by Debby Lee
“Yes, Mr. Hapsock.” Stella rushed to her station amid the hum of sewing machines.
Throughout the day she worked hard sewing the long panels of nylon together and fitting the industrial machines with twelve-inch spools of heavy-weight thread. By the end of the day, her hands and fingers ached. In spite of how tired her body was though, her heart smiled as the workers grew closer to meeting the quotas.
Another thing that made her smile were images of the handsome captain that kept popping into her mind. It was a wonder she didn’t accidentally sew her shirt sleeve to a parachute.
The next stream of workers flowed in as Stella’s shift ended. She bid goodbye to Mr. Hapsock, who barked at her again.
“Don’t be late tomorrow.”
Stella nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said, and hurried out the door. Considering the man’s mood, she didn’t want to ask for the day’s leftover scraps. At least she had new thread to work with.
Think what a grand quilt she could make for the captain with four spools of navy-blue thread. Now all she needed was some sturdy cotton of the same color. There was one place to look. She hurried into the post exchange to see if any new shipments had come in.
One small shipment had arrived, but it didn’t contain fabric.
“I’m sorry, miss.” The store clerk shook his head. “We received 258 cases of Spam, 104 cases of powdered milk, and three #10 cans of peaches.”
Stella groaned. “Anything else?”
The clerk continued. “We also received 200 pairs of winter boots, 200 pairs of army-issue wool socks, an inflatable wading pool, and 200 pairs of baby rubber pants, minus the diapers and pins.”
Stella groaned louder and tried not to be too disappointed. Maybe her friends from the factory who’d gone back to Seattle had mailed her the material they’d promised to send. She wasn’t holding her breath.
Perhaps there’d be another letter from Papa. Stella allowed hope to dance in her heart as she left the exchange and stepped lively through the warm spring sunshine on her way to the post office.
Grateful for the warmer temperatures, she almost hated to step inside the small square building. But she wanted new fabric, so she smiled at the postmaster.
“Any packages or letters for Ness or Stella McGovern?” she asked.
“No packages, but I do have this.”
Stella stifled a squeal when the postman handed her a letter from her father. No new material, but a letter from Papa! The Lord’s grace had sidled up to them after all.
Stella ran all the way home, her lungs burning when she burst through the front door.
“Mama.” Stella gasped for air and placed her hand on the wall to steady herself.
“What is it? A telegram?” Mama dropped into a chair and grasped the table’s edge.
“No, Mama.” Stella rushed to the table then leaned down and rubbed her mother’s knees. “It’s a letter from Papa, see?”
“Oh, thank the Lord.” Tears streamed down her mother’s cheeks. She swiped at them with the hem of her apron.
Stella fought her own tears while Mama regained her composure. She silently thanked the Lord it wasn’t a dreaded telegram from the War Department.
Stella’s heart thudded in her chest as she handed her mother the envelope. Mama used a hairpin to tear it open.
Mama began to read.
“‘My dearest Ness, I miss you and Stella so very much, but I’m happy to say the bombings have stopped and war in Europe is over. I suffered small injuries when my supply truck hit a land mine and turned over, but I am alive, and whole. The folks back home who put together the deuce and a half did a good job. You must be asking yourself where I’m carrying supplies to, and why. Well, I’ll tell you. My company has been asked to bring food and medicine to some places in Germany. I saw things at these so-called work camps, things that are very difficult to talk about. Why, just the other day we heard about one called Ravensbruck, and—’”
Mama’s hand flew over her mouth.
Panic surged through Stella. “Mama, what is it? Is Papa all right?”
Her mother closed her eyes, swayed, and leaned back in her chair.
“Mama, continue, please,” Stella begged.
Without saying another word, Mama rose from her chair and tucked the letter into her apron pocket. “I’m sorry, dear, but you don’t need to hear the rest. It would only distress you needlessly. Just know that your father is alive and well.”
A week had passed and the pretty auburn-haired Miss McGovern hadn’t returned to visit the hospital. Irving’s heart gave a small tug. He missed her.
