On Distant Shores (8 page)

Cerda, Sicily

Hutch rolled down his sleeves as he walked from the enlisted men’s mess tent to pharmacy. Sunset signaled relief from the day’s heat but also the necessity of covering up from malarial mosquitoes.

An orange glow washed over the hospital complex. Today’s move had been accomplished with record speed, and new patients already filled the wards of the 93rd.

Hutch pulled Phyllis’s latest letter from his pants pocket. Since the beach party, he’d read all her letters over again, determined to rekindle the spark of romance, the warmth of love. But the letters made things worse. Her melancholy fed his worry for her, and her concerns about his faithfulness irritated him. What right did she have to make him feel guilty? He had no choice about being overseas and he’d resisted temptation.

He focused hard on her airy script. For now, he’d shove his feelings aside and rely on commitment and prayer to stay faithful. Feelings were deceptive and a lousy basis for decisions. However, once he got home, he’d give the relationship a thorough appraisal. Was Phyllis good for him? Was he good for her? Was marriage God’s will for their lives?

“Oh, Hutchie-kins, my darling!” A falsetto voice warbled
behind him. Bergie looped his arm through Hutch’s and batted his blond eyelashes. “How I pine for you, my love. Without you, I am naught but a pool of tears, quivering from the dire ache of loneliness.”

Hutch laughed and shook off his friend. “How dare you read her letters?”

“Seriously? That bad?”

He held up the page. “She quoted the entire lyrics from ‘I Don’t Want to Walk Without You.’”

“Oh boy.” Bergie whistled a snippet of the wistful tune. “At least it proves she needs you.”

“Yep.” His voice came out stiff.

“And it proves you two sorry souls need me to drag you out for nights on the town.”

“Yep again.” But what if Phyllis needed more—someone Bergie-like to lift her moods on a daily basis and provide a little fun? Hutch wasn’t that kind of man.

Bergie slapped him on the back. “You look as glum as your girl. This is my prescription—one dram of quit-worrying, six minims of smile-a-little, and a gallon of prayer.”

Hutch wrangled up a smile. “I can fill that.”

“Good man.” He nodded to Pharmacy and Laboratory. “All set up?”

“Nice and neat.”

Bergie leaned closer. Pale stubble ringed his jaw. “You didn’t hear it from me, but don’t get too cozy.”

“Not planning on it.” The tension in Sicily reminded him of North Africa right before the Husky landings in July. They were going somewhere. Soon.

“I’ve got to get back to the ward. Thank goodness for twelve-hour shifts. Sure beats working till you fall unconscious.”

Hutch waved good-bye. Pharmacy might not get as much respect as medicine, but at least he worked better hours.

He ducked inside the tent. Kazokov rummaged through a crate, and Ralph O’Shea stood behind the lieutenant, red-faced. Ralph gave Hutch a wild-eyed look and mouthed something.

What was wrong? Crates lay around with bottles inside. Boxes sat on top of the counter. Shelves sat partly empty.

What on earth happened? He’d set this place up hours ago. Who had done this? Why?

Blood tingled on its way out of his face. What kind of cruel joke was this? Kaz would think he hadn’t done his job.

The lieutenant straightened up. “I’m glad you’re back, Sergeant.”

The last thing Hutch needed was a black mark on his military record. “Honestly, sir. I didn’t leave it like this. I don’t know what happened. It was set up. Perfectly set up. Right, Ralph?”

Kaz chuckled and pulled up the waistband of his khaki trousers. Dysentery had decreased his belly. “You had it set up, all right, but now it will be
perfectly
set up.”

Hutch gazed around. Complete disorder. Why would anyone do this to him? It would take hours to put things back right. In the meantime, how could he accomplish his regular work? “What do you mean?”

Kaz wore a smug smile. “I’ve been studying this operation. The inefficiency and disorganization appalled me. I’m putting my business education to use and making this streamlined and modern.”

