by Sarah Sundin
Mellie stepped closer to the group from the other flight. Perhaps she could follow them closely enough to satisfy Captain Maxwell and then set off on her own.
“Hey, everyone!” Clint called out. “We’re at five. We need one more.”
One of the men gestured as if shoving them away. “No good. Both dames are taken.”
“I have an idea.” Georgie got a determined and triumphant look on her face. “We need someone who speaks French.”
A bubble of hope rose in Mellie’s chest. “I speak French.”
Georgie marched over and took her arm. Her blue eyes carried an unusual mix of regret and joy. “You’ll join us, won’t you?”
Rose groaned, and Clint whispered something in her ear.
“Ignore her,” Georgie said in a low voice. “I miss you. I can’t nudge Rose, so I’ll kick her in the seat.”
The mischievous glint in Georgie’s eyes made Mellie smile. “It’ll be awkward.”
“I don’t care. It’s time.” Georgie hooked her arm through Mellie’s and hauled her over to the group. “We have our sixth person and a translator to boot.”
Rose groaned and marched down the road, map in hand. “Come on. We don’t have much time. You wanted to go to the waterfront first.”
“Don’t worry,” Georgie whispered. “She’ll warm up.”
“Perhaps.” But restoration of even one friendship would be a gift.
Clint caught up to Rose, Roger Cooper and Bill Shelby fell in behind them, and Georgie and Mellie followed. They passed a building labeled La Poste, the post office, a three-storied white stone structure with an arcaded façade.
Georgie nudged Mellie. “I’m glad you came with us. Clint and Rose are inseparable, and Coop and Shell—they’re nice, but they stick to themselves. Shell’s married, you know, and I think he sees all women as threats, even though he knows I have my Ward. Coop? Well, you know him. He keeps his distance from anything feminine.”
No, Mellie did not know all this. “Oh?”
“Oh dear,” Georgie said. “Am I gossiping? That’s what got me in trouble last time.”
“Perhaps a little.” Mellie gave her a slight smile. “But it’s good to talk to you.”
Georgie glanced up at a building covered with little arched windows. “That’s what happens when you like people and you like to talk and you don’t always take time to think.”
Mellie drew a deep breath of salty air, laced with exotic smells and the warmth of mutual mercy. “Your heart’s in the right place. I know that. I’m really sor—”
“Please don’t apologize again. Not when I’ve never apologized to you. Not once. And our gossip started it in the first place. You were right. We had no right to discuss you and To—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Why, there I go again. And Clint and Coop know him.”
Mellie eyed the men walking about ten feet in front of her under the palm trees. She kept her voice low. “Everyone knows him. Not just because of his name but because he’s fun and friendly.”
“Let’s call him Ernest.” Georgie turned a hesitant gaze up to Mellie. “If you even want to talk about him. I’ll understand if you don’t.”
Emotions swelled inside. The pain of broken trust and the uncertainty of opening her heart didn’t compare to the joys of friendship. She blinked hard. “I do. I do want to talk.”
“Thank you.” Georgie’s eyes misted over. “I’ll be more careful.”
“So will I.”
Half a block ahead, Cooper beckoned. “Stick close, ladies. We’re going into the old quarter.”
“The Ancienne Medina.” Mellie studied the high stone walls, hundreds of years older than anything in the United States.
They passed through the gate into narrow streets wafting with a mix of strange, delicious, and unpleasant odors. Men in long robes and little fez caps sat in stalls under colorful awnings. Veiled women guarded baskets of grains and produce, and children with dark curly hair and short dirty robes darted between the stalls.
Georgie clutched Mellie’s arm a bit tighter. “Isn’t this wonderful? I was scared to come here, but I’m glad I did. There’s so much more to the world than my lovely little square of Virginia.” Her mouth twisted. “I wish Ward understood.”
“He doesn’t?”
Georgie flapped her hand in front of her face. “I’m probably too sensitive. He never asks about life over here. He just talks about the crops and the weather and asks when I’m coming home.”
