In Perfect Time (6 page)

“Thanks,” he muttered through a too-thick throat. He took the clock, careful not to touch her fingers. But the black leather case carried the heat of her touch.

Kay gave him a shaky smile and gestured toward the flight line. “I kept you too long. You’d better get moving. I’ll see you later.”

Should he tell her? “Um, actually, you won’t. We’re shipping out tomorrow.”

“Shipping out?”

“Group’s deployed to a new theater. We’re flying back to Comiso now, heading off tomorrow.”

All the color left her face. She opened her mouth, closed it, blinked a few times. “Oh. I had a few questions for you. I tried to read, but it just—it isn’t . . .”

The Bible. Oh, great. He’d given her the tool but not the instructions on how to use it. “I’m sure someone can—”

Kay shook her head hard. “Mellie and Georgie don’t understand. Not like . . . well, never mind. It’s fine.” She raised her usual confident smile and walked away. “Good luck to you.”

Ah, for crying out loud. Her friends didn’t understand like
he
did. He understood how it felt to be a sinner, to be drowning, to grasp for a lifeline, any at all. The least he could do was throw her a line.

“Kay, wait.”

“Yes?” Poise masked her turmoil again.

He pulled a notepad from the breast pocket of his shirt. “If you want, you can write me, ask your questions.”

“I could?” The poise dissolved. He’d seen the same hunger in the faces of starving street urchins in Naples.

“Sure.” With teeth gritted, he scrawled down his address and Army Post Office number. What on earth had the Lord gotten him into?

6

Over the Mediterranean
April 4, 1944

The rumble of the C-47’s twin engines vibrated through Kay’s backside as the words in the book of Job ricocheted in her head.

“Behold, God will not cast away a perfect man, neither will he help the evil doers.” Kay squeezed her eyes shut. How many times had her father quoted Job 8:20 to her?

Willard Jobson’s other favorite verse for her was Job 5:2: “For wrath killeth the foolish man, and envy slayeth the silly one,” used to chastise her when she dared to argue with Jemima and Keren, the favored daughters, the songbirds with heavenly blonde hair.

Even as a child, it hadn’t made sense to her. How could she be punished with red hair and tone deafness
before
she’d committed the sin of envying her sisters for their gifts?

Those verses—the verses he’d attributed to the Lord God Almighty—were spoken by Bildad and Eliphaz, not by Job and not by God. And if Roger Cooper was right, Bildad and Eliphaz didn’t speak the truth.

Kay slammed the Bible shut and stuffed it in her small canvas musette bag. How on earth could she get through
all forty-two chapters of the blasted book? She could barely handle one chapter at a time.

Kay pushed herself to her feet and snagged the clipboard with the flight manifest off its hook by the cargo door.

Tonight she’d add more questions to her list for Roger. After she filled a page, front and back, she’d mail it. Would he answer? He didn’t seem terribly enthusiastic, but he also seemed like the kind of man who kept his word.

For now, she had work to do. Only a dozen patients today. Another lull had developed on the fronts at Cassino and Anzio, preparing for the big push, everyone hoped.

Kay opened the medical chest and filled a pouch on her belt with medications and supplies. Sergeant Dabrowski was busy distributing rations and water, lighting cigarettes, and reading letters, so Kay would take vital signs and administer meds.

She started at the bottom litter on the right, checked the patient’s medical tag against the flight manifest, inquired how he was doing, looked for signs of bleeding or infection, and recorded his temperature, pulse, and respiration. After she gave him an aspirin, she repeated the process for the soldier in the middle litter.

Grant Klein talked about flying too much, but something he once said stuck in her brain. After the pilot got the aircraft in straight and level flight, he could use the automatic pilot system to keep it there.

Thank goodness Kay had her own automatic pilot, the skills she’d learned in almost a decade of nursing. Today she needed it.

Today she’d read Job 8:5–6, the words of Bildad: “If thou wouldest seek unto God betimes, and make thy supplication to the Almighty; If thou wert pure and upright; surely now he would awake for thee, and make the habitation of thy righteousness prosperous.”

