On Distant Shores (27 page)

On his right, a pudgy man in pajamas shivered. “I was under the opinion that the appropriate treatment for trench foot was to keep the feet dry and elevated.”

“It is.” Hutch smiled. “Here. Put them up on my knees.”

The man swung dripping feet up over Hutch’s knees. “This is the most undignified situation in which I have ever found myself.”

“Undignified?” A young man with an arm in a sling cussed.
“Plain dangerous. It’s safer at the front. I swear I’ll go AWOL and return to my unit.”

Dozens of patients had done just that.

Two loud whines overhead, and the men hunkered close to the earthen wall. Hutch braced himself, but the shells landed far away.

The trench foot patient readjusted his muddy helmet. “Trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea, with the Nazis, as always, playing the role of the devil.”

“Yep.” The Germans were on the move again. Last he’d heard they’d broken the final defensive line and were within six miles of the shore. The Allied forces could all be in POW camps by the end of the week. At least today’s overcast blunted the rumors about German paratroopers dropping onto the beachhead.

Some hoped for a Dunkirk-type miraculous evacuation, but most realized the only plan was to fight to the end.

“I feel like I’m fighting Pop’s war.” The younger man propped up his bandaged arm with his healthy hand. “It’s like World War I trench warfare.”

Hutch leaned his head against the sandy wall. “Bombarded without stop. Can’t go forward. Can’t go back. A microcosm of my life.”

“Microcosm?” The trench foot patient sat up a bit higher. “A fellow man of education?”

“Bachelor’s in pharmacy. Not that it does a fat lot of good around here.” He pointed to the stripes on his sleeve.

“I understand.” He held out a wet hand. “Robert Prescott, Ph.D. in European history and private first class in the infantry. No demand for professorial types in Uncle Sam’s Army.”

Hutch shook with his equally wet hand. “Watching history being made.”

“And I’m unable to record it. I’m not even allowed to keep a journal.”

“What a waste.”

“In many ways. I could be writing scholarly books—very well. Instead I’m shooting a rifle—very poorly. But we all have our dreams on hold for the duration, don’t we?”

Hutch studied Robert’s round earnest face. He had to admit the truth. He wasn’t alone in disappointment and frustration. “Yeah, we do.”

“Know what you mean, pal,” the man with the sling said. “You’re looking at Dick Engelhard, the man meant to be the star of the US Olympic swim team in 1940.”

Hutch gave him a wry smile. “Games were cancelled in ’40.”

“Yeah, and prospects don’t look too good for ’44.”

A shell whizzed overhead and thumped to ground in the distance.

“I’d say not.” Robert glared toward enemy lines.

Dick’s light eyes took on a faraway look. “And in ’48, even if this blasted war is actually over, I’ll be past my prime. Life’s passing me by.”

Hutch sighed. “Me too. My fiancée couldn’t wait and married another man. The Army won’t—” He was tired of explaining it. “Back at home, I’d have a bustling drugstore and be a pillar of the community. Here it’s nothing but hassle and disrespect.”

Dick grumbled in affirmation. “Nothing you can do about it. Just got to do your best.”

“‘Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men,’” Robert said.

Hutch stared at him. His mind tingled—from the cold or from the memory of a truth forgotten? “What was that?”

“It’s in Colossians, chapter 3.” Robert wiggled his wet toes. “The apostle Paul addressed that to servants.”

Servants? Hutch sagged against the wall. Servants had to do
what they were told without question. They had no control over their lives. They didn’t even have the luxury of dreams and goals. Who was he to complain?

He’d lost sight of the importance of doing his best without complaining. Not for the sake of man. Not for respect. For the Lord.

The truth tasted as sour as the acid in his stomach. He’d thought disrespect was eating him up from the inside, but disrespect came from outside. Bitterness came from inside. Bitterness was chewing a hole in his stomach, in his soul, destroying his relationships with Georgie, Bergie, even the Lord.

He pressed his hand over his abdomen.
Lord, help me find my way out of this mess.

Pomigliano Airfield
March 6, 1944

Rain pelted the tent, and Georgie’s needle flew through the fabric. Between her scraps and what she’d purchased in Naples, she had enough for a dozen dresses and a dozen shirts for the orphans, a good start.

