by Debby Lee
The bomber bumped onto the ground with a jolting thump, bounced, and then thumped down again. The screech of the brakes tore through his ears. He held the yoke steady and pulled back on the steering column. A quick glance at the instruments echoed what instinct told him. The plane was slowing down. Hope flickered through him.
One front wheel collapsed and spun the plane sideways.
The left wing skidded onto the ground.
Fire erupted from the engine.
Irving gritted his teeth, fighting the yoke that tried to leap out of his grip. Another jolt, then sudden impact as the rest of the landing gear gave way. The plane’s belly walloped the ground. In a matter of seconds that felt more like hours, they lurched to a stop. He released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“Everybody out!” he bellowed.
Smoke crept into the cockpit. The fire could spread, and fast, or cause an explosion while his crew scrambled for the exits. Even though they had landed safely, they could still perish before they had the chance to escape the wreckage.
He reached for a fire extinguisher to fight the flames so his men could escape.
Blankston jumped from his seat and assisted the waist gunner with Frisco and Tex. Wounded men first. Considering the camaraderie between them all, Irving expected no less. The tail gunner, the last man aboard, leapt from the side door.
Something in front of Irving exploded. He screamed in agony and fear.
Flames licked his hands, singeing his heavy gloves. He peeled the smoking remnants of leather from his hands. Black smoke thickened around him, and his eyes smarted and watered. He scrambled from the cockpit, crawling toward the door on his knees, belly, and elbows. Violent coughing sent his upper torso into spasms.
Air.
He needed air.
Two more feet until he made it to the door. He reached, stretched … but sapped of breath and strength, he couldn’t quite get to the exit.
A pair of hands emerged from the cloud of thick black smoke. The hands grasped hold of his jacket and pulled.
Irving was yanked into the dark frigid air. Dropping to the ground, he sucked in breath after breath until his lungs ached from the icy temperatures. Another coughing fit tore through his chest. Pain reverberated through his hands, his fingers.
The wail of an ambulance siren pierced the atmosphere.
“My men,” he croaked. “Are my men all right?”
“Easy, Captain. Lieutenant Blankston is riding with Frisco and Tex to the infirmary. The medic said they just might be all right.”
Irving turned his head to see a squad of men hosing the flames engulfing his plane. He was no mechanic, but he knew the charred wreckage would never fly again. A medic tried to examine Irving’s wounded hands.
“Ahhh!” The scream flew from his lips in spite of his determination to be brave in the presence of his crew.
“You’re good, Captain. You’re gonna make it, you hear me? You’re gonna make it,” the medic said.
Irving swallowed hard. He clenched his teeth. A glance at his hands revealed black curled fingers, gushing blood, and a stench that frightened him more than the landing.
“Lord,” he prayed. “Please don’t let me lose my hands.”
Chapter 2
The smells of alcohol, gangrene, and hopelessness crashed into Stella’s senses when she stepped into the hospital ward during visiting hours. She prayed she’d be able to bring some peace and comfort to the wounded soldiers from the previous night’s airplane crash.
When she told her boss, Mr. Hapsock, that she wanted the afternoon off to visit the hospital, he’d readily agreed. For the past two weeks he’d been quite irritable, so his willingness to let her go brought a smile to her face.
The charge nurse and Stella’s best friend, Colleen Gardner, sat at her desk. “Afternoon, Stella. How is your mother? Any word from your father?”
“Mama is doing all right. Of course, she’d be better if we’d get a letter from Papa.”
Colleen reached for Stella’s hand. “I’ll continue to pray for your folks. How is work going at the factory?”
“Busier than usual now that three more workers quit. How are things going here?”
“We have two new patients today.”
“Yes, I heard,” she replied. “I’m here to see them.”
“Right this way.” Colleen stood and motioned toward the beds in the back of the room.