Father slapped the pulpit when he read that verse, and
he read it at every single tent meeting. The concept in those verses was the key to his success.

Just like Job, Father had lost everything. He’d lost four sons and his wife and his farm and his health. But he’d made himself pure and upright. The Lord rewarded him with a prosperous ministry, good health, a beautiful young wife, and three daughters, whom he’d named after Job’s daughters—Jemima and Kezia and Kerenhappuch.

Kay stuck her foot in the stirrup under the bottom litter and hitched herself up to care for the man on top.

Her given name hissed in her ear. Kezia. Kuh-zzzzye-uh.

She drew up morphine into a syringe.

“What’s that?”

“Morphine for your pain.” She felt the inside of his elbow and found a good vein.

“I’m not in pain.”

Kay looked into his pale blue eyes. Had she actually looked at him yet? “It’s been four hours since your last dose. Better to give you another dose now than wait until the pain in your wound flares again.”

Blond eyebrows tented. “I’m not wounded. I’m just sick is all. Can’t shake this pneumonia.”

Pneumonia? Bile chewed its way up her throat. She grabbed the medical tag—Pvt. Gerald Carson. The flight manifest—she was on Sgt. Joe Lazio.

Oh no.

Her cheeks tingled, and she glanced around the plane. When? Where had she gotten mixed up? When had she crossed to the left side of the plane? She didn’t remember. The flight manifest showed data for seven patients, but she was taking care of the man in the sixth position.

She’d given morphine and sulfanilamide and aspirin. How many patients received the wrong drugs?

“I—I’m sorry, Private. You’re right. You don’t get morphine,
but you need your sulfa.” She opened the bottle and shook out tablets, far too many, and they sprinkled to the floor. With a shaky hand, she funneled the extras into the bottle and pressed one tablet into Carson’s hand.

Kay lowered herself to the floor and picked up the wasted pills from among the dirt clods.

Her stomach turned over. She never made mistakes like this. Now she’d have to track down where she’d gone wrong, correct what errors she could, apologize for the errors she couldn’t correct, and confess to both the physician and to Lieutenant Lambert.

What kind of chief nurse candidate made a grave mistake like this?

What kind of chief nurse candidate allowed herself to function on automatic pilot?

Grant had said the automatic pilot was no good in stormy weather or turbulence. How dare she rely on it in the middle of her own turbulence?

Bile bulged in her mouth and threatened to make an even bigger fool of her. She swallowed it back down, swallowed her shame.

But the truth couldn’t be swallowed.

For the first time since she’d run away from home, she’d lost control.

Lalmai, Lower Bengal, India
April 6, 1944

Five thousand miles in five days.

Roger felt it in his back and arms and head. The stops in Libya and Egypt and Iran and India blurred together, and his chewing gum had turned stiff. One last landing, in far eastern India, close to the Burmese border. He gazed out the
cockpit window to the steamy green jungle, the clearing for the airstrip, and the descending line of his squadron’s C-47s. “Looking forward to a good night’s sleep.”

“Me too.” Mike Elroy wiped his forehead. “And a day off, I hope.”

“We’d better get one. Gotta adjust to heat and humidity.” Roger wore his khaki shirt unbuttoned to the waist and his trousers rolled up to the knees, but sweat soaked his clothing.

On the downwind leg of the landing pattern, the C-47 drew opposite to the runway. Altitude and airspeed looked good. “Landing gear down.”

Elroy moved the handle to the left of his seat. “Down.”

After the green light flashed on the instrument panel, Roger secured the landing gear latch on the floor. He eased up the propeller controls to 2250 rpm, adjusted the throttles for descent, and scoped out the airstrip. A dirt surface. No more being spoiled with asphalt or even the temporary surfaces rigged by the engineers.

The 64th Troop Carrier Group was in for a rugged time.

Sweat slithered down his breastbone. Could he handle it? Or would he fail and endanger the lives of his crew, passengers, and bystanders on the ground? Would he let Veerman down and ruin his best chance at a big-time band?

