With Every Letter (12 page)

Clint leaned forward on his knees, his eyes sparkling at Rose like the little lights above. “I’ve never believed in love at first sight—until now.”

Rose lowered her chin. “See yourself in the mirror?”

Clint laughed. “Didn’t I tell you, boys? She’s the one for me.”

“He does this all the time, doesn’t he?” she said to Roger.

He frowned. “No. Actually, he doesn’t. He’s never done this before.”

“I haven’t.” Clint’s face lost the playful look. “First time ever. Because it’s the first time I’ve seen you.”

Rose spun back to face the screen and crossed her arms.

Mellie searched her face—the drawn mouth, the tented eyebrows, the wide eyes. Was Rose scared?

“What’s your name?” Clint asked, his voice soft as a pillow.

Rose shook her head. Her eyes glistened.

Clint turned to Mellie. “Please. I need to know her name.”

Mellie glanced back and forth between them. What if he’d told the truth and this was love at first sight and they were meant to be together? But no, Rose looked like she was about to cry. “Sorry,” Mellie said.

“All right.” Clint leaned close to the back of Rose’s head. “I know the Lord brought us together tonight, and I know he’ll bring us together again. Forever.”

Rose’s head jerked at the mention of the Lord’s name.

The theater lights dimmed, and in the darkness, Rose wiped her eyes.

Mellie settled back in her seat. Was that what love was like? A sudden revelation? Or did it grow over a lifetime as it had for Georgie and Ward? Papa never related how he and her mother had fallen in love.

How much depended on looks? How much on personality? How much on hearts and minds?

She folded her hands over her shoulder bag, and Ernest’s letters crinkled inside. A pureness about the relationship appealed to her, free of looks, free of the crass form of attraction that Bert fellow demonstrated.

It could never be love, but it could be wonderful.

12

Telergma, Algeria
December 12, 1942

“This is how my squad got the dozer, Gill. Honest.” Sgt. Lou Moskovitz squatted by the M1 heavy tractor and picked dried mud from the track rollers. “When was the last time Kendrick cleaned this thing?”

“Don’t know.” Tom stood behind the wheel and peered at the two air pre-cleaners that stuck up from the hood like stumpy antennae. The dirt level rose to the top of the glass windows in the pre-cleaners. How much dirt had been allowed into the engine?

“Wow,” Larry said from behind the dozer. “You should see the gunk in the sediment sump drains.”

Tom squeezed his eyes shut, tipped back his helmet, and massaged his throbbing forehead. Dirt and water had accumulated in the fuel tank. Not good.

Kendrick came from a construction background, had experience with heavy equipment. Why had he neglected basic maintenance? The 908th couldn’t afford to lose what little equipment it had.

Tom settled his helmet back in place and hopped to the ground. After several days of heavy rain, the battalion had a
chance to finish the airfield in the next day or two, but only if the equipment worked. “Moskovitz, Fong—see if you can siphon off the fuel, then drain out the sediment. Let’s hope no damage was done. I’ve gotta find Kendrick.”

“Listen for the sound of rolling dice,” Moskovitz said. “Then you’ll find him.”

Tom forced a laugh. “Sounds right.”

He headed across the field past clumps of French and Arab locals the battalion had hired. They weren’t much help. Neither was his platoon. Moskovitz’s squad lounged near the dozer, unable to work until the equipment was serviced. Lehman’s squad dug a trench to expand the sanitary facilities at a leisurely pace. Where was Weiser’s squad? They were supposed to finish the headquarters building, but that sector was quiet. And where was Kendrick?

Tom entered HQ. In the room to his left, laughter rang—and the funny chortling sound Sesame made when he was happy.

He passed through the doorway, still missing its door. Kendrick, Weiser, and Weiser’s men sprawled on the floor among lumber scraps, hand tools, and sawdust. Steam flowed to Tom’s aching head, and he smiled as he’d trained himself to do.

“Hey, Gill! Watch this.” Bill Rinaldi held out a chunk of Spam from his ration tin. “Sesame, shake.”

Sesame lifted his paw and swatted Rinaldi’s hand.

“Good boy.” Rinaldi fed him the Spam.

“Yeah,” Tom said. “Too bad he’s the smartest one in the room.”

The men groaned. Someone chucked a lumber scrap near Tom’s feet.

He resisted the urge to kick it back hard. “Why are you goofing off? Got a job to do and we finally have decent weather.”