“Here you go, Captain,” Nurse Colleen placed a tray of food on Irving’s lap.
Lunch, he presumed. He nodded at her. “Thank you.”
He studied his meal before digging in. A hunk of Spam between two slices of anemic-looking bread, another cup of green gelatin, a glass of watery milk, and one very thin, nearly transparent peach slice. How appetizing.
Spam wasn’t all that bad, not when soldiers in the South Pacific and in Europe were half-starved. Yet, when he was served the stuff for three meals a day, seven days a week, for weeks on end, the monotony was enough to make his taste buds cry mutiny.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy to see if you need anything.”
Irving watched the nurse disappear down the corridor before reaching for his utensils. He managed to grip the spoon between his thumb and fingers, as if he were wearing a pair of mittens. Somehow he managed to get the morsel of gelatin into his mouth without spilling it down the front of his pajamas. Not as gracefully as he liked, but at least he could do something for himself. Gone were the days when his copilot and his best buddy, Jack Blankston, had to feed him when he hoped nobody was looking.
At least now the bandages weren’t wrapped quite so thickly around his fingers. This allowed him to eat. The first few days it was all he could do to lift a glass to his mouth and drink from a straw with the glass cupped between both hands.
Pain reverberated through his fingers, but he only had a few minutes before the medications kicked in and left him snoozing for an hour. He’d have to eat fast. He lifted another spoonful to his lips as quickly as possible.
The lime flavor filled his mouth, and he was grateful for the sustenance, but he longed for the day when he could simply cut into a steak with knife and fork and pop a bite into his mouth.
“Lord,” he prayed, “help me get strength and dexterity back into my fingers and hands.”
Nurse Colleen emerged from the linen closet, a handful of adult-sized bibs in her hand. “Would you like one of these, Captain?”
Irving swallowed the mass of gelatin, which felt more like a rock in his throat, and counted to ten before replying. “No, but thank you.”
He used his elbows to help him sit higher in bed and then took another bite, more graceful than the last one, but a long way from where he wanted to be. Much as he missed Stella, he was almost glad she hadn’t been back. He didn’t want her to feel like she had to feed him or clean up the mess he made from feeding himself.
Grateful, but he missed her too. She’d read Steinbeck with such emotion. He admired her literary knowledge and figured she was well educated, but he wondered where she’d gotten that education. There was no such thing as a university on this giant barren rock the army and navy liked to call a military base.
“Hey, pal, would you like some help with that?”
Irving glanced up to see Jack standing over him. “What are you doing here, and how are things at the barracks?” Irving asked.
“Things are rowdy as usual at the barracks, and I came to say goodbye to Frisco. I hear he’s being shipped home tomorrow.”
“Hi, Lieutenant.” Frisco waved and aimed a salute at Jack.
Frisco pushed his empty tray aside. How had the man finished his lunch already? Oh yeah, he had two hands with fingers that worked properly. Irving bit back bitter jealousy.
He was alive and whole after all, unlike Tex. Irving silently as
ked God to forgive him then allowed a genuine smile to play across his lips.
“Captain Morgenstern, Lieutenant Blankston,” Frisco said.
“What can I do for you, Corporal?” Blankston asked.
“They’re shipping me home tomorrow, and I want you to have my address. Promise you’ll write to me, okay? And if you give me your addresses, I promise to write to you.”
“Sure, Frisco,” Irving said. “I’ll ask the nurse to give you my address and have her put yours in my file. I’ll send you a good long letter as soon as I’m able.”
“You’ll be all healed up before you know it.” Frisco saluted again.
Irving returned the gesture. Jack wandered over to converse with Frisco.
Irving went back to eating. He trusted his life to God, but he didn’t want to think about how hard trusting the Almighty would be if he lost both his hands.
Just then he lost his grip and upended his glass of milk.
“Aah,” he growled. He wiped at the mess soaking the front of his pajamas and his bandages. It was then he noticed a foul odor, and his heart dropped to his stomach.
