On Distant Shores (29 page)

Stories about cheating lovers and defeated warriors and flying horses and fickle gods.

He picked up the case. His fingers dug into the smooth leather. He couldn’t control any bit of his life. But he could get rid of the telescope forever.

Over the Mediterranean

The fog of fear. The paralysis of panic.

Georgie hugged her knees to her chest, lost in the familiar hated emotions.

She would die. All these men would die. Because she was silly and weak and indecisive. Her parents were right. Ward was right. She never should have left home.

She would die. She’d never see her family or friends again.

She would die. Just like Rose.

Her eyes drooped shut, and moisture seeped out. Except Rose didn’t die from incompetence, only from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Georgie groped next to the medical chest for her musette bag. If she couldn’t see her loved ones again, she’d have their mementos with her when she died—photos, the stuffed nightingale . . .

She clutched the bag to her chest. Rose believed Georgie could be a good flight nurse and so did Mellie.

Through the khaki canvas she felt something round and hard. The tin punch from Hutch.

She gulped back a sob. She’d already said good-bye to him forever, but would he mourn her? Would he regret
encouraging her to stay in flight nursing?
Oh Lord, please don’t let him feel guilty.

Her finger traced the design through the canvas, the undulating waves, the nightingale above. How ironic that this nightingale was about to die in the waves.

Because she wavered.

“‘If any of you lack wisdom,’” she whispered, “‘let him ask of God . . . and it shall be given him. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed.’”

Georgie lifted her chin and focused on the medication chest. “Nothing wavering. Nothing wavering.”

Could she do it? She’d been through the training. If she had her wits about her, some of these men, if not all of them, stood a chance.

“Almighty Father, Lord of the wind and the waves, save these men’s lives. Give me wisdom. And now, please. I wasted too much time.”

Footsteps thumped down the aisle, and Georgie scrambled to her feet.

The radioman-navigator set a briefcase by the cargo door and lashed it in place. The aerial engineer joined him and tied down the emergency equipment—life rafts and ration containers and radios.

Georgie swallowed hard. Her training swirled together in her head, random thoughts coalescing into a plan.

Tension billowed in the plane, darker than Vesuvius’s ashen clouds. Ramirez had a heated discussion with a patient, and men talked in tones of anger or worry or stoicism or false cheer.

Georgie grabbed the bag of “Mae West” life vests from under the bottom litter and headed to the front of the cabin. “Gentlemen! May I have your attention?”

Voices quieted, and the men looked to her.

“Thank you.” She smiled and cocked her head. “As I’m sure you already know, we’re going for a little sail in the Mediterranean this evening.”

Questions, outcries, and Georgie raised her hand.

Ramirez let out a sharp whistle. “Your survival depends on listening to the lady. Now listen, or I’ll knock silence into you.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sergeant, but thank you.” She handed him a pile of life vests. “Gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts and put on a life vest. If you need assistance, raise your hand, and the sergeant and I will help you. Also, if you’re able to help your neighbor after you put on your own vest, please do so.”

Georgie passed out life vests to the ambulatory patients, then put on her own as a demonstration. She hiked herself up to the top litter to put a vest on Private Stowe and check his securing straps. “Listen, gentlemen. It’s crucial that you follow our instructions. When the plane lands, stay in your seats until we tell you. The crew needs to come down the aisle first to get the life rafts inflated and the emergency equipment stowed.”

She hopped to the floor and put a life vest on Lieutenant Cameron in the middle litter. “We’ll assign who goes in which raft, based on your medical needs. Patients who can’t swim will be evacuated before those who can.”

“That’s not fair.” An ambulatory patient leaned forward in his seat.

“It’s perfectly fair.” She fastened a vest on Corporal Travinski in the bottom litter. “You can swim to a raft while the others can’t. And remember, Lieutenant Cooper is the aircraft commander. You’ll follow his orders without question, and I operate under his authority—and as an officer myself, may I remind you?” A sweet smile softened her words.

“Yes, ma’am.” He sat back, his eyebrows tented.

“Everybody secure?” Georgie strode to the front of the plane and checked each patient’s seat belt and life vest. “When we tell you, assume the ditching position. Hook your hands under your knees and lean over with your head down. Please show me.”

The patients demonstrated.

