On Distant Shores (25 page)

Pomigliano Airfield
February 9, 1944

Georgie sat cross-legged on the tarmac and scanned the letter from Ward. He’d actually written a full letter, not an itty-bitty V-mail.

He pined for her. He was remorseful. He still loved her. Pearline meant nothing to him, and he’d do anything to win Georgie back. He’d wait out the war, proud of his little nightingale. He’d take her traveling, anywhere in the world. He’d do anything if only she took him back.

Right on the heels of her sister Freddie’s letter, begging Georgie to come home. Her pregnancy was sapping her energy, and she couldn’t run both the store and her home. Desperate for help, she believed only Georgie would do.

Home. The old longing pulled at her. If she returned home, if she went back to Ward, could she still be strong? Should she take him back? She’d be needed and pampered, and was that really so bad?

Hutch certainly never pampered her. He thought she was spoiled. Thank goodness she was rid of him.

To the south, smoke snaked from Vesuvius’s crater. No matter how many times she said it, she couldn’t make herself
believe it. Why did she still love that grouchy old bear? Why did she miss him? Why did she worry about him?

He had to be at Anzio.

She shivered and returned Ward’s letter to its envelope. She couldn’t go back to Ward until she broke the hold Hutch had on her heart.

“They’re having a rugged time up there.”

Georgie looked up. Roger Cooper and Bill Shelby sat about ten feet to her right, waiting to see if they’d fly today. Three other C-47s were already loading, but the staff hadn’t decided if Coop’s plane would join them.

“Yeah, rugged.” Roger tapped a rhythm on a wooden crate with his drumsticks. “Two weeks now, isn’t it? We still haven’t taken Cassino.”

“Nasty business up there.” Shell took a drag from his cigarette. “Jerry’s sitting up there in that abbey, you know he is, and we aren’t allowed to bomb him out. He’s up there, calling down artillery, ripping our troops to shreds every step they take.”

Georgie shuddered. For the last two weeks, flights overflowed with men bloodied and broken by the many failed attempts to cross the Rapido River and seize Cassino and its mountaintop abbey.

Roger changed the rhythm, now low and steady as machine-gun fire. “Anzio’s no better.”

Georgie stretched a smidgen closer. The first few days of the invasion had gone easily, but since then she’d heard nothing good.

A long puff of smoke from Shell. “Don’t know why General Lucas didn’t charge for the hills when we had the chance. Now the Germans are dug in.”

“Forget that. They’re counterattacking. We’re trapped on the beachhead.”

“Did you hear about that hospital?”

Georgie sucked in her breath. “What hospital?”

The men turned and stared at her.

“Sorry.” Her cheeks warmed. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But . . . but what about the hospital at Anzio? Which hospital? What happened?”

“Don’t know which one.” Roger turned to Shell. “You know which one?”

He shook his head.

Roger tucked his drumsticks inside his leather flight jacket. “The Luftwaffe bombed them. The hospitals are on the beach, marked with giant red crosses on every single tent, and the Luftwaffe bombed them. Three—” He made a face and glanced to Shelby.

The copilot shrugged his slight shoulders. “She’ll hear anyway.”

Roger readjusted his pilot’s “crush” cap over his auburn hair. “Sorry, Georgie. About two dozen people were killed, including three nurses.”

Two dozen? Her lips tingled. If two dozen were killed, several times that many had been injured. Had Hutch been hurt? Killed? Any of his friends?

“You all right?” Roger’s brown eyes narrowed with compassion.

“I have . . . friends up there.”

“Sorry ’bout that. Guess you dames all know each other.”

She nodded. Why mention Hutch when he was out of her life anyway?

“Lieutenant Taylor?” Lieutenant Lambert beckoned from down the tarmac by the tents of the 58th Station Hospital, which served as a holding unit at Pomigliano.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Georgie stood, brushed gravel from her backside, and went to the chief nurse.

Lambert frowned. “We have a delicate situation. A patient who should be evacuated, but some of the men refuse to fly with him.”

Georgie disliked flights with POW patients. “A German.”

“No, one of ours. A pilot. He lost both legs below the knee when his P-40 crashed under Luftwaffe attack. He earned a load of medals.”

“So why . . .”