Stella clutched her purse and swallowed hard. Holding a perfumed handkerchief to her nose, she followed her friend down the center aisle. Beds lined the walls and were filled with men suffering with everything from frostbite to dysentery to cholera to amputated limbs.
It was never easy visiting the soldiers, but considering the hardships and sacrifices they endured to keep the Japanese from occupying the Alaskan Territories, she would bear any uneasiness. She’d offer them whatever comfort she could provide as a volunteer.
“How badly were they injured?” she asked. Sometimes the more seriously wounded men didn’t care for company for a while. Although she’d heard a few stories from friends, she couldn’t imagine the horrors the soldiers suffered. She understood why some of them might need time to adjust to their surroundings before having visitors.
“Corporal Francisco Valenzuela was shot in the leg.” Colleen pulled the dark green wool blanket up over the man’s shoulders and tucked it in.
Stella’s gaze lingered on the man with black wavy hair sleeping on the cot. Did he have family? The men seemed to recuperate better when they had loved ones back home.
Colleen continued, “The surgeon was able to remove the shrapnel without having to amputate. Thank the Lord.”
Stella did just that.
“On the other hand …” Colleen pulled Stella toward a closet in the narrow hallway. Her hoarse whisper bespoke of her heartache. “Private Eugene Cotton was shot in the chest. The doctor and I worked on him for almost an hour. He wasn’t so lucky.”
A slow, awkward moment passed.
Colleen said sadly, “If only he’d worn his flak jacket.”
A sheen of tears glistened in her friend’s eyes. Not being able to save a patient was always hard on Colleen. Stella ached for her almost as much as for the wounded soldiers.
“I’m so sorry,” Stella said. Trite words for such a painful situation, she knew, but what else could she say? Some situations were best served by silence.
“The War Department will be sending a telegram to his home in Texas, where he has, um, had, family.” Colleen took a few more steps down the aisle and Stella followed her.
Colleen then motioned to a bed in the back corner. “And this is Captain Irving Morgenstern, the pilot. It took a lot of skill to land a shot-up plane with damaged landing gear, but he did it. And then he stayed in the plane, fighting the fire, giving his crew time to get out.”
“A true hero.” Stella gulped. But weren’t they all? Due to the man’s tall frame, his feet hung off the end of the bed as he slept. His short blond hair was ruffled, likely from sleeping fitfully. Thick bandages covered his hands. What price would his Purple Heart cost him? To lose one hand would be tragic enough, but to lose both? That would cripple his spirits as much, if not more so, than his body.
Stella’s heart thudded in her chest. She would not let this man be crippled, in mind or body, if she could help it. “I think I’ll just sit here by his bed for a spell.”
“Sure,” Colleen said.
Stella pulled up a chair and hardly felt her friend’s gentle pat on her shoulder as she prayed for Captain Morgenstern. Did he have a family who cared about him, anyone who wondered if he was alive or wounded?
“I need to get back to work,” Colleen said. She gave Stella a small squeeze and then went back to her desk.
If the pilot had family, a wife or a sweetheart, he’d surely want them to know he was all right. But he couldn’t very well write the letter with his hands in the condition they were in. No matter, she could pen the letter,
or letters, for him. She’d feed him too, if necessary, and if his pride allowed. It was likely that over the next few weeks she would get to know Captain Morgenstern and the other wounded men.
A smile creased her face, and a warm blush crept into her cheeks. She would delight in bringing her next finished quilt to him. If only he could keep his hands, to feel the soft fabric.
Stella caught herself. Colleen hadn’t mentioned if Captain Morgenstern was married, but he might very well have a sweetheart. She shouldn’t be daydreaming of getting to know him too well.
Focusing on other things kept her mind busy for a while. Why hadn’t she thought to bring her Bible? At least then she could read.
An hour later, she moved her chair back a few feet. She stood, stretched her achy muscles, and went in search of a book. If she read to the captain, even if he was asleep, it might make him feel better. And the rest of the men in the ward too.
