On Distant Shores

by Sarah Sundin

  At least one man in the building looked happy.

  The nurses explored the vestibules, but Hutch remained at the entrance. Fine. Even if he wanted to ruin his own day, he wouldn’t ruin hers. Georgie stayed with the women and tried to enjoy herself, but how could she when her boyfriend embarrassed her in front of her friends?

  Mellie headed for the entrance. “What’s next, Hutch?”

  “More houses.” He led them down the street and into the remains of another home.

  Louise exclaimed. “Just look at those paintings.”

  Vibrant frescoes of classical figures in rusty red, ocher yellow, and milky blue covered three walls of a little side room.

  “Astounding,” Mellie said. “The same ash that killed thousands preserved this art for millennia.”

  “What’s this painting about?” Kay asked.

  “Don’t know.” Hutch didn’t even look in the guidebook.

  The ladies exchanged a glance that curled Georgie’s toes—surprise at his chilly tone and sympathy for Georgie. That was enough.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” She gave them a fake smile, gripped Hutch’s elbow, and led him out onto the street paved with stones as white as her anger.

  She crossed her arms. “Why’d you even come today? This was supposed to be a fun outing, but you’re ruining it for everyone.”

  His brow furrowed under his service cap. “Let me get this straight. I found out all my work these past three years is probably in vain. The goal I’ve worked for is being stolen from me. And you’re annoyed because your tourist excursion doesn’t meet your expectations?”

  She sniffed. He made her sound selfish, which wasn’t true. “You could at least try to be pleasant. You didn’t even look happy to see me.”

  He glanced away, sank his hands in his trouser pockets, and tapped his foot on the paving stone.

  Her lower lip pushed out. “You aren’t happy to see me.”

  “What?” He turned back, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. “How am I supposed to show I’m happy? I’m not allowed to fraternize with you, to hold your hand, even to call you by your first name, Lieutenant Taylor.”

  “You could at least smile.”

  “Smile? You want me to play happy when I’ve had a lousy week and things might not get better for the rest of this stinking war?”

  She adjusted her stance on the uneven stone. “What if they don’t get better? Are you ever going to let it go? Are you going to sacrifice your peace of mind for your goal?”

  “What? Do you want me to give up?” His upper lip curled. “I thought you supported me, thought you understood, considering what you went through.”

  “What I went through?”

  “With Ward. Isn’t that why you broke up with him? Because he didn’t support your dreams, your goal?”

  Georgie’s sweaty fingers slipped over the purse strap. “What’s that have to do—”

  “You’re doing the same thing.” He knifed his hand through the air. “The Corps is my dream, my goal. I thought you supported that.”

  “I—I—”

  “Why do you want me to give up? I need to fight for my goal.”

  Georgie gave her head a firm shake. “I just want what’s best for you.”

  “What’s best for me? The Corps is best for me. Finally getting a little respect for once.”

  She studied his furious face. “This has become more than a dream. It’s an obsession. And you’re getting bitter.”

  “Obsessed and bitter.” He shifted his mouth to one side and nodded a few times. “Thank goodness an officer’s around to tell me what’s what.”

  “Oh, that’s real nice, Hutch.” She whirled around and marched down the street. “I don’t want to talk to you when you’re like this.”

  “Fine. Don’t talk to me at all. The last thing I need is more disrespect.”

  “Why don’t you go home and mope in private?”

  “Is that an order, Lieutenant?”

  “Maybe it should be.” She pivoted to face him. “I’m sick of your foul mood.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m sick of all of this.” He flung out his arms. “I’m sick of lying and hiding and sneaking around.”

  She set her hands on her hips. “I’m sick of being blamed because the Army likes my profession better than yours. If I hear one more gripe out of you . . .”

  His arms settled to his side, and he stood tall and still, his expression a strange mixture of sadness and anger. “You’ll what? You’ll end it? For a single gripe?”

  For the second time in only a few months, she felt the foundation cave beneath her. But now it rattled her like an earthquake. With effort she kept her legs beneath her and shook back her curls. “If you’re going to be grouchy for the rest of the war, then I don’t want to be with you.”