Mellie stepped around something dark and questionable on the ground. “Does he feel bad that you’re overseas and he’s safe at home?”
“He shouldn’t. His work is important to the war effort.”
“But yours is more dangerous, and you wear a uniform. Maybe he has a hard time with that.”
Georgie sighed and gestured to a woman selling olives. Only her large eyes showed over her veil. “Does he want me to live like that? God gave me a gift and an opportunity. I’m doing good things over here. I wish Ward understood.”
Mellie squeezed Georgie’s arm. “Romance isn’t any easier than friendship, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.” She stopped at a stall with bolts of bright fabrics and fingered a swath of turquoise cotton decorated with delicate azure swirls. She stretched it under Mellie’s chin and squinted. “So, how are things with To—Ernest?”
Mellie nudged her friend onward. “A mess.”
“A mess?”
A merchant stepped in their path and held up an egg. “Oeuf? Oeuf?”
“Non, merci.” Mellie circled past him. Local traders kept Maison Blanche well supplied in eggs.
Georgie giggled. “Can you imagine eggs in our shoulder bags? That would really be messy. And how—how are things with Ernest a mess?”
“In his letters he insists he’s in love with me.”
“Oh dear. That is a mess. You don’t . . . how do you feel about him?”
Mellie rolled the strap of her shoulder bag in her fingers. She’d never said it out loud. “I love him.”
Georgie’s eyes widened. “Oh. Is that wise?”
“No, it isn’t, but not for the reason you think. He’s a good man. He’s kind and strong and he loves the Lord.”
“You feel safe with him?”
Mellie could feel his muscled arms around her, see him leap to rescue her from Quincy, and hear his determination as he fought for his little dog. “Very much.”
“Oh dear. You have it bad.”
“That’s why it’s a mess.”
Georgie frowned. “I don’t understand. If you love him and he loves you, why—”
“He loves Annie, not me. He thinks I’m unattractive.”
Georgie gasped. “He said that?”
“Well, no. He’s never been anything but sweet and chivalrous.”
“So why do you—”
“I can tell.” Mellie turned the corner and picked up the pace to catch up with the group. She let out a long sigh, drowned by GIs yelling in English at a trader, as if volume would increase comprehension.
“Tell me. That is, if you trust me.” Georgie’s voice lowered with shame.
“I do. I’m trying to figure out how to explain it.” Mellie gave her a reassuring look, but it descended into a frown. “At our RON at Youks-les-Bains, he only danced with me when he realized he’d hurt my feelings. And last time I saw him, he got away as fast as he could.”
“Hmm.” Georgie’s brow bunched up. “He loves Annie, right? And he doesn’t know you’re Annie.”
“I hope he never does.”
“Maybe he’s like Shell.”
“Shell?” Mellie glanced at the airman in front of her. A small, thin, pale blond man, and Mellie had never exchanged two words with him.
“He loves his wife, you see. To protect his marriage, he stays away from other women. I respect that.”
“I understand, but how—”
“Maybe Ernest does the same thing. He loves Annie, so he keeps his distance from you to
protect that relationship.”
Mellie raised one eyebrow. “So he avoids me because he loves me?”
Georgie laughed. “Something like that.”
She tried to smile, but Georgie didn’t know what rejection looked like. Mellie did.
They passed through another gate in the ancient wall. The Atlantic Ocean lay before them.
Georgie waved. “Hi, Mama! Hi, Daddy! Hi, Ward! Hi, Freddie and Bertie!”
Rose chuckled. “They can’t hear you.”
“Yes, they can.” Georgie shook back her curls in the sea breeze. “They hear me in their hearts.”
Mellie gazed over the azure sea to where it curved down into darkness. No one awaited her on the other shore, and her father sat in a prison camp far in the other direction.
But she had a friend. She had the Lord. And for now, she had Tom’s paper friendship. She refused to give in to melancholy.
She strolled down the path until she could see past the walls of the old quarter. Casablanca lived up to its reputation for beauty and mystery. White buildings glittered in the afternoon sun, punctuated by minarets and tall square towers. With a little imagination, she could picture Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman strolling arm in arm.