Streamlined? Modern? What on earth? He nudged his feet forward. A bulk bottle of antiparasitic tablets he rarely used was on the center-front shelf on top of the counter—but the scales were down on the bottom shelf. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know why you never thought of this. Everything is now alphabetical. Your productivity will soar. You’ll be able to find things much faster.”

“I’ve never had a problem finding things. This was organized like my dad’s pharmacy, like every pharmacy I’ve ever seen.”

Another chuckle. “Is that so? Maybe I can hire out my services.”

Hutch surveyed the damage, the heat of anger blurring his vision. “I don’t think so, sir. We group medications and chemicals by type—tablets, injectables, liquids. We alphabetize within each category.”

“Willy-nilly. No logic at all.”

“No, sir. There’s logic.” He tightened his throat so he wouldn’t raise his voice and get accused of talking back to an officer. “We put the items we use most frequently up where we can reach them and lesser-used items down below.”

“Don’t fuss. It takes time to undo bad habits. You’ll see the merit of better organization.”

Better? Tall bottles lay on their sides on the narrow top shelf. A drop of liquid fell from one and sizzled on the metal counter. Hutch gasped and yanked the bottle off the shelf. “Sir, this is glacial acetic acid.”

Kaz peered at the label. “Acetic acid, glacial. It belongs with the
A
s.”

“No, sir. It must be upright. It was dripping. This is a dangerous acid.”

The lieutenant sniffed. “Fine. Put it under
G
for glacial. But screw on the lid more carefully this time.”

Behind Kaz, Ralph mimed pouring something over Kaz’s head.

Hutch glanced away so the tech’s rightful mockery wouldn’t stoke his fire. “I will, sir.”

Kaz set a bottle on a bottom shelf—sodium hydroxide. In the same compartment as sulfuric acid.

“Um, sir. You can’t put sodium hydroxide on that shelf.”

The lieutenant’s little dark eyes snapped at Hutch. “It’s an
S
.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s a base. It’s next to a strong acid.”

“So?”

“So it’s a volatile combination.” Like Hutch and Kaz.

“They’re in bottles.” He shook his head as if the pharmacist were a bit dim.

Hutch swallowed hard. Hot saliva burned down his throat and into his stomach. “Yes, sir. But as you know, each shelf also serves as a packing crate. When it’s time to move, we just add sawdust and slide the lid on.”

“I know that.”

He nodded slowly so anger wouldn’t pollute his words. “Every single move we’ve made, we’ve had damage. If those two bottles broke in the same crate, we could have a dangerous situation.”

Kaz crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “One thing I’ve learned about you, Hutchinson, is you’re a pessimist, a downright worrywart.”

His hands clenched, damp with sweat. “No, sir. I’m practical. And knowledgeable.”

“Knowledgeable? You’re not calling me stupid, are you?”

“No, sir!” He stretched out his fingers and rubbed his palms down his trouser legs. If he didn’t calm down, he’d get reprimanded and lose his chance at the Pharmacy Corps. “Not at all, sir. You know business, and you know it well. But I know chemistry and pharmaceuticals, and this is an accident waiting to happen.”

“Ridiculous.” He spun back to the crate, pulled out two pasteboard boxes of capsule shells, and put them under
C
, rather than right under the counter where they belonged. “This is a solid plan. I’m modernizing this operation.”

His hands coiled in on themselves again. “Sir, a pharmacist is always—always—in charge of his own pharmacy.”

Kaz thrust a finger in Hutch’s face. “Not in the Army. I’m in charge here, and you’ll do as I say. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant?”

In the Army, he couldn’t even argue like a man without being charged with insubordination.

“Yes, sir.” The words charred his tongue.

Kaz pointed to the crates. “Put everything in proper order. If you don’t know where something belongs, ask. You do know your alphabet, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” What else could he say?

And what else could he do? Go whining to Colonel Currier? He’d get in even worse trouble for going over the head of his commanding officer. Maybe he could ask Kaz to put the order in writing to protect himself if something went wrong. Why not ask to be demoted to private? That’s what would happen.

