On Distant Shores (10 page)

Bergie lunged first, as Hutch knew he would, always impulsive.

Hutch blocked him and swept his feet from underneath, as he usually did. He scrabbled on top of his friend and held the tent peg a safe distance from his throat. “Gotcha.”

Blue eyes narrowed and a grin lifted. “Assaulting an officer?”

What would happen if the brass strolled past? He could be thrown in the brig for years. He’d never get in the Pharmacy Corps. His gaze hopped to the archway.

Before he knew it, he was on his back. Pinned.

Bergie rapped his tent peg on Hutch’s helmet, making it ring. “Fighting’s in the mind. That’s where you lose.”

Always. Hutch sighed and closed his eyes as the cicadas laughed from the cypress trees. Worries. That’s where he always lost.

93rd Evacuation Hospital, Paestum, Italy
September 16, 1943

Planes thundered overhead, artillery rumbled in the distance, and cries of wounded soldiers pierced Georgie’s ears. A detachment from the 802nd MAETS had landed at Sele Airdrome on the Salerno beachhead that morning, and the trembles wouldn’t leave her alone. But nothing made her insides shiver like Rose’s glare.

After Captain Maxwell stepped out of the jeep, he helped out Georgie and Rose. Her chaperone. Never before had Rose accompanied her on a hospital visit, but when she heard the 93rd was in Paestum, she insisted on it.

“Come along, Rose.” She put on her cheeriest voice and headed for Receiving. Usually she stopped at Pharmacy and then joined the flight surgeon. But not today. Not with Rose skewering her with her gaze.

It would be rude not to stop by and see Hutch. She hadn’t seen him for almost a month. What was the best way to convince Rose of the innocence of the friendship? To not visit Hutch? Or to visit him and show Rose firsthand?

“Coming through.” Two medics rushed past with a litter. A man writhed on top, a shock of red on his gray-green field jacket.

Another medic assisted a soldier who clutched his twisted, bloodstained arm to his chest.

Georgie took a deep breath. Compared to the ravages of battle, her concerns were nitpicky.

“Georgie? Lieutenant Taylor?”

She spun around. “Hutch, it’s so good to see you.”

He looked great, tall and tanned and happy and whole, his sleeves rolled up and his collar open, a cardboard box in one arm. With every step toward Georgie, his grin collapsed. “What are you—you ladies—doing here?” He nodded to Rose. “Hi, Lieutenant Danilovich.”

“Hello.” Frost coated the word.

He shot her a confused glance, then gazed overhead, where a fighter plane zipped past. “I know the airstrip’s open, but the beachhead isn’t secure. I can’t believe they flew you in.”

Georgie gave him her steadiest smile. “The generals declared it secure this morning. And besides, you have nurses here at the hospital, don’t you?”

One corner of his mouth crept up. “Yeah.”

“And I’m supposed to be unwavering, right?”

The other corner joined in. “Yeah.”

He was too adorable. In a brotherly way. “So here we are. How have you been?”

“Busy. We landed yesterday morning, set up, opened at 1800. It hasn’t slowed down since.”

“How’s Phyllis?” Now she’d show Rose.

“Good.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hard at work at the shipyard, making wedding plans.”

Georgie couldn’t have put better words in his mouth. “How exciting. Are you going back soon?”

“Don’t know.” The luster left his brown eyes. “Army’s dragging their heels on the Pharmacy Corps.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure it’ll work out.”

Rose tugged the sleeve of Georgie’s blouse. “We need to go. Captain Maxwell’s waiting. Good-bye, Sergeant.”

Somehow Georgie kept her annoyance off her face. Why did Rose have to be rude?

Hutch glanced over his shoulder. “I should get back to work too. Better not be seen fraternizing.”

“Silliest rule ever.” Georgie stanched the urge to pat Hutch’s arm. “Well, we’re stationed at Sele. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“I hope so. Bye, ladies.” Warmth deepened his voice.

Georgie’s heart disobeyed her and did a little hop. She waved and followed Rose. Not easy, because Rose kept up a brisk pace. What was
she
angry about?

“Have you told Ward about him?” Acid fried the last word. “Wonder what he’d think.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Hutch is just a friend. He knows how much I love Ward, and he’s crazy about Phyllis.”

“All I know is what I saw.”

