On Distant Shores

by Sarah Sundin

  The engines on Clint’s plane started up, adding to the din. About four dozen of the olive drab, two-engine planes droned above the field and streamed northwest. More C-47s taxied on the tarmac, while others surged down the runway and lifted into the sky.

  “What’s that?” Mellie pointed to a plane approaching from the north.

  A twin-engine plane, much smaller than a C-47. A current of fear raced into her heart until she noticed the RAF’s roundel on the fuselage. “Thank goodness. It’s British.”

  “That’s a Beaufighter.” Rose spent too much time with her aircrew buddies.

  A red flare sprang from the fighter, and Georgie gasped.

  Red flares meant an emergency, wounded on board. Around the field, ground crewmen and officers pointed, shouted, and jumped to action. The plane needed to land immediately. C-47s taxied away from the runway, clearing it for the British plane.

  “Come on, ladies.” Rose headed toward the end of the runway. “If it’s a medical emergency, we can help.”

  “Of course.” Georgie followed, her chest tight with fear, her gaze fixed on the olive drab plane and its heartbreaking red flares.

  The Beaufighter landed, a flurry of dust behind its propellers. As soon as it stopped, a man leaped out and sprinted for the headquarters tent—an American officer in full dress uniform. “General! General Ridgway!”

  Georgie swatted the cloud of dust and exchanged a confused look with her friends. Gen. Matthew Ridgway commanded the 82nd Airborne. And no one seemed to need medical care.

  She leaned to one side and peered across the runway and into Headquarters. A heated discussion, men in motion, a man barking orders into the radio.

  “What’s going on?” Rose’s fingers dug into Georgie’s arm again.

  “I don’t know.”

  The Beaufighter taxied off the runway. C-47s on the ground turned around and went back the way they came. Engines shut down. Overhead, the planes spiraled lower and lower. They were returning.

  “It must be a recall,” Mellie said.

  “A recall?” Rose’s voice shook. “They’re not going?”

  “Looks that way, honey.” She rubbed Rose’s hand. The release of the afternoon’s tension made her friend more nervous than the tension itself. Typical for Rose.

  An officer jogged past, wearing the patch of the 82nd Airborne on the sleeve of his khaki shirt—the letters AA in a blue circle on a red square.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Georgie called. “Do you know what happened?”

  “Operation’s cancelled. Don’t know why yet.”

  “Thank you, Lord.” Rose wobbled, so unlike her.

  Georgie wrapped her arm around her friend’s waist so she wouldn’t fall. “Let’s go home now that you know Clint’s safe. I’m sure he has plenty of work tonight.”

  The ladies headed down the tarmac toward the road that led to the sea. All around them, paratroopers disembarked from cargo planes, laughing and joking.

  One young man kicked at a rock. “Swell. Now they won’t have time to switch plans and drop us somewhere else. The invasion will go on without us.”

  “Make up your mind.” His buddy jabbed him in the side with his elbow. “You whined because we were jumping, and now you’re whining because we aren’t.”

  Georgie’s breath caught. The invasion was going on without them? That meant even now the convoys sailed for Italian shores. Hutch’s face flashed in her mind, serious but warmhearted. Lord, keep him—keep them all safe.

  Something about the sunset over the Mediterranean seemed more colorful that night. The four ladies stood at the base of the Licata lighthouse, its round concrete tower thrusting 131 feet into the orangey-pink sky.

  Georgie couldn’t imagine a more romantic place to be based. Twelve of the nurses of the 802nd were billeted in the light-keeper’s home, while the remainder stayed in Palermo on Sicily’s north shore. If only Ward were here to share the romance. If only she could sit on the beach snuggled beside him and watch the colors shift and the stars come out.

  Stars? Georgie spun away from the ocean. If she weren’t careful, Hutch would nudge Ward out of her fantasy, and that wouldn’t be right. She looked at her wristwatch—almost seven o’clock. “We should go in. Our dinner’s already cold.”

  The ladies headed home. Overhead, the lighthouse was dark, no beam to light the way for raiding enemy aircraft, no beam to warn friendly ships off shore.

