A Pledge of Silence (27 page)

Margie stared in wonder.
Flight nurse?

“There’s a small group of us. We fly out at daybreak and circle over the islands. When our fighters clear the sky of Jap planes, we land to pick up the wounded and bring them here to the base hospital.”

Evelyn’s shiny hair, clear skin and trim figure testified to her healthy diet. Margie hugged herself tighter, hiding her nonexistent bosom. “You’re looking good, but that was always your strong suit, wasn’t it?”

Evelyn swiped at tears. “Please don’t be angry with me. You would have left Corregidor too, if you could have. You know it. I did talk to your parents. I told them where you were and that it was hard to get mail out. They were relieved to hear you were okay.”

“Thank you,” Margie said.

“Did you see Max? I heard he was with the liberation forces.”

Margie felt blood rush to her face. “What makes you think that? I didn’t see him.”

“Oh, well, you know rumors. I was just hoping. Our contact’s been spotty. I heard about Royce. I’m so sorry. It must have torn you apart. I wish I could have been there for you.”

“Why? We’re at war. People die! Especially the good ones like Royce and my friend, Helen. She starved to death just before liberation. Have you ever seen anyone starve, Evelyn?” Margie’s voice tightened. “First, she wasted away to nothing. Just before she died, her heart got too weak to function and her body swelled. Her lungs filled with fluid, and she gurgled when she breathed—”

“Stop it!” Shock registered on Evelyn’s face. “I’ve seen my share of death! I’m sorry about Royce and your friend. I’m sorry you spent three years as a prisoner, but I’m not to blame!”

A sudden deep aversion to this woman welled up from inside, and Margie’s mouth twitched with suppressed emotion.

Evelyn backed away.

A jeep drove up beside them. “All aboard,” the driver said, winking at Evelyn.

Margie climbed in without saying goodbye, and the jeep sped away toward waiting C-47. She had never been so nasty to anyone before in her life. The feelings Evelyn evoked dismayed and confused her.

Reboarding the plane, she took a seat by the window and spread a blanket over her lap. A vision of Max licking her ear intruded into her thoughts. She heard his voice say, “When you see your little friend …” She pushed the images away. She had endured the rape, his evil and dirty revenge on her for blinding his eye, but not for a single second would she allow herself to relive it.

Still cold, she pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Her thoughts drifted again, her mind searching for a memory, but she couldn’t retrieve it. Instead, a frisson of anxiety started in the pit of her stomach and worked its way upward, causing her heart to start pounding wildly. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, feeling the nicotine calm her. She reclined her seat and focused on the journey home.

They left Saipan, bound for Hawaii. Before landing in Honolulu, Boots had the women up in the aisles learning the hula. “The hands tell the story,” she said in a singsong voice. “Watch my hands. See the wave of the ocean and the rise of the sun? Okay, keep the hips going too. Come on. Think swivel hips. Think of those boys out there. No! No! Not bump and grind, girls! We’re supposed to be beautiful. Think beautiful and graceful.”

“Give it up, Boots,” Gracie said with a giggle. “It’s hopeless. I didn’t know you were a dancer.”

“Just a wannabe. I wanted to go into the theater, but my dad didn’t think it was a proper thing for his little girl to do. If he only knew.”

Seven hours after leaving Hawaii on February 24, 1945, the women arrived at Hamilton Field, in San Francisco, California, the United States of America. They deplaned to a cheering crowd while a military brass band blared the national anthem. The nurses saluted the stars and stripes as it snapped in a brisk breeze. Some knelt and kissed the ground, and most cried freely flowing tears of joy. A brigadier general delivered a welcome-home speech, extolling their sacrifices and dubbing them the “Angels of Bataan and Corregidor.” They all got promoted one grade, and were awarded Presidential Unit Citations for heroism, and Bronze Stars with two oak-leaf clusters for bravery. San Francisco’s silver-haired mayor preened for the cameras, and pictures of the event made front-page news.

A horde of reporters surrounded Margie. A flashbulb popped, causing her vision to waver. One asked her if she could have her heart’s desire, what would it be?

“A haircut,” she replied without hesitation.