Georgie hated fighting with Rose, but she hadn’t started it. She stopped in her tracks and put her hands on her hips. “What exactly did you see, Miss Danilovich?”

The fire in her eyes could have set the pharmacy tent aflame. “I saw that he cares too much for you. I saw that he didn’t want to talk about Miss Phyllis. And I saw your face when he called your name. Lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“Nonsense.” Her cheeks heated under that fire. Had she really lit up?

“You never look like that when you see Ward.”

Georgie glanced to the side and crossed her arms. “For heaven’s sake. I saw Ward practically every day of my life. You watch me when I see him next. I’ll make a Christmas tree look dull.”

“Will you?”

Her hand twitched. “If I weren’t such a lady, I’d slap you.”

Rose’s cheeks reddened, blotting out her freckles. “I’m the one who should do the slapping. Slap some sense into you.”

“How dare you? I don’t think of Hutch that way. And he doesn’t think of me that way either.”

“Guess again, sister.”

Never in her life had she wanted to slap Rose more. “He’s an honorable man.”

Rose sniffed, her nose high in the air. “See how long
that
lasts. Mark my words, he’ll make a move. And I have a hunch you won’t mind.”

Her hand sprang through the air.

Rose blocked it. She always did.

“Ladies? Is something wrong?” Captain Maxwell leaned out of the receiving tent.

“Of course not, Captain.” Georgie flung off Rose’s grip and put on her most charming smile. “We’re coming.”

“Good. I certainly don’t want any more female histrionics in this squadron.” He ducked back inside the tent.

“This isn’t over,” Rose grumbled behind her.

Georgie wheeled and gave her most imperious glare to her friend. No, her former friend. A true friend would never malign her character. “Oh yes, it is most definitely over.”

Boccadifalco Airfield, Palermo, Sicily
September 17, 1943

In preparation for landing, Georgie tightened the strap across Corporal Gonzales’s chest. Today she learned the name was not pronounced “gon-zales.”

Mirth still lit up the man’s deep brown eyes.
“Gracias, señorita.”

He said that to taunt her. He spoke perfectly fine English.
She winked at him. “
De nada
. See, I’m learning a lot from you Texans today.”

“Aye yi yi! The
gringa
translated the secret code of the 36th Division.” From the litter above Gonzales, Sergeant Alvarez spoke in an exaggerated Mexican accent.

Flurries of Spanish and English floated around the plane.

Georgie laughed. “Settle down, gentlemen. We’ll land in a minute.”

She headed to the back of the plane past a mix of white and brown faces. Growing up in Virginia, she’d only seen people in white or black, but this war filled in the spectrum in the middle.

Georgie sat on the floor behind the tier of litters and slung her musette bag across her chest. Sometimes she was glad she’d come to the Mediterranean, glad she’d followed Rose.

A bitter taste filled her mouth.

Rose. The traitor.

They hadn’t spoken since their fight at Paestum, and Georgie would be perfectly happy never to speak to her again. Thank goodness Rose and Mellie left Sele on evac flights an hour before Georgie. She didn’t have to endure Rose’s presence or Mellie’s questioning.

How could Rose not trust her? How could she think she’d betray Ward?

Truth took an edge off the bitterness but left a sour sensation behind. Yes, she found Hutch attractive. Yes, she enjoyed his friendship a bit much. Yes, she felt cozy in his presence.

Georgie sighed and leaned her head against the cold aluminum litter bracket. The 802nd had followed the 93rd from shore to shore, but that wouldn’t happen forever. One of the units would transfer or Hutch would leave to join the Pharmacy Corps.

That should make Rose happy.

Perhaps Clint Peters was the one who should worry about faithless hearts. Rose said she loved Clint, but she acted as if she still carried a torch for Ward Manville.

Too bad that thought hadn’t occurred to her during yesterday’s argument. Oh, to see the look on Rose’s face when she said it!

Georgie pressed a hand over her cheek. Rose would have slapped her and she wouldn’t have missed.

The plane leveled off and floated to the ground. A perfect landing.

But where was the rapid deceleration? The protesting screech of brakes?

She shot a glance across to Sergeant Jacoby and found her worry mirrored on his face.

“Brace yourself,” he said in a low voice.

