by Sarah Sundin
Mellie dashed outside to an open Army truck. A grinning corporal helped the nurses into the back. Mellie took the last seat, next to the tailgate.
All alone. Again.
Mellie lowered her head. This was her new life.
After the truck lumbered away and the ladies returned to their conversations, Mellie opened Tom’s letter.
Annie, this is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write.
First, I’ll bring you up-to-date, so you can decide if you want me for a friend.
Newman didn’t send me stateside for the sniping incident. Instead he combined my platoon with “X’s” platoon. X will be in command, and I’ll do the paperwork. I have three months to regain respect or home I go. But how can I regain respect holed up with a typewriter while X spreads the truth about me?
The truth is, I’m not the man I should be.
Did you ever see the newsreel footage from the collapse of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge in 1940? As an engineer, I’ve studied that collapse. The bridge was well designed, but not for its location. The winds howl through the Narrows. When they hit the bridge, a wave fluttered through the steel and concrete. That wave built into a giant, heaving oscillation that snapped the suspension cables and sent the bridge plummeting into the waters below.
That’s how I feel. My character was designed for calm breezes. But life sent me howling winds, which proved me lacking. When the winds hit, I snapped, collapsed, and plummeted.
I need the Lord’s help to rebuild my bridge with stronger cables, bigger bolts, and plenty of trusses. I’m thankful I have you to talk to, my Annie.
Mellie’s vision blurred. The truck lurched to the side, and she yanked up her gaze. No one looked at her, but she had to be careful.
Poor Tom. He was falling apart. But he recognized his failures and was determined to change. That meant a great deal.
She returned her attention to his beloved handwriting.
That said, I’m afraid we have a problem. Captain Newman won’t transfer letters anymore. He offered me your name and address so we could correspond openly, but I refused. That wouldn’t be fair without your permission.
I’d hoped to have an open relationship with you someday when both of us were ready.
I believe I’m ready. I’m willing to reveal my name to you, even though the name itself could drive you away forever. If you’re willing, please reply with your name and address.
If you aren’t willing—and I understand why—then this is the last letter you’ll receive from me. Captain Newman will not send any more. He’ll forward your letters for another two weeks so you can send your name or your farewell.
Anonymity is the foundation of our friendship, and I feel like I’ve broken a promise by asking your name. But I have to ask for the sake of our relationship.
I’ll give my final good-bye just in case. Your friendship means a lot to me. We’ve helped each other through difficult times. No matter what, I’ll continue to pray for your safety, your friendships, your father, and for you to continue to blossom as the woman you are—giving and thoughtful and beautiful.
Yours always, Ernest
Mellie’s breath came hard and fast. No. No. She couldn’t lose him. Not now.
The only way to keep him would be to reveal herself, but that was out of the question. She could still see his face when Quincy asked if Tom wanted to dance with her.
He might see beauty in her soul, but not on her face.
Mellie’s eyes filled. Perhaps it would be best to cut things off now before Tom knew who she really was.
A void formed in her heart and swamped her with darkness and emptiness. Without Tom, she’d have no one. Georgie and Rose shut her out. Her father was locked up. Yes, the Lord was enough, and yet he wasn’t. He’d created people to live among other people.
And all were stripped from her.
A tear slithered down her cheek. She rubbed it away and sneaked up a glance.
On the bench seat across from her, Kay eyed Mellie, one eyebrow raised.
Mellie dropped her gaze, heart pounding, and she reread Tom’s letter. His last letter.
No. The timing was wrong. They were both going through horrible times. He was all she had, and she was all he had.
The truck stopped. The nurses bumped into each other, laughing.
The Mediterranean stretched before her, the Bay of Algiers curving like a hug. Mellie took the corporal’s hand and jumped out of the truck. A few steps, and her bare feet eased into the sand. A breeze wrapped around her. Sunshine spilled over her.
Her eyes drifted shut, and she soaked in the warmth. Lord, please help Tom and me. We need anonymity, even if he doesn’t realize it. But we need each other too. Please show us a way.