Lambert’s mouth twisted. “I wish Mellie were here. You’re not my first choice for this case, but we’ll see. You have the final say whether you’ll take him or not. He can always wait for tomorrow when another nurse is available, maybe find enough patients willing to fly with him.”

“Why wouldn’t . . .”

The chief headed into the tent. “Come see.”

Georgie followed. Had the poor man been badly burned in the accident? Was that why the men didn’t want to share a plane with him? The smell often caused strong men to retch.

“Lieutenant Taylor, may I introduce Lt. Roy Cassidy?” Lambert stepped aside.

The patient lay on a cot, and he turned his mahogany face to Georgie. “Good morning, ma’am.”

He was . . . colored. And an officer. “Good—good morning.” She was supposed to say “sir,” wasn’t she? But to a colored man? What a strange war this was.

“You’re from the South, ma’am.” His accent hailed from the North. A slight smile, and he turned his gaze to Lieutenant Lambert. “Looks like I’m waiting another day. That’s fine. I’m in no rush, ma’am.”

Georgie pulled herself together and closed her dangling jaw. “Lieutenant Lambert, may I speak with you in private?”

She nodded and returned to the tent entrance. “You don’t have to explain. I saw your face. I know the Army is supposed
to have segregated facilities, but with the small number of colored patients, evacuation poses problems since we don’t have colored nurses.”

Mama used to have a colored girl help with the cleaning and cooking, and Daddy hired the men as farmhands. Georgie had associated with Negroes all her life, but never as equals. “He—he’s a pilot, you said?”

“Yes, with the 99th Fighter Squadron. The Tuskegee Airmen.”

“I’ve heard of them.”

Lambert crossed her arms and tapped long fingers on her upper arm. “They had to fight for recognition, for acceptance, for respect. The Army didn’t think black men could fly—just like they didn’t think women could handle the rigors of air evacuation.”

The man’s legs came to an abrupt end. So had his dreams. “Is it true what they say about the Tuskegee Airmen over Anzio?”

“Why ask me? You can ask him.”

Georgie nudged her feet back in his direction. What would Daddy say? Segregation had always worked. It was best. Mixing the races wasn’t natural.

A woman in a combat zone wasn’t natural either.

She stood at the foot of his cot and twisted her hands together. “Excuse me. I have a question.”

“Yes, ma’am?” His eyes twitched.

“Is it true what they say you fellows did over Anzio?”

“Depends. What do they say?”

“That you shot down thirteen German Fw 190s in two days.”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s true. Claimed one myself.”

She tried not to glance to the collapsed blankets where his feet should have been. “Those German planes—they’re the ones who strafe our troops and bomb our hospitals.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You colored boys are flying to protect white boys?”

His deep brown eyes flashed with understanding. “Ma’am, I don’t care what color they are, as long as they fight for freedom.”

She swallowed hard and spun to face the rest of the ward. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Which of y’all don’t want to fly with Lieutenant Cassidy here?”

Four hands went up.

A patient across the aisle sat up in bed. “It isn’t right, ma’am. I’m sure you agree.”

“I do. It isn’t right at all.” She put on her best Southern belle smile. “It isn’t right that Lieutenant Cassidy lost his legs saving the lives of men who can’t see fit to share an airplane with him.”

The patient blanched even whiter.

Georgie looked each man in the eye. “If y’all don’t want to fly with Lieutenant Cassidy, then I don’t want to fly with you.”

“Ma’am!”

“That’s my decision.” She met Lambert’s gaze. “I’ll take Lieutenant Cassidy on my flight. Any of these fine gentlemen who wish to join us are more than welcome. If they don’t wish to, they can fly out another day, and Lieutenant Cassidy will enjoy a private flight.”

“Hey! Since when do girls get to make the decisions?”

“This war turned our world upside down, didn’t it?” She faced Lieutenant Cassidy and saluted him, her throat suddenly tight. “Thank you for your service . . . sir.”

“You—you’re welcome, ma’am.”

Georgie crossed the tent to where Lambert stood. “Shall we load?”

“Yes. Captain Zimmerman has the flight manifest. You can
scratch out certain names.” Lambert’s eyes crinkled around the edges. “A fine decision, Georgie.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Her shoulders felt lighter and straighter. She’d made lots of decisions lately, and this one was wise. But were all of them?