He set the second bottle of sodium hydroxide beside the sulfuric acid. He closed his mind to the potential chemical reaction. Sure, they neutralized each other, but after an exothermic reaction producing heat and gas.

Ralph placed the diodoquin under
D
in prime center territory. They rarely dispensed the antiprotozoal tablets. The tech slid a furtive glance to Hutch as if the pharmacist might explode.

He couldn’t afford to explode. He had to keep his stopper in tight.

Hutch blew off a heated breath. Soon he’d be an officer and he wouldn’t have to put up with this nonsense ever again. But when? Dad’s last letter referred to bureaucratic delays.

How much longer would he have to wait?

Pain jabbed below his ribs, and he winced. If he couldn’t be in charge in his own pharmacy, what good was he?

Licata Airfield, Sicily
September 8, 1943

A ghostly half-moon hung in the pale late-afternoon sky while several dozen C-47s circled Licata Airfield on Sicily’s southwestern coast. Rose’s fingers cut off the circulation in Georgie’s arm.

“They’ll be all right, honey.” Georgie patted her friend’s hand.

“Rome,” Rose whispered. “So far away.”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Mellie said from Rose’s other side.

Georgie murmured her agreement, but the grim faces of the paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne Division confirmed Rose’s fears. The men slouched toward the C-47s, loaded down with gear and resignation.

On September 3, the British Eighth Army landed in Calabria on Italy’s toe. That same day, the 802nd MAETS transferred down to Licata. They’d left Termini Imerese bustling with landing craft and cargo ships being loaded for the next phase of the invasion. It couldn’t be much farther north than Calabria since an amphibious landing needed to be in range of fighter planes based in Sicily.

Georgie didn’t know anything about military tactics, but dropping paratroopers at Rome, several hundred miles ahead of the main landing force, didn’t make sense.

“Isn’t that good news about the 807th?” Mellie said with a stiff smile. “They just arrived in Tunisia, I heard.”

What a sweetheart, trying to distract Rose. “Oh yes. With a second air evac squadron in the Mediterranean, we can help so many more patients.”

“There’s Clint!” Rose broke away and dashed into the arms of her boyfriend.

Mellie smiled at Georgie. “We tried.”

Clint cupped Rose’s face in his hands. “It’ll be okay. Remember? We’ll be together forever.”

She nodded, her face red. “I just . . . I couldn’t—”

He silenced her with a long kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning. You won’t even know I was gone.” He turned to Georgie and Mellie. “Take good care of my girl, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Georgie said with a smile and a salute. Rose had waited so long for someone to love her, and Clint had waited so long for Rose to return his affections. Either would be devastated by the loss of the other.

Clint gave Rose one last kiss then headed for his plane. The crew members in leather flight jackets and crush caps stood out from the paratroopers with their combat jackets, baggy trousers tucked into high buckle boots, steel helmets, and full field packs.

One man stopped and gazed around the airfield, drinking it all in—friendly territory and sunshine and life—as if he knew he’d never see any of it again. His expression ripped Georgie’s heart open.

The paratroopers wouldn’t return to Licata, but if all went well, the men of the 51st Troop Carrier Wing would return by morning. If the unescorted cargo planes weren’t ambushed by
the Luftwaffe. If antiaircraft fire around Rome didn’t shred them to pieces. If mechanical problems didn’t plunge them into the Mediterranean.

Georgie fought off a shudder and put on a pleasant expression for her friends’ sakes. Mellie didn’t seem concerned about Tom, although the aviation engineers would certainly go ashore with the invasion force to build or repair airfields. But Tom had been in danger the entire length of their relationship, so perhaps she was used to it.

Evacuation hospitals would be needed in Italy too. Would the 93rd be shipped over there? If so, when?

“Unwavering,” she whispered. She had to learn to be unwavering.
Lord, calm my fears.

Not far away, Kay Jobson kissed Grant Klein, one of the C-47 pilots, then strolled over to Mellie, grinning. “Six men. Six kisses for good luck. My job is done.”