Sand struck her shins as a group of nurses passed.
“Who’s tonight, Kay?” Alice asked.
“Grant, that new C-47 pilot. Doesn’t the name fit him? He looks like Cary Grant.”
Alice and Vera murmured their appreciation.
Mellie opened her eyes. C-47s flew supplies to airfields all over North Africa. Tom was stationed at airfields. Kay Jobson knew practically every pilot in the 51st Troop Carrier Wing. Surely some of those pilots knew Tom.
As one, Vera, Alice, and Kay lifted their towels, let the wind fluff them out, and laid them on the sand. They stripped down to their bathing suits and stretched out on their towels.
Mellie crossed the sand to an isolated spot, so no one would think she’d imposed on them. She rolled her clothing around her book, but she didn’t lie down.
A dip in the sea. That would help her sort things out. Or would it wash away her determination? No, she had to act now.
Soldiers circled Vera, Alice, and Kay, but the three nurses lay with eyes shut. Only the hint of smiles indicated they knew the effect they had.
Mellie chewed on her lower lip. If she did this, she had to open herself again to genuine friendship with all its bumps and bruises. She set her jaw and strode forward. “Hi, Kay. May I please talk with you?”
“Huh?” Kay lifted her head and shielded her eyes from the sun.
“May I please talk with you? Alone?”
Kay shrugged and sat up. “Sure. What’s up?”
Mellie ignored the giggle Vera and Alice shared and headed down the beach toward the turquoise water. A lace-edged wave crashed at Mellie’s feet, cooled them, and sucked the sand out from underneath, making her feel two inches shorter.
“Well, what’s up?” Kay stood behind her, feet dry.
“I’d like to be friends.”
Kay’s expression softened, but she crossed her arms. “Is that right?”
Another wave hissed around Mellie’s feet. “That’s right. I want to get to know you. I want to find out what we have in common. I’m not much good as a friend, you know that, but I’m willing if you are. You have Vera and Alice, but—”
Kay cracked a smile. “Vera and Alice are fun, but they’re superficial little snobs.”
Mellie let a teasing smile climb up. “And you’re not?”
Kay laughed. “Would I want to be your friend if I were?”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Mellie offered her hand. It felt like the right thing to do. “Friends?”
Kay tilted her head and squinted at Mellie’s hand, then she shook. “For what it’s worth.”
It was worth a whole lot more than Kay knew. Mellie winced and turned back to the ocean. A wave smacked into her shins and made her stumble. “I have to be honest. I want to ask a favor too.”
“Does it have anything to do with the letter that made you cry?”
“Everything.” Mellie waded in to her knees. “Come on in. The water’s warm.”
“Yeah?” Kay leaned down and swept an armful of water out at Mellie. “So what’s the favor?”
Mellie set her hands on her hips, while hope as warm as the Mediterranean splashed into her heart. “How would you like to play postman?”
30
Tabarka Airfield
Tunisia
May 7, 1943
“Come on in. The water’s great.” A wave whooshed past Tom’s knees. “Don’t be a sissy.”
Sesame shook his head and dropped his stick on the dry sand. He did not like water.
Tom sloshed out and heaved the stick down the beach. Sesame loped down the empty expanse of white sand.
The other men in his company spent their day off in the nearby town of Tabarka, hoping its beaches would be populated by females. They’d earned the break after their hard work laying a new airstrip a stone’s throw from Tunisia’s north coast. A fine strip. The sandy soil drained well, and good drainage allowed for a stable airstrip. But Tom’s knowledge of soils and surfaces didn’t buy respect.
He waded into the surf and ducked under the salty waves. He stood up and slicked back his hair. Solitude felt good, but he also welcomed Sesame’s company to keep him from slipping beneath the dark waves in his soul.
Sesame returned with the stick, his tail curled over his back. He cocked his head at Tom.
“I know, boy. I’m not myself.” But who was he anyway?
A wave bumped into the back of his knees and threw him off balance. Yesterday’s letter from his MacGilliver grandparents had thrown him even more off balance.