Georgie took the flight manifest from Captain Zimmerman and followed him around the tent as he relayed each patient’s condition and medical needs. She took careful notes.

Returning overseas was right, but she doubted some of her other decisions.

A romance with Hutch had not been smart at all. Yet for some reason she didn’t regret their short time together, the sweet taste of what love could be. Even if it ended badly.

Sadness swamped her. It ended so badly. She really had acted in a childish manner, hadn’t she? Demanding Hutch be cheerful on a bad day? Now he was at Anzio. Under fire. With a broken heart.

What on earth had she done?

Tonight. Tonight she’d write him.

Georgie finished her notes on her patients. Two men still refused to fly, and she crossed their names off the manifest.

No, she would not write Hutch. Twice lately she’d lifted her pen to do so, twice she’d prayed, and twice the Lord stilled her hand.

Georgie sighed and flipped the pages into place on her clipboard. What would be the cost of her next decision?

Nettuno, Italy
February 10, 1944

Hardly a good time to take an afternoon off, but orders were orders.

Hutch sat on the shore and glanced behind him to the beachhead that had earned nicknames too impolite to mention in his letters home.

In the distance, artillery boomed and American B-17s and B-24s roared. Each day the Germans inched closer, compressing US and British forces into less space.

The hospital’s location by the pier in Anzio lasted only six days until enemy artillery drove them out, to a site south of Nettuno, where all four American hospitals clustered by the sea.

The rumble of jeeps and ambulances, the cries of the wounded, and the hum of generators—Hutch was supposed to get away from all this, Kaz said. An order came from high up that all the hospital personnel needed regular days off so they wouldn’t join the ranks of patients with “Anzio anxiety” and “Nettuno neurosis.” Today was Hutch’s turn.

The brass kept a close eye on Hutch since Sgt. Bob Knecht with the 95th Evacuation Hospital had been killed
on February 7. Hutch had met him just a few days earlier—another pharmacist serving as an enlisted man, a graduate of the Cincinnati College of Pharmacy, an instant friend. And he was dead.

Hutch was supposed to get away? How could he get away when he had no place to go?

He faced the bay. American ships floated the cold gray waters under a cold gray sky. He hadn’t seen the sun in ages, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen the stars, much less watched them. The telescope sat in its case with all mementos from Georgie, including the embroidered handkerchief. He should enclose it in his next letter to Lucia, but that would mean opening the case and remembering Georgie.

He groaned and rested his elbows on his knees, his Bible in hand. Every time he saw that telescope case, he saw Georgie providing for him because he couldn’t provide for himself, Chadwick kissing her hand, Kaz reprimanding him for fraternization, Georgie calling him obsessed and bitter.

Hutch flipped open his Bible to Romans, which he’d been trying to read since landing almost three weeks earlier. Finally in chapter 5.

Down to the third verse. “We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope.”

Air from his nostrils curled into steam in the cold air. He’d had plenty of tribulations. He’d been patient for three and a half years. Didn’t he have enough experience? Where was his hope?

He slammed the Bible closed and bowed his head. “Lord . . .”

But prayer wouldn’t come. Just like the Bible didn’t bring him peace. It only irked him. As if God didn’t understand what he was going through, as if he wanted Hutch on a different path.

Why? God started him on this path in the first place. Prayer and Bible reading helped him decide to take a pharmacy position and work hard to establish the Corps.

Look what that got him.

Hutch stood and checked his watch—four thirty. Too early for dinner, too early to retire, but Kaz promised to write him up if he went to Pharmacy.

Anzio didn’t have recreational facilities. The first time hospital personnel had tried to organize a baseball game, they drew enemy fire. Looked like a rest camp apparently, and rest camps were fair military targets.

Hutch unbuttoned his mackinaw and stuffed his Bible inside his field jacket, layered underneath the mackinaw.

A loud whistle overhead.

He jammed on his helmet and dropped to the ground, curled up as small as possible.

A thump to the north, another, and another. Not too close. The ground barely shook. But definitely in the hospital area.

He pushed up on his elbows and glanced up the beach. A flickering glow lit the sky, and columns of smoke drifted inland.

“Stinking Nazis.” On February 7 when Bob was killed, a Luftwaffe pilot jettisoned his bombs under fighter attack. An accident. But this artillery attack was on purpose, targeted to tents marked with enormous red crosses.