She got her haircut, as well as a manicure, a facial, and a large advance on the back pay the government owed her. Giddy from all the attention, she bought diamond teardrop earrings to complement her new hairdo, lacy underwear, stylish shoes, and a large bottle of Jergens hand lotion, because it smelled like her favorite candy. She purchased perfumes for her mother and Frank’s wife Irene, and a leather wallet for her dad. The gifts precipitated a tingle of anticipation that left her feeling vaguely anxious.

In her hotel room later, she hung up the phone on yet another reporter. She said to Ruth Ann, “It’s like they think we’re celebrities or something. He wanted to know my favorite lipstick color. Who could possibly care?”

Ruth Ann said, “Have you been asked
the
question yet?”

“What’s that?”

“It comes disguised. One sleaze asked me to tell him my worst memory. I could have named a hundred, but none of them would have been what he wanted to hear.”

“Like were we violated, ruined, molested, despoiled, raped, and disgraced?”

“They want all the details.”

Once the incoming calls finally stopped
,
Margie picked up the receiver, gripping it tightly. As she waited for the call to Little River to go through, she pictured the setting: Dad dressed in his favorite blue cable-knit sweater, smoking his pipe, and reading the newspaper; Mama wrapped in one afghan and knitting another. At this time of night, the radio would be playing music. She heard a click, then a “Hello?” in her mother’s voice.

The long-distance operator interrupted, first speaking to Margie’s mother, then directly to Margie herself, saying, “You’re connected. Go ahead.”

She couldn’t control the quaver in her voice. “Mama? It’s Margie.”

There was silence from the other end of the line.

“Can you hear me, Mama? It’s me, Margie. I’m in San Francisco.”

“Margie! Oh, my dear! All you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m on leave. I’ll be home soon. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in San Francisco. Is Daddy there? Can you put him on too?”

The connection echoed, then buzzed and crackled.

“… neighbors,” Margie heard.

“I couldn’t hear you. Is Daddy there? Can you put him on?”

“I’m sorry, dear. He’s at a neighbor’s. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she repeated. “I’m flying to Chicago tomorrow, then taking the train on Friday to Ann Arbor. I’ll arrive there about six o’clock in the evening. Can Daddy pick me up?

Mama hesitated, “Of course, dear.”

Margie heard a screech. “Is that a baby crying?”

“Yes, that’s Billy. Frank and Irene had a baby.”

“Frank has a baby?”

“Yes. He’s almost a year old. Would you like to say hello to Irene?”

So Margie talked to the sister-in-law she had yet to meet in person. Irene sounded young and hesitant. She said Billy had just started to walk and was cranky this evening because he was cutting teeth.

Margie commiserated. A silence stretched between them. She finally said, “Well, there’s a line to use the phone here. Tell Daddy I love him and I’m sorry I missed him.”

“Would you like to talk to your mother again? Wait, she went to the bathroom. I’m sorry. She’s a little upset. It’s been a hard time for us, you know.”

Unsettled, Margie hung up the phone. The call had not gone as she expected.

Chapter 18

Going Home, 1945

While waiting for her flight to Chicago, Margie watched as soldiers and sailors jostled through San Francisco’s airport. Thin and fit, the men’s faces conveyed a maturity beyond their obvious youth. Some swaggered past with an air of anticipation, carrying gift bags in addition to their duffels. They rushed to catch connecting flights, trains, buses, or taxis. Others walked more slowly, their expressions impassive, headed toward troop ships anchored in the harbor and uncertain futures.

Waiting with Margie, Tildy kept busy by knitting a scarf. As her fingers flew and the needles clicked, she said, “Did we ever look like that?” She nodded at a woman wearing a tailored coat and veiled hat, with three equally well-dressed children trailing behind her. “Bet she’s never pissed in a hole.”

“Or missed a meal,” Margie added as she eyed the handsome coat. “Can’t believe I’m hungry again.” She unwrapped a muffin she’d bought earlier at the airport’s café. “Don’t look now, but …” she inclined her head to the right.

A soldier and his young lady kissed single-mindedly, eyes closed and bodies pressed together. The indulgent crowd parted to walk around them.

Tildy smiled. “Who’s picking you up?”

“My Dad. In Ann Arbor. How about you?”