She set her hands on her hips and smiled. “Oh, you’ll do just fine. Sergeant Ramirez, please come with me and bring the flight manifest.”

My goodness, she was calm. She hardly recognized herself.

In the back of the plane, Georgie ran her finger down the list of names. “Stowe and Cameron will go in my raft, since they need the most care. Travinski and Bard in yours because they need care too. Who can swim?”

Ramirez jabbed his finger at three names. “And these two are strong and cooperative. They agreed to help with the litter patients.”

Georgie marked numbers by the ten names, one through five in loading order. Each raft would hold two patients and a crew member. The first two rafts would be for the four non-swimmers, the third for two swimmers, the fourth for Travinski and Bard, the fifth for Stowe and Cameron, and the last for the pilot.

She handed the manifest to Ramirez. “You tell each patient his number. I’ll gather meds and supplies.”

He nodded, his dark eyes appreciative.

Georgie grabbed her musette bag and opened it. Not a very large bag, and full of necessities and mementos. She tossed out her change of clothes and toiletry kit, then pulled out framed photographs of her family and her horse. A lump threatened to cut off her breathing and her reason. She coughed it away and set the frames aside.

Photographs could be replaced. Lives couldn’t.

That left her Bible, the stuffed nightingale, and the tin punch.

If they were stranded at sea, she’d want her Bible more than ever. She couldn’t bear to part with the little bird, and the tin punch took no room at all.

Georgie sifted through the medication chest. Morphine and codeine and aspirin for pain. Phenobarbital for anxiety. Epinephrine for shock. Sodium bicarbonate for seasickness. Sulfanilamide and a box of plasma in case anyone was badly wounded in the landing. Bandages, scissors, alcohol, syringes, IV tubing, flashlight, towels.

She stuffed the meds in her musette bag, then tied up the supplies in a towel with the knot around the strap for the musette bag.

“You done with that?” The engineer pointed to the chest. “Can I pitch it out? We need to get rid of as much weight as possible.”

“Yes. Here.” She tossed her clothing, toiletry bag, and photos into the chest. Never in her life had she been so coldhearted, but it was for a good cause.

The engineer flung open the cargo door and heaved out boxes and equipment.

Cool air whipped Georgie’s hair around her face, and the orange light of sunset spilled inside.

She took an empty seat to the rear of the plane and fastened her seat belt. Ramirez sat next to her, his face beaded with sweat, and he handed her the flight manifest. After she wiggled it down into her musette bag, she looped the bag over her leg with the bundle of supplies behind her feet.

Georgie’s hands trembled, and her pulse raced. Yet she had done her best.

Live or die, she’d fulfilled her duties and well.

The alarm bell rang six times.

“Assume the ditching position!” The engineer took his seat, and everyone leaned over their knees.

Georgie did too, staring at the vibrating floor. Would that be the last sight she ever saw?

She closed her eyes, prayed, and filled her mind with images of her family, friends, and even Hutch. She’d rather die with her loved ones before her.

Nettuno

Hutch marched through the hospital complex, plotting his course around doctors and nurses and medics and equipment, upright for once, in defiance of German shells and the Luftwaffe.

The telescope case fried his grip, as hot as the sun burning the horizon, as hot as the pains in his stomach, as the knowledge that he had failed in his quest.

He broke free from the rows of khaki tents and strode across the sand.

Dad was like Abraham, the leader setting forth into new professional lands, and Hutch was meant to be Isaac, the son of the promise. But he’d failed to grasp hold of that promise.

He’d lost his Rebekah, the woman hand-selected for him. He’d climbed onto the altar in faith that a ram would appear in the thicket and rescue him. But no ram. No commission. He was still tied up on the altar and would be for the duration of this lousy, stinking war.

The sand grew damp and firm under his combat boots.

Only one story of the biblical Isaac still resonated with Hutch—when the herdsmen of Gerar stopped up Isaac’s wells. Isaac dug a new one, and they stole it too.

Hutch growled, the only sound that felt right today. Other
people drank from the wells he dug. He’d labored for nothing. Nothing.

He had no control over anything in his life.

But he could control the stupid, unwanted, emasculating telescope.

Hutch strode to the water’s edge, the ocean scalded with flaming streaks of orange. With a mighty growl, he swung back the telescope case to hurl it into the ocean.

Two clicks. A thud.