She lifted her chin and sang “As Time Goes By.”
After the first line, Georgie’s alto joined in, sweet as caramel. Then a rich baritone from Cooper. Then a surprising bass rumbled from Shell’s small body.
Clint stepped forward and sang in an off-key tenor.
Everyone stopped and laughed for a second.
When they resumed, Rose joined in. Softly. Her gaze reached out to Mellie, hesitant and cautious, and Mellie gave her a shaky, apologetic smile.
Rose nodded, snuggled closer to Clint, and added her rough voice to his.
Mellie’s voice wavered. Forgiveness and restoration at last.
34
Gulf of Gela, Sicily
July 10, 1943
Tom peered over the side of the LCVP—Landing Craft, Vehicle or Personnel.
Gray smoke from the pre-invasion bombardment of Sicily billowed behind the town of Gela. Artillery fire whined through the air. Axis shells shot up fountains of saltwater. Allied shells sent up plumes of dirt.
Tom checked his watch—0740. His LCVP had loaded from the troop transport over an hour before for Operation Husky, the invasion of Sicily.
“Should be there soon,” he called to the thirty-five men in the boat. “Weapons ready?”
“Of course,” a voice snapped. “Sir.”
The muscles in Tom’s back tensed. He had not regained respect. Due to the demands of Husky, Newman had returned Tom to actual command, but only for the assault phase. His last chance.
If Tom didn’t make significant progress in the next few days, he’d be replaced.
His fingers slipped over the grip for his carbine, and he wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. He knew the stakes. His military career. His engineering career. His chance to meet Annie. If he went stateside before he wore her down, he might lose the opportunity forever.
Most importantly, he had to lead these men well to accomplish the objective. If they took the Gela-Farello landing ground today, Allied planes would have an emergency landing strip. Sicily would be conquered sooner. The liberation of Europe would be hastened.
Today the Allies set foot in the homeland of an Axis nation for the first time. Paratroopers dropped before midnight, and now the British landed on the southeastern coast near Syracuse while the new U.S. Seventh Army landed on the western coast at Licata, Gela, and Scoglitti. Company B of the 908th accompanied the 1st Infantry Division to Gela.
Tom surveyed the men in the LCVP. They required a strong leader. But could he build that bridge between the man he was and the man he needed to be?
He muttered 2 Timothy 1:7, muffled by the sound of lapping waves and the boat motor. “God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.”
That’s how Jesus led and how Tom wanted to lead.
The pitch of the boat motor altered, and he poked his carbine and his head over the edge. The beach drew near.
Tom faced his men. “Okay, boys. When Joshua took his army into the Promised Land, God told him, ‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’”
He’d have to thank Annie for quoting that verse in her last letter. She knew him so well. “Well, boys, those words apply to us too. Be strong. Be of good courage. God will be with us.”
“Amen,” someone said. No note of sarcasm.
A shell rustled overhead, and the men ducked. A loud watery explosion, and a wave tipped the landing craft hard to the left.
Tom banged his shoulder on the side of the boat, and Lou Moskovitz tumbled against him.
Curses filled the boat. She rocked to the right, and a wave sloshed over and drenched Tom’s right side. Thank goodness he’d left Sesame with Rudy Scaglione, the transportation officer. Scaglione would bring the dog over later in the day with the equipment.
“Hold on, boys. We’re almost there.” The hull grated over the sandy bottom, and the bow ramp thumped onto the sand.
“Follow me.” Tom charged down the ramp, carbine ready. He’d use it if necessary.
Soft sand slowed his steps. No rifle or machine gun fire greeted him. Aircraft engines throbbed high above, the unique sound of American P-38 Lightnings.
Tom approached a group of soldiers around a field desk near a high dune, a sign the beach was already secure. “Lieutenant MacGilliver, 908th Engineer Aviation Battalion.”
An officer flipped through papers. “Engineers. 908th. Gela-Farello, right?”
“Right. We’re following the 26th Regimental Combat Team.”