His breath huffed out, loud enough to make Elroy look his way.

Roger put the bird into a ninety-degree turn toward the end of the runway. “Hotter than a blast furnace.”

“Yep. Three-quarter flaps.” The copilot readjusted the lever.

“Second power reduction.” He pushed down the throttles, aiming for 120 miles per hour.

Elroy might be greener than the jungle below, but he probably cared more about crew and passenger safety than about impressing Veerman. Although Roger’s body ached for sleep, his soul craved time with God.

He winced. His Bible.

Would Kay actually read it? If not, his sacrifice was in vain. And if she did read it? If she read the book of Job as he’d suggested?

He puffed out another breath. He’d only read the book once or twice and found it tough. Lou had started Roger off with the book of Romans and had been there to field questions. Roger had started Kay off with Job and bolted to another continent. What was he thinking?

“One twenty,” Elroy said.

Roger turned for the approach. “Third power reduction.”

“Full flaps.”

The runway spread straight in front of him, and Roger kept up the play of ailerons, elevators, rudder, and throttles to make a good landing. Dozens of C-47s were parked around the airstrip, and trucks and people milled around.

“Fifty feet. Airspeed ninety.”

Perfect. Roger tilted up the nose for the roundout, and the plane floated down onto two wheels.

The rough runway jiggled the plane and blurred the controls.

When the plane slowed down enough, she settled back onto her tail wheel. Not a bad landing. He and Elroy pulled the control columns toward their chests, and Roger tipped his toes forward on the pedals to apply brakes.

Outside, a ground crewman waved them to the side, and Roger followed his instructions and parked his plane. He and Elroy went through the shutdown and parking checklists, and silence rushed into the void left by the two engines.

Roger unfolded himself from his seat and found his clipboard with Forms 1 and F. He led Elroy through the radioman’s compartment and the main cabin, filled with four giant auxiliary tanks that fueled the long voyage. He grabbed his barracks bag and hopped out the cargo door. Whitaker and Pettas waited outside.

The air smelled different—exotic. Instead of tents and tile-roofed buildings, Lalmai Airstrip had palm trees and thatch-roofed structures with lots of big open windows and doors.

Made sense. Even full sun and a breeze didn’t dry him off. Had to be a hundred degrees, and humidity pressed on him like a wet wool blanket.

“Just like Florida.” Elroy slung his bag over his thin shoulders. “Feel right at home.”

“I think I’m gonna die.” Whitaker flapped his unbuttoned shirt.

“Swell!” Pettas hefted up Whitaker’s bag in addition to his own. “Dibs on your stuff.”

In a flash, Whitaker flung his Oregon lumberjack frame at Pettas, knocking the smaller man to the dirt.

Pettas lay laughing on the ground. “Who’d want your ratty old stuff anyhow?”

With a grin, Whitaker gave his pal a light kick. “Yeah. Don’t forget that.”

Elroy nudged Roger. “If the heat doesn’t kill them, they’ll kill each other.”

Roger managed a laugh, but more sweat trickled down his chest. He just prayed he wouldn’t kill them all.

7

Naples
April 8, 1944

Kay escaped to the edge of the terrace at the Orange Club.

How much happiness could a gal take? Tom MacGilliver had just proposed to Mellie Blake, who gave her tearful, joyful consent. Kay did everything she was supposed to—smile, joke, loan her handkerchief, and prod her shy friend to action.

The full moon laid a trail of sparkles along Naples Bay. Sure, Kay could sparkle. She’d done it all evening, flirting with Lt. Hal Heathcock, the newest addition to her lineup of boyfriends, which had been depleted with the departure of the entire 64th Troop Carrier Group.

She’d met Hal here at the Orange Club. Two minutes after Roger Cooper’s rejection.

A glance behind her confirmed Hal still chatted with Lt. Larry White, Georgie Taylor’s blind date for the evening. Tall and blond, with lively blue eyes, Hal seemed like the perfect means to regain control in her life, but she’d been mistaken.