  He stood even taller if that were possible. “If you can’t respect me, if you can’t support my goals, then I don’t want to be with you either. It’s over.”

  “Over and done.”

  “That’s for the best.”

  “Absolutely for the best.”

  Hutch snapped his heels together, saluted, turned smartly, and marched away, the tails of his jacket flapping with each strong step.

  Georgie groped for the wall and leaned against the rough ancient stone, once lashed by volcanic wind, then buried in ash, now exposed to the elements.

  If this was truly for the best, why did her soul scream?

  40

  Anzio, Italy

  January 23, 1944

  Good-bye and good riddance to LST-242. Four nights sleeping on the heaving cold steel deck under an Army truck and almost two days of enemy air attack made Hutch long for terra firma.

  Even if terra firma was Anzio, the birthplace of Roman emperors Nero and Caligula, of evil itself.

  Hutch gripped the side of the DUKW amphibious vehicle as it cut through the waves. The shore looked quieter than the day before when the Allies made the main invasion, with the British landing north of Anzio, and the Americans taking the twin towns of Anzio and Nettuno.

  Operation Shingle was the Allies’ latest gamble. By landing about forty miles south of Rome and sixty miles past the Cassino front, they hoped to break the stalemate, cut off the Germans, and make them retreat north of the capital.

  Beside him on the DUKW, Bergie whooped. “What a ride!”

  “Yep,” Hutch shouted over the clattering engine. He wiped sea spray from his face with his mackinaw sleeve.

  “We’ll get a nice vacation at the shore, I’ve heard. Almost no resistance yesterday. We can race for the Alban Hills as soon as General Lucas unleashes us.”

  “Yep.” White and tan buildings cringed by the waterline, and far away across the Anzio plain, the Alban Hills ripped a jagged line through the blue sky.

  “On to Rome!”

  “Yep.”

  Bergie held one hand on his helmet and glanced at Hutch. “Don’t strain your vocabulary.”

  Hutch adjusted his field pack on his shoulders. Since he left Lucia and broke up with Georgie, every word felt like a sword in his throat.

  “Are you ready to talk—”

  A medic cussed and pointed skyward. Three German Junkers bombers crossed the bay.

  Hutch crouched low in the cramped boat, oddly free of fear, just glad to distract Bergie from dissecting his problems.

  Bullets spat out and splashed in the surf behind the DUKW. Lousy aim, thank goodness.

  Antiaircraft fire boomed from the shoreline, and the planes wheeled out to sea. With a familiar whine, bombs fell, missing LST-242 and sending waterspouts a hundred feet into the air.

  Bergie wiggled himself back up to standing. “I’m glad the nurses aren’t coming for a few days.”

  “Yep.” Why did he choose that word?

  Sure enough, Bergie’s gaze homed in, and his mouth opened to drill Hutch with questions.

  Hutch pointed ahead. “Shore coming. Don’t want to miss this.”

  The DUKW dr
iver turned around. “Hold on!”

  The men obeyed, and the DUKW rode the wave to shore like the surfers Hutch had watched when he was stationed in Hawaii. With a bump, the wheels hit the sand and carried the vehicle onto the beach. Water poured from every surface and carved gullies through the sand.

  The DUKW ferried them about a hundred feet inland. The driver motioned the men out of the boat. “Everyone out. Gotta go back for more of youse.”

  Hutch sat on the edge, swung his legs over, and thumped to the ground. He found a patch of dry sand, pulled a glass vial from his pocket, and scooped up fine beige sand for his collection. If he had his way, he’d never collect another vial again.

  He joined the dozen men from his DUKW and followed them toward the town. For once, the 93rd Evac was supposed to set up in actual buildings, a sanitarium by the Anzio pier.

  Hutch marched in the cool air, and the firm sand barely clung to his combat boots.

  Bergie dropped back to walk with him. “I’d kiss the ground, but I don’t want sand between my teeth.”

  “Nope.”

  “A new word.”

