On Distant Shores (11 page)

Her mind sharp and clear, she grabbed the flight manifest on its clipboard by the cargo door and made her way down the aisle.

Eighteen patients on the manifest. How many had already been evacuated? If she’d had her wits about her earlier, she’d know. The litter supports were empty. All six evacuated.

Jacoby assisted a wounded man down the aisle. He glared at Georgie. “Get out of here. You’re in the way.”

“I’m fine now. I can help. How many left? I have the manifest.”

“Get out. Only three left. All taken care of.” He passed her. “Completely useless.”

Her heart crumpled. She was. She was completely useless.

Three pairs of medics and patients headed down the aisle. “Get off the plane, ma’am. Any minute she could blow.”

“That’s everyone? You’re sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Georgie headed for the cockpit, determined to check. Everything empty—the seats, the smoky radio room, the flaming cockpit. She dashed back to the cargo door and jumped out.

“All clear.” She ran over to check the patients, gathered a hundred feet away.

“Listen up, boys. Roll call.” Georgie called each name, looked each man in the eye, checked off each line on the manifest.

“Thank you, Lord.” All saved in spite of her failure. Her legs shook and almost buckled. She turned to Sergeant Jacoby. “We need to examine them for injuries, do TPRs.”

Suspicion flashed through his blue eyes. He reached for the clipboard. “Why don’t you let me do that?”

She found her smile and set it in place. “We’ll work together, same as always.”

Dozens of people watched from a respectful distance. Four figures burst out of the crowd. Mellie, Kay, Vera, Alice, all carrying first aid kits.

Mellie swept Georgie into an embrace. “Oh, thank God! Thank God, you’re all right. We heard the crash, heard it was an evac flight, saw it was your plane.”

“I’m all right.” But her voice quavered.

Mellie pulled back and looked her hard in the eye. “You need to sit down.”

“No, I need to examine the patients, make sure no one’s hurt.”

Kay plucked the manifest from her hand. “Let us do that. You sit down. Mellie will give you first aid.” She exchanged a strange glance with Mellie.

Georgie let her friend guide her a short distance away and get her seated. For once, the flight of six nurses fully pulled together and worked as a unit.

Almost all of them. A flash of irritation. “Where’s Rose?”

“Oh, she’s . . .” Mellie’s gaze skittered over the tarmac. “We can’t find her.”

Too consumed by smug self-righteousness to help Georgie
in an emergency. The friendship was over, and she wouldn’t miss it. “Off with Clint, most likely.”

Mellie chewed on her full lips and opened her first aid kit. “Let me clean that wound.”

Georgie turned her head to let her friend work. Before her, firemen sprayed down the planes. A column of flame and smoke rose in front of Monte Cuccio, as if the conical volcano were erupting.

Through the flames, the white triangle on the tip of the victim plane’s nose identified the squadron. Nose art, unusual on C-47s, showed Hitler’s head in the shape of a drum, with red, white, and blue drumsticks poised above.

“Coop’s plane.” Roger Cooper was a drummer.

“Uh, yes.” Mellie turned Georgie’s head away from the scene. She dabbed the wound on her temple with a gauze pad.

Georgie winced and looked out the corner of her eye. Coop sat a safe distance from the nose of his plane, his head in his hands. Shelby paced in front of him, twisting his cap in his grip. Pilots mourned their planes as normal people mourned family.

Surprising that Clint wasn’t there, but then he was off smooching with Rose. “They should be here. Clint and Rose.”

Mellie groped in the first aid kit as if she couldn’t find what she was looking for, as if blind.

Lieutenant Lambert approached Coop and Shelby, asked them something. Coop pointed to the plane, his mouth distorted in a grimace. Lieutenant Lambert clapped a hand over her mouth.

An uneasy feeling slithered in Georgie’s stomach.

The chief nurse knelt in front of Coop and laid a hand on his shoulder. He nodded, big slow nods. Then they looked over at Georgie, eyes enormous. Stricken.

The slithering congealed into a nasty knot.

Mellie turned Georgie’s head again. “You have to look over here.” Her voice shook. Redness lined her eyes.

“What’s going on?”

Mellie dabbed iodine, stinging iodine, on Georgie’s cheek. “Let me clean this up.”

“No one’s on that plane, right? Where’s Clint? Where’s Rose?”

Lieutenant Lambert walked over, her hands clasped in front of her stomach. She wore a neutral expression. But she was pale. Too pale.

When Georgie was ten years old, her horse, Biscuit, had broken his leg. Daddy had him put down. Daddy wore that same expression when he gave Georgie the news.

The knot in her stomach squirmed around, vile and putrid. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

Lambert knelt in front of Georgie and took her hand. She laid her other hand on Mellie’s shoulder.

