On Distant Shores

by Sarah Sundin

  Mama turned to her mixing. “I’ve taken care of everything. Go rest. Let me pamper you.”

  Georgie glanced around. “May I set the table?”

  “Pardon?” Mama gaped at her. “This is not like you, young lady.”

  “I know. I just want to keep busy.”

  Understanding softened her features. “All right. Set the table.”

  Georgie pulled a stack of plates from the cupboard. “Thanks for letting my friends visit.”

  “You know they’re welcome. Did I understand your telegram right? They have nowhere to go?”

  She carried the plates into the dining room, leaving the door open for conversation. “They could go to Bowman Field, but the program doesn’t start till Monday.”

  “I suppose California’s too far.”

  Georgie set the plates at Daddy’s place and returned to the kitchen. “Mellie’s father was in the Philippines when the Japanese invaded. He’s in a prison camp, poor thing.”

  “Oh! How horrible.” Mama turned, and a glop of biscuit dough fell to the floor unnoticed. “A prison camp? What about her mother?”

  “She passed away when Mellie was little.”

  “The poor dear.” Mama gazed up, as if she could send a big old hug right through the ceiling to Mellie. “What about Kay?”

  Georgie grabbed a handful of silverware. “She never talks about family. I think they’re estranged.”

  “Oh dear.” Another penetrating upward gaze, but this one carried concern laced with suspicion. “Whatever for?”

  “I don’t know. We aren’t close, but I couldn’t abandon her, and she and Mellie are good friends.”

  “That’s just like you, sweetie. Always caring for strays.”

  Like Rose and Mellie and even Hutch. Georgie distributed silverware at the dining room table, already laid with Mama’s creamy damask tablecloth and matching napkins.

  A pan clanged onto the counter. “Thank goodness on Monday this nightmare will be over.”

  “Over?”

  “Of course. You said flight nursing was a voluntary program, and now with Rose . . . gone, you have no reason to stay. On Monday you can resign.”

  Georgie clutched forks in her hand and stared at the open door. “I—I haven’t decided.”

  “Haven’t decided? What do you mean?”

  She laid a fork on each napkin. “I haven’t decided whether I’ll resign.”

  Mama stood in the doorway. “Of course you will. It’s too dangerous. Now you know for certain.”

  Georgie grabbed the knives and circled the table again, cheeks warm, head down so Mama couldn’t see the redness. “Even if I left the flight nursing program, I’d still be in the Army Nurse Corps for the duration. I can’t just quit. And they could send me anywhere.”

  “But you’ve already served overseas. They’ll keep you stateside.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Although inside she agreed with Mama.

  “They’ll keep you stateside.” She returned to the kitchen. “Yes, Monday you’ll resign.”

  Georgie groped blindly for the spoons. Her parents wanted her to resign. So did Rose. So did Lieutenant Lambert. Then why did the urge to stay in the program gain strength each day? Why did prayer make the urge stronger?

  No matter what, quitting outright struck her as wrong. If God wanted her out, he’d let her fail. And failure wouldn’t be a stretch at all.

  The front door creaked open. “Hello! Is my Georgie home?”

  Ward. Georgie’s heart flipped, more in apprehension than anticipation. She hadn’t seen him in ten months. So much had happened since then. In Paestum, she’d told Rose the next time she saw Ward she’d make a Christmas tree look dull. But would she?

  Mama beckoned Georgie back into the kitchen, her eyes alight. She smoothed down one of Georgie’s curls. “You’re lovely. Don’t make him wait.”

  Georgie opened the door to the entryway. “I’m home.”

  Ward wore his good brown suit and the softest smile. He swept off his fedora and set it on the hall table without breaking his gaze with Georgie. “It’s been too long, baby.”

  She nodded and went to him. His hazel eyes shone with his lifelong love for her, and he took her in his thick arms and folded her to his solid chest, strong as an ox. Even at five foot eight, he towered over her.

  He pulled back and kissed her, sweet as the apples from his own orchard and about as exciting. Less like the Fourth of July and more like Thanksgiving, warm and homey. But what did she honestly expect after nine years together?

  Still, disappointment dimmed the kiss.

