Another shot rang out. His men shouted and scrambled out of the truck. Tom hurdled a low stone wall in front of a house and flattened himself behind it. Half his men joined him. The others hunched behind the truck.
Tom scanned the rooftops and windows across the road. He didn’t want his boys hurt.
A muzzle flash from a rooftop, and another shot rocked the truck.
Tom’s stomach tightened. He had a great line of sight on the sniper. But how could he shoot a man? Then he’d be a killer. How could he live with himself?
He braced his carbine on the wall and leveled it several feet below the French army cap across the way.
Another bullet skittered across the rocky road.
“There he is!” Weiser yelled. “Get him, boys.”
A barrage peppered the rooftop, a French rifle dropped to the ground, and Tom sighed from relief and from grief. He didn’t fire a shot, but the man died anyway.
A shadow fell over him, a human-shaped purple shadow. Tom held his breath, flipped onto his back, and pointed his carbine at the shadow.
Tom eased his weapon down, pointed to the American flag patch on his left shoulder, and lifted a shaky smile. “Bon jour.”
“Bon jour.” The man grinned and patted his lips with two fingers as if smoking a cigarette.
“You want a cigarette? Cig-a-rette?” Tom said, as if slow speech would cross the language barrier. Keeping his eyes on the native Algerian, he fumbled open the pocket where he’d stuffed his ration and pulled out the pack of four smokes that came with each meal.
The man grabbed the pack, grinned broadly, and hurried back to the house. “Vive l’Amérique! Vive l’Amérique!”
A nervous laugh escaped Tom’s lips, and his men joined him. “Hey, fellows, why didn’t General Eisenhower think of that? We should have dropped cigs instead of paratroopers.”
To his left, Rinaldi elbowed him. “Say, Gill, that was a real Lucky Strike.”
Tom chuckled. “They do like Camels around here.”
“Come on,” the truck driver called out. “Let’s load ’er up.”
Still laughing, Tom got up and climbed back in the truck. But his hands shook.
Within an hour, they reached the airfield at Tafaroui, on a flat expanse of dirt with rocky hills in the distance.
Tom hopped out of the truck. “Okay, boys, camp under that palm tree over there while I find out what’s going on.”
He waved at Sergeant Fong in the truck behind and motioned for him to follow. First he had to find someone in charge.
A captain approached, wearing the golden tank insignia of the armored forces on his lapels. Tom’s lapels bore the Engineers’ two-turreted castle.
He saluted. “Lieutenant MacGilliver with the 908th Engineers.”
The captain returned the salute. “Your captain’s looking for you. Your battalion got split up.”
“Like everyone else today. Airfield’s secure?”
“Yep. No thanks to the Army Air Forces. Most of the C-47s got lost on the way from England. They got the signal mixed up, decided to land at the field instead of dropping the troops. The French fired at the planes. They’re scattered all over. A lot of them landed on the Sebkra d’Oran, that dry lake west of here.”
“Too bad.” Only about a dozen cargo planes parked on the field.
“Of course, they tipped off the Frenchies that we were invading, so they gave our tanks a good stiff fight. We blasted them out, took three hundred prisoners.” He pointed across the airfield. “There’s your captain.”
“Thanks.” Tom headed over to Captain Newman. Footsteps thumped behind him, and he turned around. “Hey there, Larry. Having a fun day?”
“More fun than a day at Playland.” Larry fell in step beside Tom. “Any snipers fire at you?”
“One. The boys took care of him. You guys?”
“A fellow in an orange grove. I don’t understand. I’d think the French would welcome our help throwing the Nazis off their backs.”
“Guess not.” He stepped onto pavement. From what he could see, Tafaroui had a paved runway and taxiway but no paved hardstands for the planes to park on. One good rainstorm and they’d be yanking planes out of the mud.
A whistle overhead, and Tom and Larry flung themselves to the pavement. An artillery shell whammed into the ground a couple hundred feet to their left, throwing up a fountain of dirt.
Tom got up, brushed gravel from his cheek, and straightened his helmet. “Looks like we’ve got friends on that hill over there.”
“Swell. Let’s send them a present.”
“Too bad I’m out of cigarettes.”
Captain Newman stood by a C-47 cargo plane with Lt. Martin Quincy. While Tom was built like a baseball player, Quincy had a linebacker’s physique, complete with a face that looked like it had taken too many tackles.
Newman smiled at Tom. “Glad you decided to join us. How’s your platoon? Any news from Lieutenant Reed’s platoon?”
“Platoon intact. No word on Reed. Our equipment here?”
“Unloading at Arzeu. Quincy has his platoon and squad tool sets.”
Tom avoided Quincy’s gaze. “Lehman’s squad lost their set on the beach, but we’ve got the rest.” More like they decided it was too heavy to carry and they ditched it.
Quincy snorted. “Lehman needs a good whipping.”