  Sailors depended on lighthouses to guide them, and Georgie depended on people. She had to remember to turn to the Lord’s light for guidance. She was determined to do so.

  “What’s going on in there?” Kay asked. “Sounds like a party, and we’re missing it.”

  Georgie tuned her ears toward the house. Laughter and music flowed from inside. “Come on, girls. Let’s find out what’s happening.”

  Mellie swung open the door, and the ladies stepped inside.

  A party, all right. A scratchy version of “Beer Barrel Polka” played on an old phonograph, almost drowned by singing and stomping feet. Pairs of nurses whirled around in an exuberant polka.

  “There you are, duckies!” Mary “Goosie” Gerber grabbed Georgie around the waist and led her in the polka.

  Georgie laughed as she fought to keep up with the tall frizzy-haired blonde. “What’s going on? Why the party?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Goosie leaned back her head and let out a raucous peal of laughter. The girl belonged on the vaudeville circuit. “Eisenhower was on the BBC. The commanding general himself.”

  “Italy surrendered!” Vera Viviani shouted and twirled Alice Olson under her arm.

  “Italy surrendered?” Georgie narrowly missed polkaing into a chair.

  “Yessirree, little missy!” Goosie tripped on a threadbare rug but didn’t slow down. “It’s over! It’s over!”

  Rose met her gaze from across the room, where she danced with Mellie. “We won’t have to fight in Italy. That must be why the airborne mission was cancelled.”

  The realization blossomed in Georgie’s heart, and she laughed with joy. Clint and Tom and Hutch and all the other good men would live. With Italy in Allied hands, they could march over the Alps and kick down Hitler’s back door.

  Lieutenant Lambert leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a slight smile on her face. But the tilt of her head and the softness of her brown eyes spoke of sadness. Why?

  “One down, two to go!” Rose cried. “Only Germany and Japan left.”

  The thought snagged Georgie’s feet and her heart. Germany had fought hard for Sicily, and almost their entire force escaped to Italy. Other Nazi troops had to be on the peninsula as well.

  “What about the Germans?” Mellie asked.

  The dancing paused. Georgie panted from exertion.

  The chief nurse’s smile faded.

  No, the Germans wouldn’t give up easily. They never did.

  “Don’t be so gloomy,” Alice said. “Haven’t you heard? The Brits aren’t having any trouble in Italy. They sit around eating spaghetti and drinking vino. The Germans are running away.”

  Running away to a better defensive position, more likely.

  Vera lifted the phonograph arm and returned the needle to the outer edge of the record. “Germans or no Germans, we still have reason to celebrate. Mussolini is overthrown. Italy surrendered. Benito is finito. Let’s dance, ladies.”

  “Beer Barrel Polka” resumed, and so did the dancing, but in a more subdued tone.

  No way in God’s little green earth would Adolf Hitler let the Allies polka their way up the Italian boot.

  14

  Paestum, Italy

  September 15, 1943

  In the morning sun, Hutch stood by the railing of LST-350. Salerno Bay curved before him as the giant gray landing craft lumbered like a hippopotamus toward Yellow Beach. The Army insisted LST stood for Landing Ship, Tank, but the men believed it stood for Large Stationary Target.

  “Heads up!” someone shouted.

  Hutch’s
breath clumped in his throat. He dropped to a squat.

  The men and women of the 93rd Evacuation Hospital crouched low, their helmets paving the deck like steel cobblestones.

  Hutch peeked up. With his height, he couldn’t get as low as the others. A trio of fighter planes swooped down from the north. The LST’s antiaircraft guns opened up, walloping Hutch’s eardrums. He pressed his ears shut and hunkered under his helmet. If he had a pistol, at least he could shoot back.

  After a thunderous minute, the Navy’s guns did their job and scared the Luftwaffe away.

  Hutch unfolded himself to standing and drew a long breath. On the broad Salerno plain, six fighter planes rose close to the waterfront. The good guys.

  The US Fifth Army and the British Tenth Corps had landed six days earlier, on September 9. The day after the Italian surrender, the Germans occupied Italy and disarmed the Italian army. The Nazis fought viciously at Salerno. Rumors were, the other day they’d almost shoved the Allies back into the sea until the 82nd Airborne dropped reinforcements on the beachhead.