He whirled around. The stupid case had popped open, spilling the contents onto the sand.

The case fell from his hand. He couldn’t even do that one little thing.

Hutch dropped to his knees. Pain slashed through his belly, and he doubled over. He had nothing—no love, no voice, no respect. And without respect, what was he?

He was nothing.

The Mediterranean

The largest splash Georgie had heard in her life. A jolt banged her into the patient beside her, and Ramirez bumped her other side.

“Stay seated!” the engineer cried.

The second jolt was worse than the first, as Georgie learned in training, and Ramirez shoved her shoulders hard to the side. She cried out, then stopped herself.

The plane bounced forward, jiggling the passengers, until it finally came to a rest. Rising and falling. Tossed by the waves.

Georgie’s breath rose and fell in synchrony. The plane was intact. They’d survived the ditching. But her job was only half done. She had to evacuate these men before the C-47 sank.

The engineer bolted from his seat to the cargo door, where he unlashed equipment and heaved life rafts into the water to be inflated.

Georgie moved to stand. Her seat belt. She fumbled it open and stood. Her legs buckled, and she grabbed Ramirez’s shoulder.

“No time to wait for sea legs,” he said with a partial smile.

“Nope.” She slung her musette bag across her chest and cradled the bundle of supplies in one arm. “Anyone hurt?”

A few bumps and cuts. Nothing serious. Thank goodness.

“All right,” she said. “Unfasten your seat belts but stay seated until your group is called. If you need assistance, tell us. Group one, head to the cargo door. The crew will tell you when to board. Group three, please help Sergeant Ramirez with the litters.”

Georgie unfastened seat belts for a few patients, then led group two to the door.

The engineer sat in a raft with his emergency equipment, and the radioman helped the first two patients into his raft. Back in the cabin, Ramirez and his helpers unclamped the litters from the racks.

Georgie motioned the second group to stand out of the way while the radioman boarded and stashed the equipment. Was it her imagination, or did the plane sit lower in the water? Panic fluttered in her chest, but she blew it away.

Roger Cooper charged down the aisle from the cockpit. “Shelby’s out through the roof hatch onto the wing. Plane looks steady, but let’s keep moving.”

Georgie helped the second group board, and all three litters rested on the floor. “Group three, your turn,” she called.

After Cooper loaded the copilot’s raft, he and Georgie assisted two more patients out. Shelby would join them after he completed his duties.

The plane did ride lower. The tips of the waves sloshed into the door.

“Sergeant, you’re next.” Coop motioned Ramirez forward.

Georgie and the tech carried Travinski’s litter to the door. Ramirez got in the life raft, and he and Cooper maneuvered the litter across the bow of the raft, with help from Shelby, who crouched on the plane’s wing. Then the last ambulatory patient stepped in.

A wave splashed through the door and drenched Georgie’s feet with chilly water. Her breath congealed in her throat. The plane was going down. They had to hurry.

Cooper pulled an empty raft close, and Georgie took a wide step into the raft and knelt. Far too squishy and rocky for her taste.

The pilot slid Stowe’s litter to her, and Shelby helped her heft the patient into position across one end of the raft. Then they tied the litter into place.

“Get the patient!” Coop cried.

Georgie spun around. Water rose above the rim of the cargo door and swamped Lieutenant Cameron on his litter. He’d drown! With all her might she dragged the man out of the aircraft.

Up to his waist in seawater, Coop shoved the litter until it lay safely across the raft.

The plane dove down, inappropriately graceful and elegant. Heavens, no! Roger Cooper was still inside.

Georgie leaned over, heart pounding, but she had to stay with her patients. “Get out!”

“Coop! Get out of there!” Shelby leaped off the wing and paddled forward. Only the tailfin protruded from the water.

“Cut the lines!” the engineer cried, and everyone threw off the ropes that tied the rafts to the plane before they could be dragged under.

A man bobbed to the surface. Roger Cooper’s dark red hair shone in the last rays of sunlight. He shook off water like a dog. “That was refreshing.”

Georgie savored the men’s relieved, nervous laughter. Shelby socked Coop in the shoulder, and then they swam to their rafts and hauled themselves inside.

They all survived. Thank God, they all survived.

But for how long? The sun joined the C-47 beneath the
waves. The six rafts looked tiny and lonesome on the giant twilit ocean. An ocean where German U-boats prowled.