Mellie gulped, a strange sound, almost a sob. She pressed both hands over her mouth and doubled over at the waist.

Georgie’s whole face tingled. Her lips parted. No words came out.

Lambert squeezed her hand. “Honey, please listen to me. I need you to be strong.”

Strong? Why did she need to be strong?

Another gulping sob from Mellie.

Lambert rubbed Mellie’s back, her brown eyes hurting, compassionate, but firm. “Lieutenant Cooper says that after they landed, Clint Peters remained on the plane to work on his log.”

He always did that. Georgie’s gaze sprang to the flames. To the radio room, the compartment shared by the navigator and the radio operator. He couldn’t still be in there.
Oh God, please no.

“He—he never came off.”

Oh no. Her mouth drifted open. Her chest convulsed. He couldn’t be dead.

Mellie’s shoulders shook.

Clint couldn’t have survived. The crash. The engine. The flames.
Oh God, no!

Poor Rose. What would she do? She’d shatter. She’d break into a million pieces.

Her cheek stung fresh as if saltwater had leaked into the wound. Her vision blurred over. She set her free hand on the pavement to push herself to standing. “Rose. I need to find Rose. She needs me.”

Lambert tugged her hand, made her sit. Tears formed watery trails on her cheeks. Lambert was crying? She never cried.

Mellie straightened, her face red and puffy. She scooted around and hugged Georgie’s shoulders. “She isn’t anywhere to be found.”

“Lieutenant Cooper—” Lambert’s voice broke. She lifted her chin. “After the flight, after the patients were transferred, Rose went back to see Clint. Cooper left the plane a few minutes before the accident. They were—they were both still on the plane.”

No. It couldn’t be. Not Rose. Her head wagged from side to side. It couldn’t be.

“I’m so sorry, honey.” Mellie laid her head on Georgie’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

No! No! The knot in her stomach jolted, unlashed. “No! It can’t be!”

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Lambert said. “We’re certain.”

“No. No.” She shook off Mellie and Lambert, stumbled to her feet. “No. Not Rose. It can’t—it can’t be.”

Mellie and Lambert stared up at her, faces twisted with
grief and concern. Cooper and Shelby sat together, shoulders hunched in manly mourning. Not for a plane. For a friend. For two friends.

The flames cackled in macabre laughter.

Georgie stepped back. And again. She turned. She ran.

She’d never run like that before, hard and fast, knees high, stride long, like Rose ran. Rose used to laugh at Georgie when they raced, flapped her hands in imitation of her feminine gait. But never mean. Always affectionate.

Her best friend. Forever.

Her chest heaved with each step, heaved out sobs. How could Rose leave? They did everything together. Rose was the backbone. Georgie was the heart. They needed each other.

And the last time—the last time Georgie saw her—the last time she talked to her . . .

Her legs collapsed. She skidded to her hands and knees, felt the heat of skinned flesh.

She should have said good-bye, should have told Rose how much she loved her. She folded in two, down over her knees.

“Did she know? Did she know, Lord?” She died thinking Georgie hated her.

An image pounded her brain. Rose screaming, dying. In that crash. In those flames. In that hideous smoke.

Georgie pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes so hard they hurt. Tears stung her skinned flesh. Still the image scorched her mind. “Lord, no! Not Rose!”

And Clint. Poor Clint.

At least Rose wasn’t alone. She was with the man she loved. They’d died together. In each other’s arms.

A sob bruised her ribs with its forcefulness. The night Clint met Rose, he said they’d be together forever.

He was right.

93rd Evacuation Hospital, Paestum
September 23, 1943

Hutch felt the mortar containing mercury and oleate of mercury. “It’s cool enough. Add the petrolatum mixture, about twenty-five grams at a time. Triturate it well.”

“Triturate.” Dom Bruno scooped up a blob of petrolatum with a spatula and plopped it into the mortar. “Who comes up with these words?”

“Same people who named this Unguentum Hydrargyri Forte.”

Dom ground the pestle around inside the mortar. He was a fast learner and already had excellent technique. “My Latin ancestors. Can’t wait to march into Rome and thank them.”

“Maybe by Christmas.” That’s what everyone was saying now that the Allies had forged out of the Salerno plain.

Another blob of petrolatum. “Strong mercurial ointment. Can’t imagine smearing this—”

“Exactly.” Hutch cut him off before he got crude. “That’s why you stay away from the women. Seems like syphilis puts more men in the hospital than battle.” But lonely men didn’t always think straight.

Hutch gathered dirty glassware for cleaning. Loneliness
certainly skewed his thinking in Georgie’s direction, but lately he couldn’t help it. When he’d heard a flight nurse had been killed in an accident in Palermo, his heart had seized. Then a moment of joyous relief that Georgie was safe, followed by guilty grief.