  Hutch rolled his eyes.

  Bergie nudged him. “It’s taking you longer to get over two months with Georgie than it did five years with Phyllis.”

  His chest felt tight. “I loved her.”

  “Are you finally ready to talk about it? Remember, I’m the relationship expert now. Six months with Lillian.”

  “She’s good for you.”

  “I thought Georgie was good for you.”

  “I did too. I was wrong.”

  “How’s that?”

  The blue bay was marred by dozens of LSTs, destroyers, and landing craft, and overshadowed by the Luftwaffe. “She doesn’t support my goal. Says I’m obsessed and bitter.”

  “You are obsessed and bitter.”

  Hutch glared at his friend’s grinning face. “Thought you were on my side.”

  Bergie hiked up his overcoat belt, loaded with equipment for once. Even the officers had to carry their own gear since the 93rd could only bring twenty-three trucks in this first wave. “I’m trying to be on the side of reason. It’s a stretch for me.”

  “So don’t stretch.”

  Bergie drew a deep breath. “Why do you say she doesn’t support your goal?”

  “She told me to let it go, give it up. Easy for her to say. She already achieved her goal.”

  The column of men entered the town of Anzio, filled with two-storied buildings with red tile roofs. Allied shelling had demolished some of the structures. Under a heap of brick, limestone, and plaster in the street, two feet clad in German boots jutted out.

  Six months in a combat zone, but the sight of violent death still slammed Hutch in the chest.

  Bergie cut a wide path around the scene. “I hate this war.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Another body lay crumpled next to a burned-out donkey cart. The man still clutched his rifle.

  Bergie pointed his thumb at the German. “What would’ve happened if he’d surrendered?”

  “He’d be alive. Such a waste. Such a stinking waste.”

  “Sometimes giving up is better than fighting.”

  Hutch stopped and stared. “Are you saying—”

  “What’ll you do if you don’t get a commission? What then? How long are you going to be angry? That’s no way to live.”

  “No way to live? This is no way to live.”

  “You’re right. War is a horrible way to live.”

  Hutch’s jaw clenched, and he blew a hot breath out his nostrils. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m talking about the position I’m in. I have to take orders from a florist who knows nothing about my work. I can’t eat a meal with my best friend. I couldn’t date the woman I love. How would you like it if you couldn’t be seen with Lillian—or even call her Lillian?”

  “I love her. I’d make do.”

  “Baloney. You’ve never had to try. You never will.”

  “No.” His voice came out low and strained. “So, let me get this straight. Georgie got on your case about being bitter. Remember when you told me you loved her? You said you liked how she encouraged you to grow. Sounds like that’s what she was doing.”

  Hutch kicked away a chunk of concrete. “Don’t you get on my case too.”

  “Why not? You’re turning into a grump. Georgie was tired of it, and so am I.”

  “Are you now? You don’t have to listen to it. You’re not supposed to talk to me anyway . . . sir.”

  Bergie turned to him, his blue eyes cool. “You know what? That’s a good idea. You need to work things out. After you do, let’s talk again.”

  “Yes, sir.” He whipped up a salute. “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Bergie walked away and flipped a wave over his shoulder, leaving Hutch alone.

  41

  Pomigliano Airfield

  February 9, 1944

  Georgie sat cross-legged on the tarmac and scanned the letter from Ward. He’d actually written a full letter, not an itty-bitty V-mail.

  He pined for her. He was remorseful. He still loved her. Pearline meant nothing to him, and he’d do anything to win Georgie back. He’d wait out the war, proud of his little nightingale. He’d take her traveling, anywhere in the world. He’d do anything if only she took him back.

  Right on the heels of her sister Freddie’s letter, begging Georgie to come home. Her pregnancy was sapping her energy, and she couldn’t run both the store and her home. Desperate for help, she believed only Georgie would do.

  Home. The old longing pulled at her. If she returned home, if she went back to Ward, could she still be strong? Should she take him back? She’d be needed and pampered, and was that really so bad?