  No one knew what the 93rd would find on shore.

  The LST slowed to a stop. A loud grinding sound vibrated the entire ship, and enormous doors in the bow of the landing craft eased open.

  His bones rattling from the vibrations, Hutch peered over the heads of the men in front of him. A pontoon causeway led to the LST’s door.

  Down in the belly of the hippo, truck engines roared to life, exhaust fumes spewed from the open mouth, and vehicles rolled onto the causeway. Dom Bruno would drive the truck loaded with pharmacy equipment. About half a mile north at Red Beach, LCI-14 would land the other half of the 93rd’s personnel, including Ralph O’Shea. Colonel Currier liked to divide each department to minimize the impact if one landing craft was sunk.

  Not the cheeriest thought.

  A high whistling sound overhead. Hutch dropped to the deck with the others, his pulse racing. The artillery shell sent up a plume of water several hundred feet out to sea. The sooner they could get off this floating bull’s-eye, the better.

  After the vehicles disembarked, Hutch joined the mass of personnel snaking off the LST. The causeway rocked and bounced underfoot, but a dip in the warm blue calm of the Mediterranean didn’t seem like a bad idea, even so early in the day.

  Hutch stepped onto the relative safety of the Italian mainland. He worked his way to the edge of the group, pulled a one-ounce medication vial from the pocket of his field jacket, and scooped up soft fine beige sand. He had a nice collection now, including the beach party at Termini.

  Memories of the party intruded. Laughing and splashing with Georgie, sitting in the warm sand and stargazing.

  He huffed out a breath. Good thing he hadn’t seen her since the party. He missed her a bit too much, kept thinking of things he wanted to tell her or show her.

  Guilt lengthened his letters to Phyllis.

  Hutch wrenched his attention to the scene around him. Rugged hills ringed the Salerno plain, which stretched flat several miles inland. The village of Paestum stood straight ahead, and Salerno lay about twenty miles north.

  Even the throbbing motors of landing craft couldn’t conceal the sounds of battle. Artillery boomed and fighter planes roared—American P-40s this time. A few miles ahead, smoke rose in spots and red tracer fire zipped through the air. The Allies hadn’t secured the beachhead.

  The 93rd Evac was in for a tough time of it.

  Some of the hospital personnel looked nervous, but most laughed and chatted as if out for a day at the shore. Even the nurses. Hutch smiled, pleased with how the ladies handled themselves with courage and grace. Georgie could do the same, but he was glad she didn’t have to test herself.

  “All right, folks. Let’s move on out.”

  The trucks led the way northwest along a dirt road parallel to the beach. Hutch followed on foot with most of the enlisted men. Tan dust swirled around his feet and coated the inside of his mouth with grit.

  A squat round tower stood to the right of the road, maybe fifty feet tall. Looked medieval. Weeds poked out from between the stones, and fresh divots marked battle damage. Wouldn’t be surprising if German snipers had favored the lookout.

  Now a couple of GIs stood watch. A wolf whistle floated down from the perch. “Dames! Look, a bunch of dames! Real live American dames!”

  The nurses of the 93rd waved and shouted their greetings.

  The medic marching next to Hutch elbowed him. “How come they’re not excited to see us, huh?”

  “It’s all in the hips. You’ve got to wiggle them.”

  The medic grinned, stuck one hand behind his head and the other on his hip, and sashayed down the road, hips careening from side to side. “Hiya, fellas!”

  The guards jeered. One of them threw something. A K-ration tin bonked off the medic’s helmet.

  “Knock it off, Carter.” The next man over punched the medic in the shoulder. “You’re gonna get us killed.”

  “You’re just jealous ’cause they didn’t give you a present.” Carter waved the ration tin at the guys in the tower. “Thank you, handsome!”

  “Disturbing,” Hutch said with a grin. “Truly disturbing.”

  The convoy entered a beachside village, the mottled plaster on the houses revealing brick and stone walls beneath. Two small boys peered through laundry hanging from a wrought-iron balcony.

  Hutch waved. The boys squealed, ducked inside, and slammed wooden shutters closed. Poor things probably didn’t know whom to trust.