Kay Jobson slouched on her cot and frowned at her knitting needles. “If I wanted to ‘knit my bit,’ I’d have stayed on the home front.”

“It’s for a good cause.” Mellie pinned a little sleeve onto a bodice. “We might as well keep busy since we can’t fly in this weather.”

“Remember Pearl Harbor . . . Purl Harder!” Kay held her knitting needle to her forehead in a salute.

Georgie smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

“I’m being sarcastic.”

“So am I.” She seemed to be the only nurse who welcomed the rain. On February 24, an evac flight had crashed in Sicily. Two nurses from their sister squadron, the 807th, had been killed.

Her insides jumbled up like the yarn in Kay’s lap. All her memories of Rose’s death had come back in a rush. She hated how her old fears wormed back into her soul, how she took comfort in the hominess of sewing. How she wavered.

Letters from home didn’t help. Her sister Freddie had been placed on bed rest for her pregnancy, and now Bertie and Mama joined the call for Georgie to come home and help, and Daddy insisted she patch things up with Ward out of mercy for the poor, inconsolable man.

The tent flap opened, and Lieutenant Lambert stepped inside, rain dripping from her coat. “Gracious. When will this let up?”

“Take off your coat and sit a spell.” Georgie held out a shirt. “You can sew on buttons.”

“Giving orders to your chief, are you?” Lambert smiled and tossed her coat onto the crate by the entrance. She took the shirt, needle and thread, and a handful of buttons. “I do like this project, Georgie.”

“I do too.” She tied off a knot and snipped the thread. She liked it far better than braving the skies.

“I have news for the three of you.” Lambert squinted at the needle and poked the thread through. “At the end of March, six replacement nurses will arrive from Bowman. We’d like to rotate some of the original gals stateside. By then, even accounting for your furlough, you’ll have served a full twelve months overseas. The Army Air Force thinks that’s enough, and you should have a chance to go home.”

Georgie’s heart seized. Home.

“Nonsense.” Mellie held up the little dress for inspection. “The men on the front lines don’t get to go home after twelve months.”

“No, but the airmen have limited tours.” Lambert pulled the needle through a button. “You ladies face most of the dangers our airmen do.”

“I’d rather stay if it’s possible.” Mellie laid the dress in her lap and leaned closer to the chief. “I love this work. Besides, the nurses at Anzio—they don’t have a chance to go home.”

“No, they don’t.” Lambert gave Mellie a warm look. “I’d love to keep you.”

“I want to stay.” Kay took a stitch. “After all this flying, ward nursing would be dull.”

“Wonderful,” the chief said. “Vera’s staying too, and Alice is thinking about it.”

Georgie’s needle weaved along the seam line like an ocean wave. Would it be wrong to go home if it were her decision? Her family needed her, Ward needed her, and Hutch didn’t want her. She’d handled crises with grace and quick thinking, and she’d made decisions leaning on the Lord. Perhaps her purpose overseas had been accomplished.

“What about you, Georgie?” Lambert gave her a careful look. “You’ve done so well since your return, but I’m offering the chance to all the original girls.”

All that remained. She swallowed hard. Several were gone due to illness, pregnancy, transfer—or death.

“When do I have to decide?” Her voice came out shakier than she liked.

“Not until the replacements arrive. I’ll make a list of the girls who are interested, but I’ll leave a spot on top for you because of all you’ve been through.”

Her needle stilled. “I’ll pray about it.”

But already her answer seemed clear.

93rd Evacuation Hospital, Nettuno
March 12, 1944

Ralph O’Shea stepped down into Pharmacy. They’d managed to dig down one whole foot and stack sandbags around the sides of the tent for a smidgen of protection from air raids. “Sick of this rain.” He shook water off his mackinaw.

“Hey, watch it.” After a day plagued with shortages and
artillery fire and a bout of dysentery, the last thing Hutch wanted was more mud.

“Ought to give you some sugar pills instead of those bicarb tabs.”

Hutch’s jaw clenched. What did everyone expect? Bombarded night and day, goals thwarted, no respect. After meeting the professor and the Olympian, he tried to spend time with the Lord, but every time he opened his Bible, he fell asleep, exhausted.