Mellie shook her head and laughed. “Good luck? Not if they start fighting over you.”

“But I like it when they do that.” Kay crossed her arms and made a fake pout.

Georgie struggled to maintain her pleasant expression. The woman had no shame.

A gleam entered Kay’s eyes, and she squinted across the tarmac, where Clint headed for his plane with his pilot, Roger Cooper, and copilot, Bill Shelby. “Shall I try for seven? Hey, Coop! Roger Cooper!”

Roger stopped and turned slowly, a wary look on his face. “Yeah?”

“Want a kiss for good luck?”

“No, thanks. Don’t need luck. I’ve got the Lord.” He walked away.

Georgie grinned. She knew she liked that pilot. He had brains.

Kay just laughed. “Such a fuddy-duddy. I love rattling his cage.”

Mellie gave her a teasing smile. “You know it bothers you. He’s the only single male who doesn’t roll over at your feet.”

“Proof there’s something wrong with him.” Kay’s mouth tightened. Just a bit. Was that evidence of the hurt Mellie claimed lurked behind Kay’s brazen exterior? Or just wounded pride that she couldn’t have her way with any man she wanted?

The engines on Clint’s plane started up, adding to the din. About four dozen of the olive drab, two-engine planes droned above the field and streamed northwest. More C-47s taxied on the tarmac, while others surged down the runway and lifted into the sky.

“What’s that?” Mellie pointed to a plane approaching from the north.

A twin-engine plane, much smaller than a C-47. A current of fear raced into her heart until she noticed the RAF’s roundel on the fuselage. “Thank goodness. It’s British.”

“That’s a Beaufighter.” Rose spent too much time with her aircrew buddies.

A red flare sprang from the fighter, and Georgie gasped.

Red flares meant an emergency, wounded on board. Around the field, ground crewmen and officers pointed, shouted, and jumped to action. The plane needed to land immediately. C-47s taxied away from the runway, clearing it for the British plane.

“Come on, ladies.” Rose headed toward the end of the runway. “If it’s a medical emergency, we can help.”

“Of course.” Georgie followed, her chest tight with fear, her gaze fixed on the olive drab plane and its heartbreaking red flares.

The Beaufighter landed, a flurry of dust behind its propellers.
As soon as it stopped, a man leaped out and sprinted for the headquarters tent—an American officer in full dress uniform. “General! General Ridgway!”

Georgie swatted the cloud of dust and exchanged a confused look with her friends. Gen. Matthew Ridgway commanded the 82nd Airborne. And no one seemed to need medical care.

She leaned to one side and peered across the runway and into Headquarters. A heated discussion, men in motion, a man barking orders into the radio.

“What’s going on?” Rose’s fingers dug into Georgie’s arm again.

“I don’t know.”

The Beaufighter taxied off the runway. C-47s on the ground turned around and went back the way they came. Engines shut down. Overhead, the planes spiraled lower and lower. They were returning.

“It must be a recall,” Mellie said.

“A recall?” Rose’s voice shook. “They’re not going?”

“Looks that way, honey.” She rubbed Rose’s hand. The release of the afternoon’s tension made her friend more nervous than the tension itself. Typical for Rose.

An officer jogged past, wearing the patch of the 82nd Airborne on the sleeve of his khaki shirt—the letters
AA
in a blue circle on a red square.

“Excuse me, sir,” Georgie called. “Do you know what happened?”

“Operation’s cancelled. Don’t know why yet.”

“Thank you, Lord.” Rose wobbled, so unlike her.

Georgie wrapped her arm around her friend’s waist so she wouldn’t fall. “Let’s go home now that you know Clint’s safe. I’m sure he has plenty of work tonight.”

The ladies headed down the tarmac toward the road that
led to the sea. All around them, paratroopers disembarked from cargo planes, laughing and joking.

One young man kicked at a rock. “Swell. Now they won’t have time to switch plans and drop us somewhere else. The invasion will go on without us.”