In the small hospital cafeteria she found the book Of Mice and Men and returned to the pilot’s bedside. She sat back down and turned to the first page. Just then the captain stirred and tossed on the bed.
Stella had dealt with a few men coming out of sedation after being wounded. Some thrashed so hard they were a danger to themselves.
“Colleen! We need a doctor,” Stella called. She placed a hand on the man’s chest and spoke soothing words.
He screamed, bolted up in bed, and knocked her to the floor.
Flames!
The plane was going to explode!
He had to get out of there.
Where was the exit? He couldn’t find a way out.
Irving heard himself scream and then a soothing voice.
Felt cool starched sheets enveloping him.
He popped his eyelids open and gazed into a pair of green eyes peering back at him. The owner of those eyes had the prettiest shade of auburn hair he’d ever seen. She held a firm hand on his chest.
“Easy, Captain, you’re all right. All your men are out of the plane. Rest easy now.” Her voice, soft as his favorite flannel shirt, distracted him for a moment.
A doctor approached with a nurse following close behind. The young physician didn’t look old enough to shave, but Irving shoved the thought to the back of his mind.
“My crew,” he gasped. “Are they all right?”
The auburn-haired lady and the nurse looked at each other. They glanced back at him and then to the floor. The doctor cleared his throat.
Irving’s brain tried to tell him something, something his heart didn’t want to believe. Not everyone made it out of the plane alive. He shook his head.
No! Not his men.
He attempted to rise, to see for himself, but pain surged in his fingers, through his hands, and up his forearms. Determined not to scream, he clenched his teeth.
“Easy, Captain,” the doctor said. “Lie back down. Everyone made it out of the plane, but your top turret gunner, Private Eugene Cotton, didn’t survive. I’m so very sorry.”
Irving demanded, “What happened? I want to know how he died.”
The doctor straightened his crisp white lab coat and looked Irving in the eye. “He was shot in the chest and lost a lot of blood by the time he was brought in. We worked on him for over an hour. We tried, but I’m sorry, sir, we lost him.”
Irving squeezed his eyes shut and dropped against the pillow. Poor Cotton, he’d just married a year ago and had a baby on the way. Some poor child who would never know his or her father. Riled with indignation, he tried once again to rise, but the doctor eased him back.
“Relax, Captain, the rest of your crew is fine. Frisco is right there. He asked about you for half the night.”
Irving turned to see Frisco sleeping. All his men should be sleeping as soundly. He closed his eyes. The nurse had called him a hero before putting him under so they could operate on his hands. Only he didn’t feel like a hero. If he was, wouldn’t all his men be alive and well?
“Nurse,” the doctor continued, “will you please bring a dose of morphine and something for this man to eat?”
The nurse nodded and hurried away, but the auburn-haired lady remained. The doctor held a stethoscope to Irving’s chest and instructed him to take deep breaths.
“Let’s check those bandages.” The man unwound several layers of gauze.
Irving grimaced as the doctor poked and prodded, but the pain of losing one of his men hit harder and ached a dozen times worse. How was he to write a letter of condolence to Tex’s widow with his hands all torn up?
After swallowing hard, he managed to squeak out, “Can you leave me alone, Doc, please?”
“Sure thing, Captain.” The doctor rebandaged his hands, patted him on the chest, and walked away.
The auburn-haired lady remained. Irving eyed her from head to toe and wondered why she stayed.
As if she’d read his mind, she said, “I can write a letter to Mr. Cotton’s family for you. I can write letters to your family too.”
As nice as this lady seemed, he didn’t want her pity.
“I’m so sorry, where are my manners?” She cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, Captain Morgenstern, my name is Stella McGovern. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Who on earth was this woman, and where had she come from? Irving wanted to be angry at someone, at her, but she was too pretty, and he didn’t want to think about pretty ladies. A good soldier thought of his men at all times. He turned his head toward the wall. He should have never gone back for another pass over the target. Risks like that cost lives. But his orders were to bomb a particular target, and he wasn’t about to fail and leave the job to someone else.