  Ward led her by the hand into the parlor. “Saw your daddy out with the horses. We’ll have some privacy before supper.” He settled into the big brown leather armchair and pulled Georgie into his lap.

  After she arranged her skirt properly, she snuggled into his embrace. While he played with her curls, she ran her hand over his smooth sandy hair, motions as familiar and comfortable as her favorite pair of slippers.

  Ward blinked too many times. He eased Georgie’s head down so their foreheads touched. “Can’t believe Rose . . . can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Me neither.” The mutual grief made her eyes water, and she tightened her arms around his neck. “It was hard over there, but being home, seeing all the old places without her . . .”

  “Her parents—they took it hard. They worried about their boys—never thought they’d lose their girl.”

  “I’ll call on them this week.”

  “That’d mean the world to them.” He looked her in the eye. “Now, don’t you worry. They really will be glad to see you.”

  “I know.” They weren’t the type to hold Georgie’s survival against her. “I also need to give them Rose’s . . . her things.”

  Ward pressed her head down to his shoulder. “Baby, no. That’s too much for you. Go call on them—that’ll be hard enough. I’ll make the delivery later.”

  A few months ago she would have jumped at his offer, the escape from a heart-wrenching experience. Now his pampering, even the pressure on the back of her head bothered her. She resisted and sat up. “You’re very sweet, but it’s my duty. I need to do this.”

  “No, it’d be too painful. You’re not strong enough.”

  Her jaw tightened. “I am. And I’m doing it.”

  His eyebrows pinched together, and he studied her for a long moment. “If it means that much to you, I suppose it’d be all right. I’ll come along for support.”

  “Thank you, sugar.” She rewarded his compromise with a kiss on his forehead. “You’ll see. I’ve been through a lot the past few weeks, but I’m doing fine.”

  Ward traced the scar on her cheek. “Now you’re doing fine, baby. Now you’re home.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Now this nonsense is over.”

  Georgie tensed. “You want me to resign.”

  “Why wouldn’t you? I’ve thought this through. Monday you resign from the flight nursing program. In a few weeks we’ll get married. I’d marry you tomorrow, but you and your mama will want the whole big wedding, right?”

  “Right,” she whispered, her throat closing in.

  “Once you’re in a family way, the Army will discharge you.”

  She could only nod. Wilma Goodman in the 802nd had gotten married in North Africa and was discharged for getting PWOP—“Pregnant Without Permission.” She’d told Ward about it in a letter. Maybe she shouldn’t have.

  “Simple solution.” Ward’s voice deepened with assurance. “Then we’ll both have everything we’ve always wanted.”

  Yes, everything she’d always wanted. Virginia, marrying Ward, living on his farm, raising his children.

  So why did it taste wrong? Like pepper instead of cinnamon in the apple pie.

  22

  Castelvetere sul Calore, Italy

  October 11, 1943

  The truck lurched over bumps and slipped in the mud. Dominic Bruno cussed the narrow curving road, and Ralph ma
naged to snooze, but Hutch focused on Phyllis’s handwriting. With all the transfers and the difficulties of delivering mail in a combat zone, the letter was already a month old. But no less welcome.

  I’m so proud that you’re joining the Pharmacy Corps. You’ll look handsome in an officer’s uniform! Even if the odds are long, don’t be discouraged. Don’t give up. Don’t settle for less than you deserve.

  Phyllis knew what he needed to hear. They shared the same perspective, the same goals. He’d told Georgie he’d learn to be content, but how would being content drive him forward? Sure, the Bible talked about contentment, but it also said to “press toward the mark.”

  The truck slammed to a stop, and Hutch braced himself on the dashboard. Dom waved his fist out the window and shouted a long string of Italian at an old man pushing a handcart across the road.

  The old man raised his own fist and voice, and walked even slower.

  When the road was clear, Dom revved the engine and sprang forward.

  Hutch folded the letter. “Impressive language skills.”

  “I probably told him his mother’s giraffe danced on the blue icebox. Gran tried to teach me, but Mom and Pop insisted a good American boy didn’t speak-a the old-a language.”