Rose Danilovich might not have liked Hutch—and he had a sneaky suspicion his attraction to Georgie was the reason—but she was Georgie’s best friend, and Clint Peters was a great guy. They’d made a good couple.

A swirl of air stirred up the stuffiness in the tent. Hutch turned to the entrance and saw the object of his thoughts. “Georgie.”

She looked tiny and vulnerable, her face pale, her eyes dull. A bandage covered one cheek.

He stepped to the counter. “I’m so sorry. I heard about Rose and Clint.”

“Thank you.” She closed her eyes and lowered her head. “I came to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye?”

“Say, boss,” Dom said. “Finished that ointment. Want me to deliver it?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” He gave his tech a grateful smile, not just for the delivery but for the privacy. He turned back to Georgie. “You have a minute? Want to talk?”

She nodded, her face contorting.

“Come on.” He motioned her around the counter and offered her a crate to sit on.

“No, thanks. I feel like standing.” She twisted her hands together.

“Good-bye?” he said in his gentlest voice. “What do you mean?”

“My flight of six nurses—no, five—” Her voice hitched. “We’re going back to Bowman Field in Kentucky. Our formal
training was cut short last year, so Lambert’s rotating us home. Six replacement nurses have arrived.”

Hutch leaned one elbow on the counter, determined to focus on her needs, not the fact that he’d miss her. “Are you coming back?”

She shook her head. “The other girls will be assigned to a squadron after training, maybe the 802nd, maybe another. But Lambert expects me to fail. She thinks it’d be best if I failed.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“No. She said so just this morning. She told me she can’t have me putting patients’ lives at risk. I used up my second chance.” Georgie met his gaze, her eyes hollow and reddened. “After the crash, I just sat there in shock. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t pull myself together. I didn’t help. My tech had to carry me off the plane like the helpless baby I am.”

Hutch resisted the urge to take her hand. “You’re not a baby. You’re not helpless.”

“As a flight nurse, I am. I’m not strong enough. I wish I were, but I’m not.” Heart-wrenching grief swam in her blue eyes.

“You could be. I’m sure you could. Wait, I know.” He rummaged in a box on the floor behind him. “I was going to give this to you before I returned stateside, but I guess you’ll beat me.”

He picked out the tin disc and handed it to Georgie. “It’s your constellation.”

Her face softened, and she traced the smooth round edge. “What is this?”

“It’s a hobby. I learned tin punching in shop in junior high. I do constellations. This one—it’s the bottom of a plasma tin. Hold it up to the light to see the design.”

She lifted it to the daylight coming through the tent entrance. “Which constellation is this? Pegasus?”

“Nope. Made this one up.” He pointed to the design, careful
not to stand too close. “Those are waves, and above them, a nightingale. I know you ladies call yourselves nightingales.”

“Mercy on wing,” she whispered.

“Yeah, and you’re above the waves. Unwavering. Not driven with the wind.”

“James 1:6.”

So she’d looked it up. “Yeah. To remind you God can give you wisdom and strength.”

Georgie clutched the tin to her chest. “I’ll miss you.”

He dug his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t draw her into his arms. “I’ll miss you too.”

She glanced down at the tin punch. “Everyone—everyone back home sees me as I am and doesn’t want me to change. Lieutenant Lambert—she sees me as I am and doesn’t believe I
can
change. Rose—” She choked on the name.

Hutch’s hand flew from his pocket. He squeezed her shoulder.

Georgie drew a deep, shaky breath and pulled herself taller. “Rose saw me as I should be and couldn’t understand why I wasn’t already there. But you . . . you’re the only one who sees me as I really am and believes I can become the woman I should be.”

Something warm and powerful surged inside him, and he opened his mouth to tell her what an amazing woman she was, but he slammed it shut before he said too much.

“I—I made you something too.” She pulled a piece of cloth from her pocket. “We were thinking along the same lines. It’s a handkerchief. I embroidered it.”

“You did?” He stretched out the white square. In one corner she’d stitched dark blue stars, which she’d connected with pale yellow lines to show the constellation. He smiled. “It’s the Bulldog.”

“And the North Star because you said it was constant, like the Lord, so you can keep your eyes on him.”

“What’s this?” He traced some darker yellow lines around the belly and along the tail.

“Oh, I thought this section looked like a mortar and pestle. How appropriate—part of your constellation, like pharmacy is part of you.”

“Thank you.” He looked her in the eye. “I’ll never blow my nose in it.”

A shaky laugh. “That’s what it’s for, silly.”

He shook his head. Nope, too special for that.