“Captain?”
The woman drew him from his thoughts to repeat her offer.
“I can write some letters for you, if you’d like.”
“Maybe later,” he mumbled.
Footsteps echoed down the aisle. It was the nurse carrying a silver tray. On it were two pills, a glass of water, a cup of green gelatin, and a spoon.
“Here you are.” The nurse set the tray on the nightstand.
How on earth did she expect him to take his medication and eat? He looked at Miss McGovern, who sat in a chair holding a book. She wouldn’t be any help, not that he needed help.
“Here, let me assist you.” The nurse took the spoon and dipped it into the gelatin. Did she really think he’d allow her to feed him like he was a helpless infant? In the presence of a lady? No way. He’d learn to eat with his toes before he’d let that happen.
Summoning every ounce of stubborn pride he could muster, he glared at both of them.
Chapter 3
A week had passed since Stella had last visited the men in the hospital ward. May arrived as well as news of the victory over Europe. Hopeful for Papa’s return, she put an extra bounce in her step.
Extra shifts at the factory were still a must, which hadn’t left her time to revisit wounded soldiers. Still, she wanted to know how they were doing. Colleen had been kind enough to stop by Stella’s house and keep her updated on the men’s status. Frisco’s leg was healing and he was scheduled to be sent home soon. She thanked the Lord and prayed that the war with Japan ended soon and that all the men would be shipped home as well.
Captain Morgenstern’s hands were doing better. The muscles in his fingers were healing, but he still faced an arduous road to recovery. According to Colleen, the man risked losing his fingers, if not his hands, if gangrene set in.
On the way to work that morning, Stella stopped at her friend Mary’s house. In Stella’s opinion, Mary could be flighty, but she had a caring heart, and having grown up near Dutch Harbor, she knew the area. Plus, Mary was a shrewd trader and could barter well.
After a brief catching-up with Mary, Stella checked her watch and hustled into her coat. She’d be late to work if she didn’t hurry.
“Sorry, Mary, I have to run.” Stella gave her friend a hug goodbye. Although Mary lived not too far from the parachute manufacturing plant, it was f
ar enough to cause Stella to worry about making it to work on time.
“I’ll see you Sunday, for church, maybe?” Mary asked.
Hope emanating from her friend’s dark eyes made Stella smile. “Of course, I’ll swing by here beforehand and we can walk together.”
“And perhaps get a ride home from a handsome soldier, eh?” Mary chuckled and pressed her fingers to her lips.
At the mention of handsome soldiers, an image of Irving Morgenstern flashed in Stella’s mind. Warmth rushed to her cheeks. “I have to run, literally, or I’ll be late.”
Stella bolted out the door and sprinted down the pathway, her friend’s laughter echoing behind her.
Usually she restricted her time with friends to her days off. Today she’d made an exception because Mary had obtained a treasure and wanted to share it.
Four spools of navy-blue thread.
In spite of the rationing and the remoteness of the base, Mary had really come through for her. Stella carried the spools in her pocket. Mama would like the color and be happy to sew again that night. She wondered what her friend had bartered to obtain the bounty, but there had been no time for idle chitchat.
As she hurried along, she passed the outskirts of the military base and, once again, thought of Irving Morgenstern.
“Lord.” Stella voiced her prayer aloud as she walked. “Please bring healing to the captain’s hands, and his heart. And please keep Papa safe.”
She continued to pray as she hustled to her job, walking briskly past the blue house with the shuttered windows. No time for daydreaming about the future today. She couldn’t risk being late, not when they were so far behind their quota.
Mentally chastising herself for visiting too long, Stella rushed to her small locker and shook off her coat.
“Miss McGovern, you’re late!” her boss growled. “Get your safety gear on and get out onto the floor.”