  “Yeah.” Yet the old language fit the old country, with its rustic villages and ancient castles, its rugged hills and treacherous roads, its olive groves and vineyards. But Hutch had never pictured Italy as such a rainy place.

  Finally the rain let up enough to allow the 93rd to escape from Montella to Avellino, about fifteen miles to the west. The Germans had bombed the bridges over the rain-swollen rivers and isolated Montella from the world, but now the US Army Engineers and their lickety-split bridges reconnected them.

  The convoy of trucks and patient-laden ambulances wound through a village of red-roofed stone houses—and piles of rubble. On Hutch’s side of the road, a line of raggedy children sat on a stone retaining wall, bare feet hanging over the edge, calling and reaching to the hospital personnel. For food. Money. Attention.

  If only they could stop and help each child.

  A boy threw something into the road. It landed behind the previous truck.

  A little girl screamed, hopped off the wall, and darted for the object.

  “No!” Hutch’s foot stomped imaginary brakes.

  Dom stomped the real brakes.

  In an eternal moment, the child paused, stared at the truck with gigantic eyes, and lunged to the side.

  A sickening bump.

  The three men yelled and spilled out of the truck. Hutch got to the girl first. She lay on her back, behind the front tire, screaming, writhing, her legs twisted and mangled.

  He grabbed her hands. “Ssh. Ssh. Hold still. You’ll be okay. Ralph, get a doctor!”

  Ralph took off running.

  Big brown eyes fixed on him, terrified and full of pain. “Mi fa male. Mi fa male.”

  “It hurts, she says.” Dom knelt beside her, his face contorted. “It’s all my fault.”

  “It’s okay.” Hutch squeezed the girl’s clenched hands. “You couldn’t help it. You tried to stop. You didn’t have time.”

  The street urchins gathered around, crying out and chattering all at once. The girl screamed and twisted.

  “Calm down,” Hutch said, as much to Dom as to the child. “Say something to her. Tell her to be still. Ask her name.”

  “Um . . . um . . .” He closed his eyes. “Tranquillo. Come si chiama?”

  But she still screamed, staring at Hutch. “Aiuto! Mi fa male!”

  “Tranquillo, tranquillo.” He leaned closer, trying to soothe her with his voice. “Come si chiama?”

  She clamped off her cries, her chest heaving. “Lucia.” She said it “Loo-chee-a.”

  Hutch gave her a soft smile. “Lucia. Bella Lucia. Brave Lucia.”

  An older boy squatted down, his dirty face stricken. He asked something long in Italian.

  Dom motioned him back, yelled at the crowd, motioned them all back. They obeyed.

  “Dov’è la mia bambola?” Lucia whimpered. “La mia bambola.”

  “What’s she saying?”

  “Let me think.” Dom clapped his hand behind his neck. “She’s asking where’s her doll.”

  One of the children ran to the object in the road that caused the accident and thrust it at Lucia. She clasped it to her chest and sobbed. A filthy cloth doll. She’d run into the street for a doll. Poor kid. Probably the only toy she owned.

  Hutch stroked back the hair from her face. A pretty little thing under the grime, with long tangled black hair. The other girls wore braids. “How old is she?”

  “Quanti anni ha?” Dom asked.

  “Sette.” Lucia’s arms shook.

  The pain had to be severe. Where was that doctor? For heaven’s sake, this was a hospital. “Where’s the doctor? And where’s her family? We’ve got to get her family.”

  “She’s seven.” Dom sat back on his heels and grimaced. “Should have paid more attention to Gran. Um . . . Dov’è la tua famiglia?”

  Lucia rolled her head to the side and closed her eyes. Tears dribbled over her cheeks. Her grip on Hutch’s hand intensified.

  The crowd talked all at once, adults pushing their way in front of the children. Dom held up his hands to slow them down and shouted questions until they spoke in turn. After a long exchange, the crowd fell silent.

  “It’s bad.” Dom’s voice dipped low. “They’re all dead. Mom and little brother and a baby killed in a Luftwaffe bombing a month ago. The Germans tried to take the dad away for slave labor, the devils. He insisted he needed to stay for Lucia. He was all she had. They shot him. Right in front of the girl. She’s been living on the streets.”