Georgie slid the tin punch into her trouser pocket. “We’re flying home, so I’ll be stateside in a week. Is there anything you’d like me to take along and mail stateside? It’ll arrive much faster.”

“Could you?” Sometimes letters took weeks to get home.

“Of course.”

He tucked the handkerchief in his shirt pocket and returned to the crate. “I have letters for my parents and sisters, a package for Phyllis. I was going to the PX after my shift.” Too bad he didn’t have time to write a set of letters free from censorship.

“I’d be glad to mail them.” She took the pile and studied them. “She’s in New York?”

“Phyllis? Yeah. She got a job at Bethlehem Steel on Staten Island when I was stationed at Fort Dix. She stuck around.”

“We’re flying into New York. I could deliver it in person. I’d like to meet her.”

Hutch’s breath stopped at the thought of the two women meeting. But he hadn’t done anything wrong, and knowing Georgie, she’d gush about how much Hutch talked about his fiancée and how she couldn’t wait to go home and marry her Ward. He wrestled up a smile. “That’d be nice. You two would like each other.”

She looked up at him with watery blue eyes. “Is there anything I can send you? Anything you miss from home?”

“Steak. Medium rare.”

Her smile was so flimsy, he wanted to gather her in his arms and smother her pain. “How are you really doing?” His voice came out low and throaty.

“Honestly? I’m a mess.” She blinked, and moisture glistened on her eyelashes. “All the girls in the squadron are mourning, and I want to comfort them, but how can I be strong for everyone else when I’m falling apart?”

Compassion swelled and shoved aside reason. He touched her forearm, gave her a soft smile, and beckoned her. “Come here. Fall apart on me.”

Her face turned red and blotchy. She set the mail on the counter, flung her arms around Hutch, and pressed her head to his chest. Her shoulders shook in silent sobs.

He held her tight, hushed her, rubbed her back, so little and frail, and laid his cheek on her soft curls.

She needed him. In a week, she’d have her father and Ward to hold her, but now he was all she had, and he’d hold her for their sakes. For hers.

For his sake too. He tried to ignore how nice she felt in his arms, how her head nestled perfectly under his cheek, how her hair smelled like grass and flowers, how it felt smooth and slippery under his lips.

Under his lips? What was he doing? He twisted his head to the side, his heart racing. Georgie had turned to him for comfort, not so he could make a pass. What a jerk he was.

He should let go, but she clung to him. At least the crying had tapered off to sniffles.

“I don’t know anymore.” Her words blew hot on his chest. “I just don’t know anymore.”

“Hmm?” He zoomed his focus back to her words. “What don’t you know?”

“All my life, everything’s been smooth and easy. My family
loves me, lots of friends, I never wanted for anything. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. I knew God loved me. But now . . .”

“He still loves you, sweetheart.” Hutch winced, and his cheeks flamed. Why on earth did he call her sweetheart?

“I know. But I’ve always been good, and my life’s always been good, and now . . .”

“Now your life stinks.”

She lifted her face to look at him, so close he’d barely have to move to kiss her. He wouldn’t mind the taste of tears.

“It does stink.” She buried her face in his shoulder again.

“And you haven’t stopped being good.”

“No. I know the Lord doesn’t make bargains like that. I know good people suffer and the wicked prosper, but I always thought . . .”

Hutch sighed and rubbed her back. “You always thought you were the exception.”

“It sounds stupid.”

“No. It was a reasonable assumption based on observation.”

Georgie sagged in his arms. “I also thought God spared me because I’m weak. He knows I can’t handle tragedy.”

“Well, then.” He gave her a squeeze. “This tragedy shows you what I already know. You are strong enough. This is hard, the hardest thing you’ve ever gone through, but you can handle it if you lean on God. You’ll come through stronger and wiser and even more compassionate because of it.”

“Thank you. You’re such a good friend.” Her arms loosened around his waist, and she pulled back slightly, staring at his chest. “I should get going. I just wanted to say good-bye.”

“This place won’t be the same without you.” A surge of manliness and affection and loneliness, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. Warm and silky.

A brotherly kiss. Just a brotherly kiss.

She raised her face, her eyes soft and liquid.

His heart slammed to a stop. She was going to kiss him. And he’d kiss her back, long and hungry and so, so sweet.

But she didn’t. She ducked to the side and kissed his cheek. Every muscle in his body ached to turn and meet her lips, and every fiber of his will fought the urge. His will prevailed.

He released her from his arms, from the danger of his desire.

She picked up the letters and package—the package for his fiancée. “I’ll never forget you.” And she dashed out of the tent and out of his life.

Hutch rubbed his hands down his heated face and groaned. More than anything, he needed to forget Georgie Taylor. And fast.