They loved him and missed him and rejoiced over his letter. All his life he could have received more than his mother’s love.
Tom chucked the stick down the beach. That would have been enough to digest, but their information about his father sat in nauseating, indigestible lumps in his stomach.
Even though his father drank, he lost his job for another reason. Some men on the demolitions site had cut corners. His father knew about it but didn’t speak up. Something went wrong. Men died. Those who cut corners were fired and so was Tom’s father.
That night he got drunk and smashed the kitchen chairs, the first time he’d done anything dangerous. Furious, Tom’s mother left.
Understandable, his grandparents said, given her background.
Turned out her own father was a violent drunk. Tom had never known that.
That night, Mom took Tom and left. She couldn’t forgive her husband. No second chance. No mercy.
That’s when booze became his life. He couldn’t pay his rent. He couldn’t find a job. He ended up on Skid Row.
Then that fateful night, he begged Max and Lucille DeVille for money. And it was over.
Tom ran his hands back into his hair and groaned. Granted, his grandparents could be biased, but the story held the shattering, illuminating glare of truth.
All his life he had avoided becoming a violent drunk. But his father’s true fault, his tragic shortcoming was that he didn’t stand up for right.
Tom had rejected one flaw and embraced another. Just like his father, he’d chosen not to act when action was right, and someone got hurt. Unwittingly he’d followed his father’s path.
Tom plunked down onto the wet sand, and a spent wave washed around him.
All his life, he’d placed his father in the gutter and his mother on a pedestal. But he wasn’t all bad and she wasn’t all good.
Tom rested his head in his hands. “Who am I, Lord?” He had to be more than not-his-father. He had to find balance between godly kindness and godly boldness. “Lord, help me be the man I should be.”
Sesame whimpered and bumped Tom’s side.
“Hey, boy.” Tom stroked the dog’s back and uncoiled his tail. It sprang back into position. “I’m glad I have you.”
And Annie. He’d write her tonight. Thank goodness she’d figured out how to maintain anonymity. He’d put his letter in its usual blank envelope inside an envelope addressed to Kay Jobson, one of the flight nurses, with his name and mailing address enclosed for Kay’s use. He’d hand it to one of the C-47 pilots to deliver to Kay, and Kay would pass the letter on to Annie. Then Annie would give her letter to Kay, who would slip it in an envelope addressed to Tom and hand it to a pilot who knew him.
Seemed strange that Annie knew Kay Jobson, of all people. Annie just said they were acquainted and stationed near each other. Once again, he entertained a wish that Annie and Mellie were the same person, but Annie had never mentioned flying or planes. However, she had given him one clue—she was stationed near Algiers.
Tom gazed down the shore, as if he could see down the hundreds of miles of coastline.
Anonymity seemed wiser than ever. With his history and faults, why did he think she’d want a romance with him anyway? Her last letter had a sober tone and reminded him of the importance of strength as a foundation for kindness.
Annie claimed another reason for anonymity. She said most men didn’t find her attractive and she apologized for not telling him sooner. He’d never pictured her like a cover girl, but he couldn’t erase the exotic image he’d formed in his mind. How much did looks matter to him? He wanted to say he didn’t care, but he wouldn’t really know until he met her.
Tom traced a stick figure in the wet sand. “Guess we both need anonymity awhile longer.”
Sesame yipped and dashed up the beach. A wave soaked Tom’s legs, up to his waist.
He pushed himself to standing. “Aren’t we a pair? You’re afraid of water. You’re made of water, know that? And I’m afraid of . . . well, I’m afraid of what I’m made of too.”
He crossed the sand to a goat path through the gray-green scrub that coated the dunes. He hadn’t brought a towel. The heat would dry him fast, and the air tingling on his damp skin felt great.
Sesame romped through the brush and nosed around, searching for something edible.
A shot cracked the silence, splintered the peace.
