With Every Letter (26 page)

Tom slammed his eyes shut. What was wrong with him? He’d almost thrown away a deep relationship for a mere acquaintance. “No competition. Annie’s the one for me.”

Larry hit the brakes.

Tom braced one hand on the dashboard and held Sesame with the other. He peered around the truck in front of him. “Convoy stopped. Must be at Kairouan.”

“Now we’ll see how much damage Jerry did on the way out.”

“And how much damage we did on the way in.” The Luftwaffe field eleven miles south of Kairouan had been a favorite target for the RAF and the U.S. Twelfth and Ninth Air Forces.

In a few minutes the company’s vehicles parked and the troops prepared for the assault. The Germans had evacuated Kairouan in their massive retreat up the eastern coast of Tunisia, but they had a nasty habit of leaving mines, booby traps, and snipers.

Tom let Sesame out of the jeep to relieve himself, then tied him back up in the jeep and filled the cup from his canteen for the dog. “You be good while I’m gone.”

Sesame lifted his nose and wagged his curly tail in acknowledgment.

The men of the 908th climbed out of the trucks. The platoon and squad leaders met to review plans. Air reconnaissance photos showed a concrete runway from north-northwest to south-southeast with buildings on the west side. Infantry would clear the buildings and a ravine that ran southeast of the field. Quincy’s platoon would accompany the infantry and search for booby traps. Reed’s platoon would clear mines outside the buildings, while Tom’s platoon surveyed the runway.

The men clumped together, checking helmets, rifles, grenades, charges, spools of detonation cord, and mine detectors. Their joking had a sharper, louder edge. Although trained for missions like this and veterans of dozens of air raids, they hadn’t followed an assault wave since the November Torch landings.

Tom whistled, and the men gathered around. “Okay, boys. You know your duties. This is what we trained for, where we show what makes engineers the best. Follow your orders,
keep an eye out for snipers and aircraft, and stay on cleared pathways. I’m convinced half the Nazi economy is dedicated to manufacturing mines.”

“No kidding,” Bill Rinaldi said.

Newman caught Tom’s eye and waved him forward.

“Okay, men, let’s go.” Tom gave them a grin and headed out. Although prepared for a firefight, the men would most likely have a tedious and nerve-wracking day under a hot sun.

Still, he held his carbine at the ready.
Lord, don’t make me use it
.

At the northern perimeter, the squads separated and the men jogged south onto the field, hunched over, rifles in hand. Tom and Larry led Ferris’s squad.

To his right, infantry slunk beside buildings, flung open doors, and charged inside, rifles leading the way.

As he ran, Tom scanned the field. Deep craters would keep the company busy. Half a dozen wrecked planes littered the runway, blackened by fire. Each would receive a hand grenade to set off any gifts from the Germans.

No gunfire yet, but Nazi snipers were sneaky. Tom had heard reports of snipers opening up from well-disguised caves several days after the front passed by. Anything to breed terror.

Tom hung around as Ferris’s men swept mine detectors over craters and blew up the remains of an Me 109 fighter plane.

After a few minutes, Tom and Larry headed down the runway toward Kovatch’s squad. Around the buildings to his right, white tape already marked safe passages. Infantrymen continued to barge into buildings.

Tom and Larry passed a burning Me 109, tipped onto its nose.

“Looks good,” Larry said, but he swung his rifle in an arc before him.

“Yep, sure—”

A whine, a zing. A blow to Tom’s right hip shoved him to the side.

“A sniper!” he yelled. “Take cover!”

He dashed back for the burned-out plane. Hot moisture oozed down the outside of his thigh. Oh swell, he was hit. Why didn’t it hurt?

Another zing.

Larry cried out, spun to the ground. His rifle skidded away across the pavement. “I’m hit! I’m hit!” A furious red stain formed on his shin.

“Hold on to me.” Tom grabbed him around the waist and hauled him up to his good foot. “Gotta take cover.”

A bullet pinged off the pavement in front of them, but Tom plowed forward, heart thumping, sweat beading under his helmet.

Shouts rang out around the airfield, and men scrambled for shelter.

Tom eased Larry down behind the Me 109’s crumpled nose, not much protection, but it had to do. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t know.” Larry’s voice came out cramped. He shoved down his legging and pulled up his pants leg. “Flesh wound, looks like. Get him, Gill. Get that sniper.”

The sniper? “Gotta do first aid.”

Larry opened his first aid kit. “I’ll take care of it. Get him.”

His own wound. That was his excuse. Crouched behind the plane, Tom examined his hip. Dark, damp, warm, but no pain, no blood. “Huh?”

Something dripped on the ground beside him in a steady beat. His canteen. The sniper punctured his canteen. A ragged breath tumbled out.

A bullet dinged off the plane’s nose. Tom sheltered Larry with his body.

“Get him, Gill. Before he kills someone.”