Georgie’s heart sprang into her throat. The brakes. The brakes must be out. She wrapped her arms around the litter supports and clasped her hands together. What good would that do? At least the patients were secured. “Oh Lord, keep us safe.”

The plane sped along, and alarmed voices shouted in Spanish and English. They knew. They knew something was horribly wrong.

A sudden jolt. A series of rough bumps. Her cheek banged the litter support, right where Rose would have slapped her. A warm trickle slid down her face.

Terror tightened every muscle, stopped her heart. They’d taxied off the tarmac onto the grass. That would slow them down, but how far could they go before they ran into something?

Another jolt. Smoothness. Tarmac again?

Metal crunched on metal. The plane bucked like a furious horse.

Georgie screamed. Her head smacked the litter support. She flew back, her arms scraping against the brackets. She landed in a heap on the floor.

Screams and shouts filled the plane.

Georgie lay still, breathed hard, felt her head. Intact. Blood on her cheek. She was alive.

“Lieutenant! You okay?” Jacoby leaned over, his lower lip bloody.

She nodded. She couldn’t find her voice.

“We hit something. Gotta check the crew.” He gave her a hand, pulled her to standing, and dashed down the aisle toward the cockpit.

Georgie’s head whirled. She sank to the floor and hugged the litter supports for safety. Her breath pounded in beat with the burning pulse in her cheek.

She could see the scene as from afar, as in a movie. The crumpled aluminum walls of the plane. The smell of aviation fuel and smoke. The men strapped in their litters, calling for help. Her sitting there, helpless as a baby.

“Lieutenant! Get up here! Klein and Singleton—they’re badly wounded.”

The pilot and copilot. They needed help.

Shock locked her limbs. Her breath came out in quick puffs.

“Lieutenant! What’s wrong with you?” Jacoby cried. He turned to a patient. “You there. Can you help?”

“Yes, sir.” A few of the ambulatory patients joined the tech.

The cargo door flew open behind her. Two men climbed onto the plane. “The other plane’s on fire! Evacuate immediately.”

Evacuate. Immediately. Her breath stepped up its pace, a racehorse driving for the finish line. She wasn’t wavering. Not at all. She couldn’t even move.

Jacoby carried a man by the shoulders, while one of the
ambulatory patients carried the man’s feet. Looked like Grant Klein. Hard to tell with all the blood on his face.

“Lieutenant! Georgie! Pull yourself together.” Jacoby gave her a light kick as he passed. “You fellows, get the patients out of here. Now.”

The movie scene whirled around her. Men rushing, shouting orders. Patients calling out, limping down the aisle.

“Get off the plane.” Standing outside, Jacoby tapped her back. “If you can’t help, get out of the way.”

She stared at him over her shoulder, her arms clamped around the brackets.

“Useless girl.” He cussed, grabbed her around the waist, and dragged her to the cargo door. The broken grip wrenched pain through her wrists. Georgie screamed, but he slung her over his shoulder like a sack of feed, hauled her away from the plane, and plopped her on her bottom. “Stay out of the way.”

The asphalt burned her backside. Her breath trotted at a steady pace. She pulled her knees tight to her chest.

The nose of the C-47 was folded up, smashed into another C-47 where the wing met the fuselage. The other plane’s wing bent high and crooked. The engine had been shoved inside, right into the radio room.

Flames shot up, orange and yellow. Black smoke curled high into the twilight.

The other plane sat motionless in the flames, shocked by the impact, as paralyzed as Georgie. No patients screaming or medics scurrying. Empty.

Back at her own plane, men inside passed litters to men outside, who shuttled them to safety. A good system.

She should be a part of it.

She was a flight nurse. That was her job.

Her breath wouldn’t behave. If she could make it behave, then maybe . . . maybe . . .

Rose would slap her. That’s what she needed.

She unlocked her hands from around her knees, unfurled frozen fingers, and slapped herself across the cheek.

Her bad cheek. Pain galloped through her. Her chest heaved and filled with air. Her head lightened. Her thoughts focused.

She had to help.

Georgie pushed to her feet and stumbled toward the plane. The earth rolled as if she’d just stepped off a boat. “Lord, help those men. Get them off the plane.”

At the cargo door she waited for medics to help an ambulatory patient off, then she climbed inside.

Flames snapped. An explosion rocked the plane. Smoke seeped through cracks in the fuselage.