Earl Butler traced patterns in the sawdust with his finger. “Aw, Gill. We can’t. The wood’s soaked from the rain. Better let it dry out.”

“That’s what I told the boys.” Hal Weiser let out a puff of cigarette smoke. “Besides, it’s Saturday. We need our beauty rest.”

“Too late for the lot of you,” Tom said with a grin. “Might as well work.”

“Come on, Gill. Have some fun.” Bernie Fitzgerald gathered a pile of scrap. “Build a bridge. You know you want to.”

Kendrick’s face lit up. “Betcha a dollar you can’t do it in under five minutes.”

Tom studied the scraps, and a design formed in his head. He could do it in three minutes, tops. “Forget the money. I finish in under five minutes, you guys go work your tails off.”

“I don’t know.” Rinaldi leaned back against the wall. “I smell a con.”

Tom’s back and his smile stiffened. He had to get these men to work. “Four minutes.”

“Three and we have a deal.”

A nasty taste filled his mouth. He had to make a bet to get a job done. But what choice did he have? “Deal.”

“Gill! Gill, you in here?” A gruff voice called from outside.

Swell. Lt. Martin Quincy. Fresh pain jolted Tom’s skull.

“There you are. Newman wants to—” Quincy stopped in the doorway. His jaw lowered. “What’s going on here? Don’t you nitwits have a job?”

Tom pulled himself tall. “They’re getting back to work right now.”

“Back to work? Looks like they never started. Who’s in charge here? You? Weiser, isn’t it? Get these men off their sorry behinds on the double.”

Weiser took a drag on his cigarette. “When we’re done with our break.”

Curse words flew out of Quincy’s mouth like bees from a hive, stinging all in their path. “Break? I’ll break something if you clods aren’t out of here by the count of three.”

The men jumped to their feet and scrambled out of the room. Sesame too.

But not Weiser. He fixed a sullen gaze on Quincy and blew out a slow puff of smoke. “Whatcha think you’re gonna break?”

Quincy’s hand shifted to the pistol on his hip. “Move. Or I’ll put a bullet where it’ll do some good, cut off your lazy line of dunderheads forever.”

Weiser eased himself up, cussed under his breath, and sauntered out of the room.

The fire in Tom’s head threatened to melt his eyeballs. He turned to Quincy. “You didn’t have to yell at my men. I—”

“Someone had to.”

Tom’s hand tightened around the web strapping of his pistol belt. “It wasn’t necessary. I had it under control.”

“Control?” He barked a laugh, his fleshy face contorted. “You have none. That’s why my men have to do our work and yours. I’m tired of it.”

“I’m sorry, Quince. We’ll do better.”

“No, you won’t. You don’t have to.” He flung a hand toward the doorway. “Newman won’t touch you. He’s scared of you. Everyone’s scared of you. Think you’re a bomb about to explode, think you’ll go on a murder spree like your old man.”

“I’m not like that.” Tom’s voice came out low.

“’Course not. You’re a pansy.” He shook a finger in Tom’s face. “Look at you, smiling like a fool. I’m chewing you out and you’re smiling. Someday I’ll smash in that smile of yours.”

Tom knew his cue to leave. He marched out the door. “I need to get to work.”

“Yeah, run away, pansy. Least your old man didn’t run away from a fight.”

The pain in Tom’s forehead dripped liquid fire behind his eyes, and he braced himself against the raw wood of the wall.

One dark, drunken night on the streets of Hollywood, Thomas MacGilliver had begged Max and Lucille DeVille for money. The famous director pulled a gun to protect his wife, the sweetheart of silent movies. The men tussled over the gun. It fired. Lucille DeVille dropped dead. Heartbroken, her husband collapsed over her. Another shot, and he joined his wife in death.

Tom’s dad went to the electric chair.

If only he’d run from that fight.

“What’s going on? I heard you outside.” Captain Newman strode in, glaring over Tom’s shoulder at Quincy. “I’ll have no threats in this company. You’re officers. Act like it.”

Quincy’s face twitched, but he lowered his gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“Settle your differences like gentlemen. And not in front of the men.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom said.

Newman crossed his arms. “Now, about today’s work. A squadron of B-26 Marauder medium bombers is due tomorrow. Quincy, how’s the runway?”

“Got the loam and caliche down. Almost done with the gravel.”

“How are the hardstands?”