Chapter 4
Stella added a small piece of driftwood to the waning fire and leaned back in her chair, sewing with her new navy-blue thread. She was grateful it was Friday night and she had the weekend off. She would have plenty of time to sew all the next day.
On Sunday she would attend church with Mary, although it was getting harder and harder to pray for the war to end. She was getting so weary of sending prayers heavenward without seeing the Japanese willing to surrender.
A handsome Irish mechanic had his eye on Mary, but he tugged on his whiskey flask a bit too often. Most soldiers had seen a myriad of grisly sights, which in turn ushered them to the bottle. It worried Stella. She vowed to watch and pray, for the sake of her friend.
Stella gripped the needle and continued to sew tiny stitches in the quilt block. She had three spools of new thread left but only enough scrap material for one more quilt block.
“Are you warm enough, Mama?” Stella shifted to get more comfortable in the rickety chair. She wished for a bigger table, one large enough to hold the quilt top so she could more easily sew the small quilt squares and nine-blocks together.
“Yes, I’m fine for now, but there isn’t much more wood to keep the fire going the rest of the night. It makes me wonder, and worry, about your father.”
“Well, at least it’s not winter where Papa is. Yes, May is still a cold month in Dutch Harbor, but it’s different in Europe. I hear that France is lovely in the late spring, nice and warm. That’s something to smile about.” Stella didn’t want her mother fretting about her father freezing to death, like so many had in the Ardennes Forest last winter.
It wasn’t lost on Stella, the suffering the brave soldiers had faced the past December and January. Gangrene, frostbite, hunger. And what of the psychological horrors they witnessed while liberating the concentration camps, providing the stories she’d heard at work were true?
Anger boiled in her heart. How could she not be furious at an enemy who did such horrible things to innocent people?
She wished her father, and the whole United States Army, would squash every Nazi in Europe. Why, if it wasn’t for them—
The needle jammed into Stella’s thumb.
“Ouch!” she cried, and placed the aching appendage to her lips. It served her right. She rubbed her sore thumb, shook her hand in the air, and silently asked God to forgive her for thinking such unkind thoughts. Then she prayed for the soldiers, even the Germans and the Japanese, that their hearts would be opened to God’s love.
“I peeled the paper label off a can of beans and wrote another letter to your father on the back of it. Can you stop by the post office before work on Monday and mail it for me?”
“Of course, Mama, but we only have two more envelopes. I’ll ask the postman if he can get us more.” Stella finished the quilt block and snipped the loose end of thread. Then she flipped the block over and admired the colors. Her back and shoulders ached from hunching over in the dim light.
She thought of her boss. “Mama,” Stella began, “will you pray for my boss, Mr. Hapsock, please?”
Mama dropped her sewing to her lap. “What happened?”
“Today he barked at me for working too slow. He’s never done that before, and he seemed so upset about it. Later, when I mentioned it to one of my coworkers, she told me why Mr. Hapsock has been so upset.”
“Go on.” Mama resumed her stitching.
Stella continued. “Last month Mr. Hapsock received a telegram. His son, a fighter pilot, was shot down over the island of Okinawa. He’s listed as missing in action.”
Mama shook her head. Stella saw her lips moving in prayer. She was reminded once again that it wasn’t just the men who were paying a psychological toll for this war. Across the country, women were enduring heartaches all their own.
Stella’s heart ached. No wonder her boss was so grouchy. The next time she and Mary attended church, she would remember to add his name and family to the prayer list. The list was getting so long, it seemed as though every family in town had somebody on the front lines.
The minute hand on the wind-up clock ticked as the rest of the evening passed in silence.
Her mother’s voice brought her back to the present. “I’m ready for bed, dear. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, Mother. Sleep well.” Stella watched Mama hobble into the small bedroom. If Papa went missing, it would be the death of her mother.
This renewed her resolve to keep up the spirits of the wounded in the nearby hospital, to write letters and mail them so families weren’t left to wonder and worry. When would this horrible war be over so all the soldiers could return home?