A shell whined to the north and sent up a geyser of sand near the 33rd Field Hospital.

Hutch’s survival instincts told him to find a hole and hide, but something deeper told him to go help.

He scrambled to his feet and ran up the beach. The closer he got, the louder the shouts, the cries, and the thunder of falling Nazi shells.

Dozens of fires rose from the hospital site. How many had
been killed this time? How many wounded? How could he help? The top priorities were to aid the wounded and put out the fires that served as beacons to German artillery spotters.

He dashed into the complex for the 33rd Field Hospital. A tent lay crumpled, in flames, and cries rang out underneath. Men swung at the flaming canvas with tent poles. Hutch grabbed a pole, tugged it free from its loop, and joined in, heaving scraps of canvas to the side, off the wounded and dying.

He stomped on the smoking scraps, kicked sand on them.

Men screamed, their blankets and clothing on fire. Hutch flung off the blanket from the patient closest to him, whipped off his mackinaw, and pressed it over the flames. “You’ll be all right.”

Wild eyes stared up at him, but Hutch didn’t have time to comfort, only to save. After he extinguished the flames, he went to the next victim—a man beyond help.

A sergeant ran up. “Take the wounded to the 56th. We can’t deal with them here. Too much damage. Move them right on their mattresses.”

Medics grabbed mattresses. Hutch turned to find a patient to transport, but all were taken.

He jogged down the pathway, looking for another way to help. He passed two nurses in embrace, in tears.

“She was so young, so full of life,” one said.

Another nurse killed? Embers burned in Hutch’s chest. This war stank. It stank, it stank, it stank.

He dodged medics and doctors and nurses, heading for the next fire. He turned a corner and slammed into someone.

“Sorry.” He noted the surgeon’s garb. “Sir.”

The man wheeled to face him. Captain Chadwick, fire in his gray eyes. “You? What do you think you’re doing here, boy?”

“I’m helping, sir.”

“You’re a druggist.” His words spat into Hutch’s face. “Go rearrange the cosmetics display or something, but get out of here. You’re in the way—again.”

The embers in Hutch’s chest sent off dangerous sparks. “Don’t need to be a physician to put out fires and save lives.”

“Save lives?” His whole face twitched, shot through with pain. “Druggists are better at taking lives. Get out of here before you kill someone.”

Hutch stared, dumbfounded. Taking lives? What on earth was this man’s problem?

“Did you hear me, jerk? Get out of here.”

“Yes, sir.” Hutch saluted, his hand banging his helmet. Jerk? Chadwick was the jerk, but he wasn’t allowed to say that.

He wheeled away, his stomach in flames no bicarb could put out. He was forbidden from returning the insults, from refuting the lies, from defending himself and his profession.

Stupid, stinking Army. Stupid, stinking war.

He strode toward the road that connected the hospitals and he passed the pharmacy tent, shredded by shrapnel.

Hutch paused, checked behind him for Chad-jerk, and stepped into Pharmacy.

One of the shelving units had fallen off the counter. Broken glass and powders and liquids covered the dirt floor. Three technicians looked up at Hutch.

“John Hutchinson from the 93rd Evac. I’m a pharmacist. May I help?”

“Yes!” A tech sprang forward and pumped Hutch’s hand. “Lloyd Parker. Two tents down, Receiving took a direct hit. The concussion—you see what it did. We need to get this place up and running.”

“Sure do.” Hutch tossed aside his charred mackinaw and assessed the situation. First they had to clear out the broken
glass and the worst of the spills so they could work safely. Then they could prepare burn solutions for the wounded and take an inventory of the damage so they could order. The 93rd could help in the interim.

Supplying the beachhead presented a continual challenge, with cargo planes unable to land on the battered airstrip and ships shelled at sea.

“All right. Let’s clear out the glass.” Hutch grabbed an empty crate, wrapped a rag around his hand, and picked up shards of glass. “Lloyd, why don’t you find a shovel? We can dig a hole and bury the spilled meds.”

The hard work quenched the sparks in his stomach. Pharmacy wasn’t flashy, but it had worth. He healed with chemicals rather than the scalpel, but he still healed.

If only the Army agreed.