Just as well the Army Air Force had abandoned the airstrip at Nettuno due to constant shelling. He didn’t want to see Georgie in his current state, hear her nag him to smile and be happy.

“How were things on the day shift?” Ralph joined Dom and leaned back on the counter.

“Crazy.”

“You’d think now that the Germans are driven back and dug in on the defensive, things would quiet down around here.”

“Nope. But we got another shipment of penicillin. Put it in the icebox in the lab.”

Hutch wiped down the counter. That penicillin was the only good thing that had happened today. Finally a new manufacturing process increased the supply and made it available in all hospitals. “Remember—100,000 units per ampule, and the dose is 50,000 units every four hours.”

“We know. You’ve told us.” Ralph rested his elbows behind him on the counter, his head too close to a large bottle lying on its side on the shelf. According to Kaz, it belonged up top because it started with a
B
or
C
. According to good practice, it belonged with the bulk items on the bottom shelves, where it could stand upright.

But Hutch bit off a reprimand, tired of being the stern policeman.

“Busy here, huh?” Ralph tilted his head back. “On second
thought, I feel a touch of pneumonia coming on. Think I’ll let you work a double shift.”

“No, you don’t.” Dom swatted Ralph in the shoulder.

Ralph’s elbow slipped. His head jerked back and bonked the shelf.

The bottle tipped over the edge and shattered on the counter. White powder flew everywhere.

Hutch thumped his fist on the counter. “Now look what you’ve done.”

Ralph swore and rubbed the back of his head.

“What was it? Better not have been the boric acid.” Hutch picked through the shards for the label. Sure enough: Acid, boric, 5 lb. His last bottle. He bit back a cuss word he’d never spoken in his life and had rarely thought.

“You know how hard it is to get this stuff?” He pointed at the mess. “I’ve had an order out for over a month.”

“Sorry,” Dom said.

“Sorry.” Hutch waved his arm toward the tent entrance. “That’s what I’ll have to say next time the docs need boric acid solution for a burn patient. They’ll think it’s my fault for not ordering enough.”

“Said we’re sorry.” Ralph’s eyebrows drew together. “Not like we did it on purpose.”

“No, it was an accident, because you two forget you’re working with dangerous chemicals, with expensive medications, with items in short supply.”

Another incident that begged to be told to his father. But since he and Bergie weren’t speaking, Kaz censored his letters. Hutch was gagged, powerless.

Ralph cast a glance at his fellow tech. “What do you expect from uneducated yokels?”

Hutch’s heart lurched. He’d gone too far. “That’s not what I said.”

“Not in so many words.” Ralph jerked his head toward the tent entrance. “Go on, Dom, I’ll clean up. Your shift’s over.”

Dom faced Hutch and raised a rigid salute. “If that’s all, sir, I’ll be leaving, sir.”

“Sir? I’m not a sir.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Ralph swept boric acid and glass shards into an empty cardboard box. “You want everyone to ‘sir’ you.”

“No.” His stomach squirmed. “I just want some respect.”

“Because you deserve it.” Dom pulled on his mackinaw. “We, on the other hand, don’t deserve it because we don’t have some fancy college diploma.”

“That’s not what I think.” His voice came out low, but his thoughts tumbled lower. “I’m sorry I did something that made you think that.”

Dom exchanged one last look with Ralph before leaving—a look that said it all. Hutch had done plenty.

His mind whirled. What was wrong with him?

He fumbled into his mackinaw and headed out into the wet evening. Rain stung his eyes, but not as much as the technicians’ words stung his heart.

What was his true motivation in wanting a commission? So others would “sir” and salute him? So he could prove he was as good as the others?

Did he really think he was better than Dom and Ralph because he went to college and they didn’t?

Pain wrenched through his insides, the old stomach problems and the new dysentery cramps combined. He had to get to the latrine and fast.

The poison begged to get out of his system. But what was more poisonous than pride?

It was nothing but pride to want others to look up to him.

He headed for the latrines. No, pride didn’t drive him. He wanted a commission for good and noble reasons.

What were they?

His mind, slowed by pains, tried to remember. Better health care, wasn’t it? For all patients in all hospitals.

“Yeah, that’s it.” And the Army—the Army stood in the way.