Victory in Europe Day had come, but what about Japan?
Blankston had bid his farewell to Frisco and left to go back to the officers’ quarters. Frisco had been given a sedative so he could get a good night’s sleep before being transferred back to the States.
The dinner trays were cleared before Irving found the courage to ask for assistance. “Can somebody help me over here, please?” He cleaned his spilled dinner from his pajama top the best he could.
Nurse Colleen rushed to him. “Yes, Captain, what is it?” The panic on her face echoed the frightened feeling that gnawed on Irving’s insides.
“Does this smell odd to you?” Irving held his bandaged hands to her nose.
Colleen sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and bit her lower lip. “It smells like the milk was made with contaminated water.”
Irving took another sniff and realized she was right. Embarrassed at his paranoia, he decided to keep his mouth shut about his fear of gangrene and amputation.
“Let me get some fresh bandages and I’ll re-dress your wounds.”
“Thank you.” He offered a half-hearted, crooked smile. “I wouldn’t want the germs from the nasty water to cause an infection.”
The nurse returned his grin and then proceeded to the supply closet. Moments later, he held his breath and clenched his jaw as she unwrapped the old bandages that tugged at his raw skin. When the last layer came off, it was all he could do to keep from retching.
Thick, black thread laced together the meat on his red swollen fingers. It looked as though Doctor Frankenstein had done the honors instead of the talented army surgeon. He told himself he was healing and improving every day, but they still hurt a lot.
“This should help prevent infection.” The nurse sprinkled sulfa powder onto his hands and gently rubbed it into the cuts. “The stitches will come out in a few days.”
Irving gritted his teeth so hard his jaw muscles ached, and he could hardly grind out his words. “Thank you.”
Nurse Colleen grimaced. “I’m sorry this hurts. I’ll get you something for pain, but be sure and tell me if you feel nauseous. It’s one of the side effects of the medicine. I’ll keep checking you for fever too.”
“Wel
l, I am getting sick of eating Spam for every meal, day in and day out,” Irving quipped.
Nurse Colleen chuckled but didn’t say anything more. As she wound fresh bandages around his hands, he noticed a wedding ring on her finger. “So, where’s your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Dimples cut into her cheeks and she blushed. “He’s a doctor on one of the hospital ships in the South Pacific, the USS Mercy.”
“You must be real proud.”
“I am, but not a day goes by I don’t worry about him. The Japanese are putting up a good fight, and he’s under bombardment almost every day.”
Irving noted the sheen of tears in her eyes and decided to steer the topic a different direction. “How did you two meet?” he asked.
“My father was a doctor during World War I. He did so well that after the war he became a specialist at Walter Reed Medical Center. I went to nursing school and became a charge nurse there. Luke Gardner strolled into the cafeteria one day while doing his residency and swept me off my feet. We’ve been sweethearts ever since.”
Irving swallowed hard, shifted his weight, and ignored the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. “So, um, Nurse Colleen, does Stella have a sweetheart?”
She smiled. “No, she doesn’t, but I’m sure she’d be open to the idea of having one. That is, if you have someone in mind.”
Irving’s cheeks burned hot.
“If you’re interested, just ask her out.” Nurse Colleen patted his arm and stood. “Thank you for bringing the bad milk situation to my attention. I’ll let the cook know right away not to serve any more of it. You just take care of those hands.”
Irving watched her walk away, feeling foolish but exceedingly grateful it wasn’t gangrene. How much longer before he was in no danger of losing his fingers?
Not wishing to dwell on the possibility or to wake Frisco, Irving rolled from his bed, donned his bathrobe, and headed for the small cafeteria to see if he could find the military newspaper, Stars and Stripes. Paper was in short supply, and he wondered how the army kept it going.
Irving’s mind wandered. So, Stella McGovern didn’t have a sweetheart. Irving’s cheeks warmed once again, as well as his stomach. Should he ask her on a date? It wasn’t like he could waltz her into a fancy hotel and order her a steak dinner. He reached the cafeteria and stood in the doorway.