Newman’s face had a pinched look. “We need those tools.”
“I know, sir. Maybe someone will find the kit and send it to us.”
Quincy fluttered his hands by his shoulders. “Maybe the tool fairy will put it under your pillow at night.”
Tom laughed as if the joke didn’t have a mean, sarcastic edge. “Maybe she’ll bring a pillow too while she’s at it.”
“We’ll have to make do.” Newman crossed his arms over his field jacket. “Here’s the story—Quincy and his men did a quick survey. The runway’s got some shell damage, not too much. The buildings are intact, but we need to do a thorough sweep for mines and sabotage. I’ll put Quincy to work on the runway, and Gill, your men will check out the buildings.”
“Yes, sir.” He and Larry returned to where the platoon lounged under a palm tree. “Okay, boys, airfield’s secure and we’ve got a job.”
Rinaldi rolled onto his back. “Ah, Gill. We’ve been at it since midnight. We need a rest.”
“You got one. Come on, this is why we’re here.”
“I’m finishing this orange first.” Butler held up a glossy beauty. “I need my nutrients. I’m a growing boy.”
The men didn’t budge. They chatted and joked and tried to steal Butler’s orange.
Tom fingered the strap for his musette bag, the small haversack that held his necessities. He glanced behind him, where Quincy’s men lined up. With a single barked command, Quincy’s platoon was ready for action.
Tom’s smile felt stiff and useless. He needed to get his men to work, but how?
Rinaldi grabbed Butler’s orange, held it to his cheek, and danced around, singing “Tangerine.”
“Hey, fellows,” Tom called out. “First squad to finish their job—I’ll buy them oranges.”
Thirty-nine heads swiveled to him. Thirty-nine pairs of eyes lit up. Thirty-nine men got to their feet.
Tom outlined their tasks, divided up the buildings, and reminded them to watch for booby traps. A squadron of Spitfires was scheduled to arrive from Gibraltar late in the afternoon, and the base needed to be ready.
The squads headed for the buildings, and Tom smiled at Larry. “Now I just have to find thirteen oranges.”
“Hank and Bob and I will take care of that.” The platoon’s jeep and truck drivers had nothing to do until the vehicles arrived.
“Thanks, Larry. I appreciate it.” Tom pulled some crisp new francs from his wallet.
“I hope it’ll always be this easy to bribe the men.”
“Yeah.” A frown threatened Tom’s face. He wouldn’t always be able to bribe them. Then what? How could he convince them to do a job they didn’t want to do?
7
Bowman Field
November 16, 1942
“Voila!” Kay Jobson struck a model’s pose, gesturing to the litter bracket she and Alice Olson had assembled in the C-47.
Mellie joined the other nurses in applause. Assembling the aluminum brackets required many steps and plenty of practice. Since the planes carried cargo and troops to the front, litter supports had to be assembled after they landed and unloaded. C-47 crewmen grumbled about how the 218 pounds of equipment reduced the amount of cargo they could transport. There had to be a better way.
“Excuse me, ladies. I’m looking for Lieutenant Blake,” a corporal called through the open cargo door.
“That’s me.”
“Lieutenant Lambert and Captain Maxwell want to speak with you, ma’am.”
“Right now?” Sh
e couldn’t afford to miss the drill.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Alice and Vera exchanged a knowing look.
“I’m coming.” Mellie eased her way down the ladder, straightened her skirt, and followed the corporal to the headquarters buildings. If only they’d issue trousers to the women.
Why did Lambert and Maxwell insist on meeting her now, when she was about to learn something useful? With such haphazard training, would they ever be ready to do some good? The wounded deserved air evacuation. The Marines continued to take heavy casualties on Guadalcanal. In North Africa the French had capitulated after three days of battle, and now the Army could drive east and fight the Germans, who were pouring into Tunisia.
Had the engineer gone to North Africa? His battalion was stationed in England, and he said he’d head to combat soon. In her reply she’d nicknamed him Ernest. He seemed like an earnest man, and she liked the allusion to the play The Importance of Being Earnest, with its mistaken identities and name mix-ups.
She’d added Ernest to her daily prayers.
The corporal held the door open for Mellie.
“Thank you.” She went down the hallway to the chief nurse’s office.
“Please have a seat, Philomela.” Lieutenant Lambert pointed to a chair across from her desk. Captain Maxwell stood by the window.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The chief fingered a pen on her desk. “As you know, we’re on shaky ground. On Wednesday we activated three squadrons, but on Thursday General Arnold declared there would be no light air evacuation. So today I have to make some decisions.”
“Oh dear.” The commanding general of the Army Air Forces had restricted them? Would he allow any air evacuation at all?
Lieutenant Lambert raised her head, a hesitant look in her brown eyes. “They doubt us. They believe women are prone to cattiness and gossip and can’t be trusted with important matters. Many men would love to see us fail.”