Tom dropped flat to the ground. His heart thumped against the sand. What on earth? They’d cleared Axis troops from this area ages ago. The Allies were on the march. The Americans were supposed to plow into Bizerte that day, the British into Tunis.
Laughter rang out about a hundred feet ahead. “You call yourself a good shot?”
Tom’s eyes slipped shut and a sigh leached out. Americans. Stupid Americans out for a hunt. He racked his brain for the current parole and countersign. “Fibber McGee!” he yelled.
“What?”
“Fibber McGee!”
“And Molly.”
Tom got to his feet and brushed sand off his chest and swim trunks. “Before you shoot, make sure there aren’t any men around.” A sharp edge sliced through his words.
Two officers stood on top of the dune, carbines in hand. Reed and Quincy.
Quincy laughed. “I don’t see any men around.”
“Funny.” Tom marched up the goat path, head down.
Something rustled in the brush about twenty feet to Tom’s left. A curly white and brown tail popped into the air. Sesame dug after some unfortunate rodent.
“There’s one!” Reed leveled his carbine. At Sesame.
“No! Don’t shoot!”
Quincy pushed out his lower lip. “Afwaid we’ll hurt a widdle bunny?”
A flash from Reed’s gun. The whine of a flying bullet.
Sesame yelped.
Tom sprinted to him. “That’s no rabbit. That’s my dog! Sesame!”
Sesame yelped, writhed on the ground, and tried to nip his tail. His red tail.
“Sesame!” Tom skidded to his knees. Sesame’s beautiful tail didn’t curl. It formed a jagged, cruel, red angle.
“It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.” Tom scooped Sesame into his arms. “Come on, boy. I’ll get you some help.”
He hurdled bushes, back to the path, up the dune, past Reed and Quincy, not meeting their eyes.
“Hey, Gill, I’m sorry,” Reed said. “I didn’t know.”
“You should’ve listened.” Tom sprinted up the path, which led to the northwestern corner of the airstrip. The pierced steel planking was great for planes but not for bare feet, so Tom ran beside the runway toward the tents of the 10th Field Hospital.
Sesame twisted in his arms.
Tom tightened h
is grip. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll get you some help.”
He passed three C-47 cargo planes on the runway, and he slowed his pace. Tabarka had opened for medical air evacuation that day. Another reason Tom had escaped to the beach.
How could he worry about seeing Mellie Blake when Sesame depended on him?
His bare feet protested the beating, but he ignored them and pressed on to the main tent closest to the airfield.
He shoved through the tent flap like a linebacker.
“Whoa!”
He smacked into someone who blocked him with small cool hands to his bare chest. A woman. A dark-haired woman. Mellie Blake.
Of all the people in the world.
“Tom?” Her eyes went round.
Like looking into two warm cups of coffee and he wanted to drink them right up. “Mellie,” he said over his thick tongue.
Her hands. How could such cool little hands shoot fire through his chest?
He stepped back.
She looked at her hands, suspended in air, and dropped her gaze. Then she gasped. “Sesame?”
Tom breathed. Yes, Sesame. He’d come for Sesame. “He’s hurt.”
Mellie’s hands went to work, stroking, probing over the dog’s fur. Much too close to Tom’s skin. “What happened?”
“He was shot. Some idiots out hunting.”
“Just the one wound? His tail?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Thank goodness. He’ll be all right. Follow me.” Mellie strode down the aisle of the tent hospital past rows of men on cots. “Dr. Sayers?”
Tom followed and cooed to Sesame.
“Dr. Sayers?” Mellie tapped the shoulder of a tall, skinny man. “We have a dog that’s been shot.”
“A dog?” The physician eyed Tom. “Put your clothes on, get your gun, and put the beast out of its misery.”
“Sir!” Mellie cried.
Tom stepped forward, and steam expanded his chest. He hadn’t stood up for Larry, but he’d stand up for Sesame. “Excuse me, sir, but it’s just his tail.”
Dr. Sayers walked away and waved one hand over the cots. “Do I look like a vet? I have real patients. Get that cur out of here before you give these men fleas.”