Tom rubbed his temple. “We have a problem with the dozer. Once it’s fixed, we’ll get going.”

“I see HQ has a long way to go.” Newman glanced around the building.

“They’ll finish today.”

Quincy let out a harsh laugh. “If by today you mean February.”

Tom’s head ached from the pulsing heat. “I mean today.” He’d enlist Moskovitz’s squad while Kendrick fixed the dozer, and Tom would work until midnight if necessary.

“Thanks, men. Quincy, you’re dismissed.” Newman tilted his head to the door.

Quincy broke out in a smug smile and left.

Yep, Tom was in trouble. Not Quincy. The bones in his head just might snap from the pressure.

Newman waited until Quincy left and he studied Tom. “Don’t let him talk to you that way. Be tough with him.”

“I’m fine.” Tom made himself chuckle. “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, my mom always said.”

“Yeah? What if honey makes a man sick to his stomach? Quincy needs vinegar. He respects vinegar.”

Tom shrugged. “I know how to deal with bullies.”

Newman frowned. “Quincy’s no bully. He’s angry with good cause. Your men don’t do their share, and he and Reed pick up the slack.”

Shame compressed his chest. It was his job to motivate the men. “I’m working on it.”

“Really? I don’t see improvement. You’ve got the expertise, you work harder than almost any man here, but it’s not enough. You’ve got to get your men to shoulder their responsibility.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

Doubt tugged the corners of Newman’s eyes. “If you don’t . . . well, I’ll have to figure out something else.”

Fiery hands squeezed his temples, but he kept his face calm. Something else? Was that an ultimatum? Could Tom be demoted or transferred? “May I get to work, sir?”

Newman nodded. “Dismissed.”

Tom headed for the medical detachment tent. Would aspirin help? This was more than a headache. This was anger
with nowhere to go. At home, he’d climb a tree and rant to the skies. No trees at Telergma, no privacy, no place to rant. Tonight he’d write a long letter to Annie. Poor woman got all his rants nowadays. Why on earth did she keep writing?

He wouldn’t have to worry about her falling in love. A smart girl like Annie wouldn’t fall for a man with no future.

He tore off his helmet and pressed his hand against his forehead, as if he could crack it open. Then the heat and pain would drain away.

If he failed at this job, what would he do after the war? He might find construction work, but his education would be wasted. The bridges in his head would never find their way out, never span divides, never link the divided.

“Lord, help me.” His father had destroyed. Tom needed to build.

13

Nashville, Tennessee
December 25, 1942

A passing locomotive rocked Mellie’s train, which was parked on a siding in Nashville. Mellie sat propped up on her pillow in her sleeping compartment.

What a strange Christmas. Last-minute orders packed the 802nd onto a train bound for Morrison Army Airfield in Florida. Training was cut short. They were going overseas.

Their destination had to be North Africa, the only active combat theater to the east. The 801st would head west to the Pacific. If only the squadrons had reversed. Mellie wanted to be closer to Papa.

Instead she’d be closer to Ernest. She spread out his last letter, where he described his new dog and included a darling sketch. Did Sesame’s tail really curl like that? The kindness of Ernest’s heart made hers feel soft as Christmas fudge.

And the brooch he’d sent was stunning. She fingered the delicate workmanship. The stones sang of azure skies and turquoise waters, amber sands and olive trees. She didn’t know when or where she’d wear it, but she knew one thing—she was glad she’d never mentioned the flight nursing program.

He worked on airfields. Only twenty-five flight nurses
belonged to her squadron. If they flew into his airfield, he’d identify Mellie. That could never happen. They both needed anonymity.

But dozens of hospitals and hundreds of nurses had gone to North Africa. If she described her nursing duties in a general manner, he’d think she worked on the wards.

“‘O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant.’” Georgie’s smooth alto and Rose’s rough voice bounced into the railroad car.

The curtains on Mellie’s compartment flew open, and the two nurses peeked in.

“Come on, Mellie-bird.” Georgie tugged one of Mellie’s braids. “We need your voice. We’re caroling up and down the aisles.”

Mellie laughed. “In our nightgowns?”

Rose flipped a bright red scarf over her shoulder. “Christmas ain’t over till we say so.”

“Let’s straighten up, and out we go.” Georgie picked up the letters strewn over Mellie’s blanket. “Mm, more letters from Ernest. That boy sure thinks a lot of you. And look at you, memorizing his every word. Why, I think you’re sweet on him.”