The officer pointed northeast. “Two battalions from 26th RCT headed that way. The Italians aren’t fighting, just surrendering. You boys are in for a quiet day.”
“Good.” It was wrong to hope for a fight just so he could prove himself, but still his heart felt strangely heavy.
Ponte Olivo, Sicily
July 12, 1943
Tom huddled in a rocky ravine on the hill slope with Sesame. Artillery shells whistled above, and explosions thundered in the early morning light.
Today they had a fight.
On D-Day, they’d taken the landing field at Gela-Farello without a shot. The next day, the Germans counterattacked. Naval bombardment and American stubbornness prevailed, but blackened carcasses of panzers rendered the airstrip unusable.
Today’s objective was the Ponte Olivo Airfield, a major base a few miles north of Gela. After the infantry cleared the field, the 908th would fix it up.
If they ever got there.
A shell burst about a hundred feet up the slope of the hill. Tom shielded Sesame with his body, and dirt rained on his back.
His platoon hid in a ditch just west of Highway 117 on the southern slope of Il Castelluccio, named for the square Norman tower at its peak.
Larry Fong dropped into the ditch. “Take cover. They’re calling in fire from the USS Boise.” Larry didn’t meet Tom’s eye but made his way down the trench, repeating the warning. Fine way for Reed to use his sergeant—as a messenger and running target.
When Larry left the ditch and scrambled for the next trench, Tom signaled his platoon to fire. “Cover him!”
The men obeyed and sent a barrage of bullets up the slope.
Larry leaped into the next ditch.
“Good job, boys. Now, dig yourselves deeper.” Tom pulled out his entrenching tool. Soon the sound of metal scraping dirt filled the ravine. One thing they’d learned in North Africa was how to dig and fast.
Sesame joined in, and Tom smiled. “Good boy. Good digger.”
Streaks of light whizzed above, and the ground shook. Tom pressed against the dirt wall and covered his ears. Sesame worked his head between Tom’s side and the wall.
He tried to count the na
val shells but lost track after a hundred. The Boise did her job.
When the naval guns fell silent, so did the Italian artillery.
A great shout rose to Tom’s left, and the 2nd Battalion of the 26th RCT charged up Il Castelluccio, rifles firing. On the far left flank, out of Tom’s vision, the 1st Battalion was supposed to head up Monte della Guardia overlooking the airfield.
Once the two mounts were secure, the 908th would follow the 2nd Battalion of the 18th RCT to Ponte Olivo.
Rifle shots zinged on the hill above Tom, voices shouted in English and Italian, and before long, GIs marched a column of Italian soldiers out of the castle and down the hill.
Tom unfolded his cramped limbs, climbed out of the ravine, and gathered his platoon into marching order.
Newman came over. “Your boys ready?”
“Absolutely,” Tom said. “Did we get our equipment?”
Newman grumbled. “Lost the grader in the surf. The heavy equipment’s still down at the beach. Got a DUKW with mine detectors and hand tools.”
“Okay.” Tom looked behind him to the strange amphibious vehicle that made its first appearance with the Husky landings.
Corporal Reilly jogged up and saluted Newman. “Got word from infantry. Field’s clear.”
“Great.” Newman lifted his hand high. “Field’s clear, boys. Let’s move in.”
Tom hooked Sesame’s leash to his belt, signaled to his platoon, and they marched up Highway 117 onto a flat treeless plain.
“Should have known,” Moskovitz said to Tom. “The Eye-Ties have no fight in ’em.”
Tom didn’t like the derogatory word, but confusion between the words Italian and battalion had led to disastrous incidents of fratricide in North Africa, so the nicknames were mandated. “Don’t count them out. They put up a fight on that hill.”
“Sure did.” Sergeant Giannini, who had taken over Moskovitz’s squad, hooked his thumb under his rifle strap. “But they want out of this war. They hate Mussolini more than we do.”
Sergeant Ferris snorted. “Patriotic for the motherland?”
Giannini’s face darkened. His jaw jutted out. “I was born in the Bronx.”