“My brother. He got discharged after he lost his arm a couple of years ago. He must be doing all right. Mom says he can drive. That muffin smells good. I’m going to get one.”

Tildy left for the café, and Margie continued people-watching. A familiar voice caught her ear, deep and resonant with a slow Texas drawl. Royce! Her body snapped to attention, her head whipping left and right as she searched the milling crowd for the face that went with that beloved voice. In an instant, she felt herself bumping along in the back of a truck, feeling the concussive boom, boom, booms as demolition crews ignited stores of ammunition. Eye-dazzling fireworks lit up the sky. In the distance, Japanese bombs blasted. “Royce, I love you!” she shouted over the din, watching him recede through blurry tears. She stretched out her hand.

A few concerned passers-by slowed to observe the wild-eyed woman playing out a scene only she could see. Tildy hurried over and talked Margie back to the present.

She was still shaky when they boarded their flight. “I could smell the gunpowder, Tildy, and Royce was there, just like …”

She didn’t finish—
just like our last minutes together.

Margie spent the night in Chicago in a room on the 23
^rd
floor of the Carlton Hotel. The bellhop opened the curtains before he switched on the lights so she could see the majestic view of Lake Michigan. He left her with a small bag of salted peanuts and a bucket of ice cubes.

Anticipating tomorrow’s joy, Margie phoned home again.

Mama said, “Oh, my dear. It really is you, Margie. I was afraid I’d dreamed it.”

“It’s really me. Not a dream. I can’t believe I’m home either. Can I speak with Daddy?”

“He’s not here this minute.” She hesitated. “He’s at the feed store.”

“Mama, is everything all right?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. Hurry home. Please be careful.”

Margie hung up the phone, her hand lingering on the receiver, feeling something was amiss.

Outside the window, a spectacular view of snow falling over the twinkling city below and the moonlit lake beyond dazzled her eyes. Turning back to the room, it suddenly came to her that she was all alone. All by herself in this room with its double bed, crisp sheets, and feather pillows. And the bathroom, luxurious, clean, private.

She soaked in the bathtub, reveling in the sweet-smelling soap and tiny bottle of shampoo. Afterwards, she dried off with the fluffy towels, and wrapped herself in the terry robe provided. She ordered dinner and a bottle of chardonnay from room service to enjoy on her own.
Decadent
, she scolded herself as she drank the wine and fought off sleep, not wanting to miss a moment of this splendid, magnificent, glorious solitude.

Next morning’s wakeup call came too early. Before she pulled out of her wine-induced stupor, she found herself on a train, sitting next to a soldier.

“You’re a nurse?” he said, seeing the insignia on her uniform. “Are you coming or going?”

“Coming. From the Philippines.”

“I was at Guadalcanal. Then New Zealand for R&R and New Caledonia for retraining. They’re sending me back to the Pacific. How about you?”

“Who knows? Our lives aren’t our own, are they? Do you know where you’re headed?”

“Just rumors.”

He said his rail journey had already consumed two days of his ten-day leave. He had to get home, because he was getting married. He figured he and his girl would have five days together before he had to report back for duty. He opened his wallet to show Margie a picture of a pretty girl wearing a striped bathing suit. “My goal this week,” he said with a grin that started in his eyes and worked its way down his face, “is to get my bride pregnant.”

Margie chuckled. “Good luck,” she told him. “And have lots of fun.”

The train chugged and hissed around the southern tip of Lake Michigan, making stops in Kalamazoo, Battle Creek, and Jackson. She read, slept, and chatted with the soldier. As they drew closer to Ann Arbor, she gazed out the window, searching the landscape for anything familiar. At the station, she said goodbye to her companion and went inside to look for her dad.

A young woman in a worn tweed coat approached. She had large eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses, her light brown hair soft and curly around her heart-shaped face. “Margie? I’m Irene, Frank’s wife.”

Frank’s wife? She looked to be barely out of her teens. Detecting a sadness in her demeanor, Margie asked “Is Frank all right?”

“Yes, as far as I know. I got a V-mail yesterday. I’m assuming so.”

Margie hefted her duffel and said, “You’ll have to catch me up. Is Dad waiting outside?”

“Um … no. Just me. It’s best we go to the car where it’s quiet. I have something to tell you.”