  The road bent inland onto a paved road pocked by shell fire and fenced by a tall ancient wall. He trailed his fingers along the porous gray stones covered with black and yellow lichen.

  “Sergeant Hutchinson!” Bergie jogged down from the front of the convoy. “I need Sergeant Hutchinson. Anyone seen him? It’s an emergency.”

  He frowned, stepped out of formation, and raised his hand. What kind of emergency needed a pharmacist?

  Bergie beckoned. “Get up here, Sergeant. Make it snappy.”

  Snappy? That word wasn’t in Bergie’s vocabulary.

  “Yes, sir.” Hutch jogged forward to meet his friend. “What’s up?”

  “Follow me. Faster.” Bergie broke into a full run, passing personnel and trucks.

  Thank goodness Hutch’s long legs allowed him to keep up.

  Bergie turned onto a road to the left, then ducked behind the wall while the convoy continued straight ahead.

  “What on earth is going—” Hutch’s jaw dropped. A temple. Ancient. Greek. And another. And farther down a third. “What on . . .”

  “Yeah, I thought you’d like it. Come on, we’ve got to keep moving.”

  Hutch crossed a lawn spotted with low brown and green grass. “They look Greek. But this is Italy.”

  “Didn’t you pay attention in Latin? The Greeks colonized this area.”

  “That’s right.” The first temple had lost its roof, but fat columns still formed a rectangle. Plain capitals hinted at its antiquity. “What do you think? About 2,500 years old?”

  “More. Early Doric.” He threw his arms out wide. “You may now thank me.”

  Hutch shook his head in wonder. “You spotted this—”

  “From the back of our truck. Knew old Kaz would never give you time off to see it.”

  “Guaranteed.” The convoy rumbled along on the other side of the wall. “Know where the hospital site is?”

  “On the far side of that wall there. We’ll take the scenic route.”

  The men strolled toward the temple, its columns rising high to their left, while umbrella-shaped pine trees lined the wall to the right. Away from the road, the air smelled piney, almost herbal. The constant chirp of cicadas thrummed in the warm air.

  Hutch filled his lungs. “Wonder which god they worshipped here.”

  “Don’t know. They didn’t exactly give us a guidebook when we landed.”

  “Nope.” He turned in front of the temple and gazed deep inside. “Just think, thousands
of years ago, people went in there to make sacrifices to their gods—gods in their own image.”

  Bergie took off his helmet, rubbed off sweat, and made his hair stand up in spikes. “Gods in their own image. Yeah, that’s about right.”

  “Mm-hmm. The fullness of the Lord Almighty broken into tiny manageable chunks.”

  “Preeeeeeach it, Brother John.” Bergie waved his hands in the air.

  Hutch laughed at the thought of his friend acting that way in their proper home church, of the reaction of the proper congregation.

  Then he stopped. The next temple was more complete with both triangular pediments intact. But soldiers and officers strode in and out on official-looking business.

  “Uh-oh,” Hutch said. “Looks like HQ.”

  “Big brass, I’m thinking.”

  After his encounter with Patton, Hutch had no interest in an encounter with Gen. Mark Clark, commander of the US Fifth Army. He turned around. “Let’s go.”

  “Are you kidding?” Bergie grabbed his arm. “We’re not leaving.”

  Hutch stared down his friend. “We’re not supposed to be here.”

  “You know my motto. If you don’t belong someplace, act like you do.”

  “That motto always gets us in trouble.”

  Bergie clapped him on the shoulder, his broad face spread with its familiar grin. “That motto has enriched your life. And now it’ll allow you to see all three temples.”

  “I have no choice.”

  “You never do. I outrank you. Follow me, or I’ll write you up.”

  That joke had grown annoying long ago, but Hutch wrangled up a smile. “Yes, sir. Lead on, sir. We get in trouble, you take the blame, sir.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Bergie marched across the grass. “Look purposeful. Try not to gawk. You’re here on official business.”

  “With my field pack.”

  “With your field pack. Believe it, and they’ll believe it.”

  Hutch matched his stride to his friend’s. Once again, balancing each other. Bergie talking Hutch into adventures he needed to take, and Hutch talking Bergie down from his crazier schemes.