They had water and rations and supplies, and they weren’t terribly far from land, but all she could think about was those news stories of men stranded at sea for weeks, slowly giving in to starvation, insanity, and talk of cannibalism.

She’d just have to keep herself occupied. Stowe and Cameron had sopping wet dressings to be changed, and nightfall would soon make work difficult.

The crew lashed the rafts together in a circle and tossed out the sea anchor, which acted like a parachute in the water. They needed to stay close to the coordinates where they’d gone down so Air-Sea Rescue could find them, which wouldn’t be until morning at the earliest.

Georgie worked hard and fast, changing dressings and distributing evening meds.

No moon lit the sky. Other than the stars, the only light rose far to the north—an eerie red glow from Vesuvius, gloating in its victory.

Nettuno

“Nothing! Nothing!” Hutch knelt, doubled over, one fist pressed over his burning stomach, the other fist pounding the firm, damp sand.

“Why, God? Why?”

No one respected him anymore. The Army never respected him. Phyllis married someone else. Bergie and Dom and Ralph gave up on him. Dad had to be disappointed in his failure. Georgie bought him a stinking telescope out of pity.

He glared at the spilled contents of the telescope case, and a spasm seized his midsection. Had she really bought it out of pity . . . or out of love?

He blew off the pain, and truth filled his mind. She did it out of love. She never cared about his rank. Instead she loved him for who he was. She’d respected him.

And he drove her away with his bitterness.

In the strange orange-blue light after sunset, the telescope lay on the sand with a piece of cloth pinned underneath—the embroidered handkerchief.

He pulled it out and shook off the sand, picturing Lucia chattering in her charming mix of English and Italian about
il orso
and the star-zay, picturing Georgie presenting it, shrouded in grief for Rose yet still thinking of him.

He missed Lucia. He missed Georgie. He missed all the light in his life.

Hutch traced the embroidered pattern of Ursa Major with the mortar and pestle forming the bear’s belly. Georgie said it was part of his constellation, like pharmacy was part of him.

Pharmacy had always been part of his identity, but had he made it the
only
part?

In Georgie’s design, the mortar sat deep in the belly of the bear, weighing it down. Did Hutch do the same thing? Carry the weight of his profession in his belly? The burden, the disrespect, the bitterness all chewed away the lining of his stomach.

He fingered the embroidered North Star, the knot of dark blue thread firm and unmovable as Polaris itself. “Lord, I didn’t waver from my goal, and it was a good goal. I did it for you, for the patients, for my profession.”

Yet his labor was in vain.

Or was it? He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. His work did help establish the Corps. If he’d done it for noble reasons, for the patients, for his profession, he wouldn’t mind if he weren’t included.

But he minded. He minded deeply. Because he’d done it for himself.

He groaned. His goal started well, got tangled up with pride, and swallowed him with disabling and alienating bitterness.

A stab of pain, and he clenched the handkerchief. Why? Why had he pursued his goal so doggedly? So others would respect him, look up to him, treat him like he was worthy? Did it even matter what others thought of him? Or only what God thought?

And what did God think of Technical Sergeant John Hutchinson?

Hutch’s eyes slipped shut. The Lord loved him as a sergeant. The Lord would still love him if he were a private or if he were the commanding general of the entire Allied Armed Forces. God’s love didn’t depend on rank, or how hard a man worked, or whether a man succeeded.

God loved him for the sole reason that Hutch was his child.

With his elbows on his knees, Hutch rested his forehead in his hands, and the handkerchief dangled before him in the growing darkness.

Since the North Star shone above Ursa Major, the bear had to raise his heavy head to see it. Hadn’t Hutch once told Georgie to focus on the Lord and not to waver?

“Lord, I’ve been a fool. I made my goal my guiding star instead of you. I lost all light in my life because I took my eyes off your Light. Please forgive me.”

He clutched the handkerchief from the woman he loved, who had once loved him. He’d lost her. The Army wasn’t to blame, only him.

“Lord, help me. Help me accept my lot in life and find contentment. I’m alone. No one respects me. I have nothing—except you. And you—you’re all I need. I remember.”

He opened his eyes. One by one the stars blinked on, and a verse came to mind: “Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men.”

Hutch sat up straighter. Something remained in his life after all.