  She had no one. Hutch’s throat thickened, and he stroked her matted hair. She didn’t even have anyone to braid her hair. “Poor little thing.”

  Lucia opened damp brown eyes and latched onto Hutch. “Come il mio padre. I suoi occhi.”

  “What was that?”

  “You remind her of her father. Something about your eyes.”

  Like a vise on Hutch’s throat. For her father’s sake, Hutch would do his best for her. And the way her arms and body shook, she needed pain medication and lots of it. “Where’s that—”

  “Out of the way!” Bergie shouted. “Come on. Everyone out of the way.”

  “Where have you been?” Hutch didn’t leave Lucia’s side, not that he could have anyway. For such a tiny creature, she had a stranglehold on his hand.

  “You guys kind of caused a roadblock, and half the country came to see.” Bergie opened a small medical chest. “We’ll get her stabilized, then move her out of the road. Got to get the convoy moving.”

  Two medics set up a litter and a pair of leg splints, while Bergie’s girlfriend, Lillian, knelt beside Lucia, tucked a blanket over the girl, and cooed to her.

  Lucia stared at the medical chest, shrank back, and sobbed.

  Hutch turned her chin so she faced him. “Don’t think she likes doctors.”

  “We’re used to being the bad guys. And she’ll really hate me now. Here comes the morphine. Don’t let her see.”

  Hutch leaned closer and sang “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” the only children’s song he could think of.

  Bergie wiped a clean spot on her thigh, then sank in a syringe.

  Lucia screamed bloody murder. While Hutch sang and squeezed her hand, a river of words flowed from Lucia’s mouth. She pointed at the plasma bottle in Lillian’s hands and screamed more, her eyes wild. The only thing Hutch could make out was Tedeschi, the Italian word for the Germans.

  “Uh-oh,” Dom said. “We’ve got a big problem.”

  Bergie continued his examination. “Bigger than compound comminuted fractures in both legs?”

  “Yeah. Seems some German doctors took care of her brother after their house was bombed. They hung fluids, just like that, right before he died. She thinks they murdered him.”

  “She needs plasma,
” Bergie said. “She’ll go into shock.”

  Lillian laid her hand on Bergie’s shoulder. “Can we wait? The morphine will put her to sleep soon. Then we can hang the plasma.”

  He turned to her with a frown, but then his face softened. “Yeah, sure. We can wait.”

  One corner of Hutch’s mouth twitched. Maybe they’d last longer than three months after all. “Good idea, ma’am. We have to convince her we’re on her side.”

  Bergie helped the medics lift the girl onto the litter. “If she panics at the sight of an IV, giving her sulfa will be fun.”

  “How about oral?” Hutch didn’t let go of Lucia’s hand.

  “Oral? She can’t be more than fifty pounds. Even if she could swallow a tablet, it’d be too much for her.”

  How could he not laugh? “Have you forgotten your friendly neighborhood pharmacist? I can make a suspension for her.”

  Bergie’s face lit up. “Of course. You saved the day.”

  “Put that in your letter.”

  “My letter?”

  “For the Pharmacy Corps.”

  “Oh yeah. Forgot about that. Sorry, pal. I’ll get on it.”

  Hutch’s abdominal muscles stiffened. It meant everything to him and nothing to his best friend.

  The medics, Bergie, and Lillian applied traction, elevated Lucia’s legs, and bound them with muslin strips to angled metal rods that served as splints. The child sobbed, her gaze locked on Hutch.

  He clutched her hand to his chest. “Tranquillo. Bella Lucia.”

  An elderly villager approached, speaking in an authoritative voice. Dom stood to talk to him. With every word, Dom’s face got redder and Lucia’s grew paler.

  He wheeled away. “That’s the mayor or some-such. They don’t want her back. She’s an orphan, has no family. They don’t have enough food as is, and now she’ll be a cripple. They can’t take care of her.”

  “Sono invalida,” Lucia whispered. “Sono invalida.”

  Dom lowered his head and scrunched his lips together. “She says she’s a cripple.”

  “No.” Hutch drilled his gaze into her. “No invalida. Captain Bergstrom’s a great doctor. He’ll fix up your legs better than new. You’ll be walking and dancing and running into streets again real soon.”