  Hutch certainly never pampered her. He thought she was spoiled. Thank goodness she was rid of him.

  To the south, smoke snaked from Vesuvius’s crater. No matter how many times she said it, she couldn’t make herself believe it. Why did she still love that grouchy old bear? Why did she miss him? Why did she worry about him?

  He had to be at Anzio.

  She shivered and returned Ward’s letter to its envelope. She couldn’t go back to Ward until she broke the hold Hutch had on her heart.

  “They’re having a rugged time up there.”

  Georgie looked up. Roger Cooper and Bill Shelby sat about ten feet to her right, waiting to see if they’d fly today. Three other C-47s were already loading, but the staff hadn’t decided if Coop’s plane would join them.

  “Yeah, rugged.” Roger tapped a rhythm on a wooden crate with his drumsticks. “Two weeks now, isn’t it? We still haven’t taken Cassino.”

  “Nasty business up there.” Shell took a drag from his cigarette. “Jerry’s sitting up there in that abbey, you know he is, and we aren’t allowed to bomb him out. He’s up there, calling down artillery, ripping our troops to shreds every step they take.”

  Georgie shuddered. For the last two weeks, flights overflowed with men bloodied and broken by the many failed attempts to cross the Rapido River and seize Cassino and its mountaintop abbey.

  Roger changed the rhythm, now low and steady as machine-gun fire. “Anzio’s no better.”

  Georgie stretched a smidgen closer. The first few days of the invasion had gone easily, but since then she’d heard nothing good.

  A long puff of smoke from Shell. “Don’t know why General Lucas didn’t charge for the hills when we had the chance. Now the Germans are dug in.”

  “Forget that. They’re counterattacking. We’re trapped on the beachhead.”

  “Did you hear about that hospital?”

  Georgie sucked in her breath. “What hospital?”

  The men turned and stared at her.

  “Sorry.” Her cheeks warmed. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But . . . but what about the hospital at Anzio? Which hospital? What happened?”

  “Don’t know which one.” Roger turned to Shell. “You know which one?”

 
; He shook his head.

  Roger tucked his drumsticks inside his leather flight jacket. “The Luftwaffe bombed them. The hospitals are on the beach, marked with giant red crosses on every single tent, and the Luftwaffe bombed them. Three—” He made a face and glanced to Shelby.

  The copilot shrugged his slight shoulders. “She’ll hear anyway.”

  Roger readjusted his pilot’s “crush” cap over his auburn hair. “Sorry, Georgie. About two dozen people were killed, including three nurses.”

  Two dozen? Her lips tingled. If two dozen were killed, several times that many had been injured. Had Hutch been hurt? Killed? Any of his friends?

  “You all right?” Roger’s brown eyes narrowed with compassion.

  “I have . . . friends up there.”

  “Sorry ’bout that. Guess you dames all know each other.”

  She nodded. Why mention Hutch when he was out of her life anyway?

  “Lieutenant Taylor?” Lieutenant Lambert beckoned from down the tarmac by the tents of the 58th Station Hospital, which served as a holding unit at Pomigliano.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Georgie stood, brushed gravel from her backside, and went to the chief nurse.

  Lambert frowned. “We have a delicate situation. A patient who should be evacuated, but some of the men refuse to fly with him.”

  Georgie disliked flights with POW patients. “A German.”

  “No, one of ours. A pilot. He lost both legs below the knee when his P-40 crashed under Luftwaffe attack. He earned a load of medals.”

  “So why . . .”

  Lambert’s mouth twisted. “I wish Mellie were here. You’re not my first choice for this case, but we’ll see. You have the final say whether you’ll take him or not. He can always wait for tomorrow when another nurse is available, maybe find enough patients willing to fly with him.”

  “Why wouldn’t . . .”

  The chief headed into the tent. “Come see.”

  Georgie followed. Had the poor man been badly burned in the accident? Was that why the men didn’t want to share a plane with him? The smell often caused strong men to retch.

  “Lieutenant Taylor, may I introduce Lt. Roy Cassidy?” Lambert stepped aside.