“Make up your mind.” His buddy jabbed him in the side with his elbow. “You whined because we were jumping, and now you’re whining because we aren’t.”

Georgie’s breath caught. The invasion was going on without them? That meant even now the convoys sailed for Italian shores. Hutch’s face flashed in her mind, serious but warmhearted.
Lord, keep him—keep them all safe.

Something about the sunset over the Mediterranean seemed more colorful that night. The four ladies stood at the base of the Licata lighthouse, its round concrete tower thrusting 131 feet into the orangey-pink sky.

Georgie couldn’t imagine a more romantic place to be based. Twelve of the nurses of the 802nd were billeted in the light-keeper’s home, while the remainder stayed in Palermo on Sicily’s north shore. If only Ward were here to share the romance. If only she could sit on the beach snuggled beside him and watch the colors shift and the stars come out.

Stars? Georgie spun away from the ocean. If she weren’t careful, Hutch would nudge Ward out of her fantasy, and that wouldn’t be right. She looked at her wristwatch—almost seven o’clock. “We should go in. Our dinner’s already cold.”

The ladies headed home. Overhead, the lighthouse was dark, no beam to light the way for raiding enemy aircraft, no beam to warn friendly ships off shore.

Sailors depended on lighthouses to guide them, and Georgie
depended on people. She had to remember to turn to the Lord’s light for guidance. She was determined to do so.

“What’s going on in there?” Kay asked. “Sounds like a party, and we’re missing it.”

Georgie tuned her ears toward the house. Laughter and music flowed from inside. “Come on, girls. Let’s find out what’s happening.”

Mellie swung open the door, and the ladies stepped inside.

A party, all right. A scratchy version of “Beer Barrel Polka” played on an old phonograph, almost drowned by singing and stomping feet. Pairs of nurses whirled around in an exuberant polka.

“There you are, duckies!” Mary “Goosie” Gerber grabbed Georgie around the waist and led her in the polka.

Georgie laughed as she fought to keep up with the tall frizzy-haired blonde. “What’s going on? Why the party?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Goosie leaned back her head and let out a raucous peal of laughter. The girl belonged on the vaudeville circuit. “Eisenhower was on the BBC. The commanding general himself.”

“Italy surrendered!” Vera Viviani shouted and twirled Alice Olson under her arm.

“Italy surrendered?” Georgie narrowly missed polkaing into a chair.

“Yessirree, little missy!” Goosie tripped on a threadbare rug but didn’t slow down. “It’s over! It’s over!”

Rose met her gaze from across the room, where she danced with Mellie. “We won’t have to fight in Italy. That must be why the airborne mission was cancelled.”

The realization blossomed in Georgie’s heart, and she laughed with joy. Clint and Tom and Hutch and all the other good men would live. With Italy in Allied hands, they could march over the Alps and kick down Hitler’s back door.

Lieutenant Lambert leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a slight smile on her face. But the tilt of her head and the softness of her brown eyes spoke of sadness. Why?

“One down, two to go!” Rose cried. “Only Germany and Japan left.”

The thought snagged Georgie’s feet and her heart. Germany had fought hard for Sicily, and almost their entire force escaped to Italy. Other Nazi troops had to be on the peninsula as well.

“What about the Germans?” Mellie asked.

The dancing paused. Georgie panted from exertion.

The chief nurse’s smile faded.

No, the Germans wouldn’t give up easily. They never did.

“Don’t be so gloomy,” Alice said. “Haven’t you heard? The Brits aren’t having any trouble in Italy. They sit around eating spaghetti and drinking
vino
. The Germans are running away.”

Running away to a better defensive position, more likely.

Vera lifted the phonograph arm and returned the needle to the outer edge of the record. “Germans or no Germans, we still have reason to celebrate. Mussolini is overthrown. Italy surrendered. Benito is
finito
. Let’s dance, ladies.”

“Beer Barrel Polka” resumed, and so did the dancing, but in a more subdued tone.

No way in God’s little green earth would Adolf Hitler let the Allies polka their way up the Italian boot.