Tom rose slowly to his knees behind the fuselage and propped his carbine on the wreckage. He mentally followed the bullets’ trajectory to the center building, the only two-storied structure, probably the control tower.

A pile of concrete rubble lay on the flat roof, an unlikely place for rubble, but a clever spot for a sniper. Tom just had to aim for the center of that pile, the dark hole where a German lay, rifle pointed at him.

Infantry eased up to the building and exchanged hand signals. They’d get to the roof in a few minutes. But now Tom had a perfect line of sight.

“Lord, no,” he whispered.

“Shoot, Gill! What are you waiting for?”

Hot sweat dripped down his temples. Down the neck of his shirt. Down his sides.

He could take that sniper with a single bullet. He was a good shot. Too good a shot.

MacGilliver the Killiver. MacGilliver the Killiver.

A yellow flash from the rubble. A bullet kicked up chunks of pavement by Tom’s knee.

Behind him, Larry screamed and grabbed his thigh. “Stinking Kraut. Get him! Get him!”

Tom’s breath came fast and hard. He squinted down his gun sight, lined up with the source of that muzzle flash. How could he take a life? Destroy? Kill?

Larry writhed behind him, groaned, and swatted Tom’s combat boot. “What are you waiting for? Get him before he kills us. He’ll kill us, you know.”

Tom could shoot, aim high, scare the sniper, slow him down, make himself look busy. But his fingers locked in position.

“Gill!” Larry hit his ankle. “What’s wrong with you? Shoot him!”

A bullet skittered past, too far to the left. Tom was a better shot than that German.

“I understand.” Larry curled up in a ball and looked up at Tom with accusing eyes. “You don’t want to be like your dad. So you’ll let me die.”

“What? No! That’s not—”

Another shot. Tom ducked. Larry cried out and clutched his calf. Three hits.

His friend, his colleague, a good man was wounded. Three times he was wounded. Because Tom wouldn’t shoot.

He stared down the barrel of his carbine, willed himself to squeeze the trigger, to kill, to fulfill his destiny and become his namesake.

A loud whack. A trapdoor sprang open on the roof. Men surged out, shouted, kicked at the rubble, and prodded it with bayonets. A man stumbled to his feet, hands raised high.

Thanks to Tom, he lived.

Thanks to Tom, Larry was wounded.

“Medic! Medic!” Tom turned to his friend. “How bad is it?”

“Don’t touch me.” Larry’s voice sent icy chills into Tom’s heart. He rocked back and forth, clutching his bloody leg. “Your reputation means more to you than my life.”

A team of medics and litter-bearers ran up, and Tom sat back on his heels. His carbine clunked to the ground. What kind of man was he?

27

Youks-les-Bains Airfield
April 14, 1943

Sergeant Early hooked up a litter rack in the back of the C-47. “That’s all. We only have enough parts for four litter patients.”

Standing on the tarmac below, Mellie sighed and leaned her head against the rim of the cargo door. The litter racks had to be disassembled to make room for cargo, then reassembled for air evac, but with each flight they lost more parts.

There had to be a better way. If only she could run the problem through Tom’s engineering mind. She could picture his blond head bent over paper, sketching designs, his blue eyes bright. But she couldn’t ask in a letter without revealing herself as a flight nurse, and she couldn’t ask in person since his battalion had left Youks-les-Bains.

Would she ever see him again? Pain squeezed her heart. What would be more miserable—seeing him again or never seeing him again?

Once she’d been content to live her life alone, but now her contentment had been destroyed by letters and an evening of dancing that gave her a tantalizing taste of romance. But love eluded her. Like trying to catch a hummingbird.

“What did I do to get stuck with you?” Early jumped to the ground and glared at Mellie. “Every stinking flight.”

She pulled her lips between her teeth and shook her head. The other nurses worked with different techs each day, but Maxwell never switched Mellie and Early.

“Doc hates you.” Early jerked out his big chin. “And I pay the price. The worst nurse, the worst flights, and the worst planes.”

“Sorry.” She strode away in the midday heat. It was all her fault. The friction in the squadron had caused even more problems with the flight surgeon.

“Hiya, Mellie.” Kay Jobson approached from the next plane down. Ever since the argument with Georgie and Rose, Kay had been oddly friendly. “Ready for the flight?”

Mellie struggled to smile. She couldn’t afford to alienate the only woman who was nice to her. “We can only take four litter patients. Too many missing parts.”

“We can only take eight.” Kay lifted her strawberry blonde hair off her neck. “Ugh. Can’t believe how hot it is. When we get back to Algiers, how about you and I head to the beach for a dip?”

Mellie stopped and waited until Kay faced her. Her mouth crumpled. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Kay glanced away and shrugged. “Why not?”

“You were there.” Mellie wrapped her arms around her stomach. “You saw what I did to Georgie and Rose. I’m a lousy friend.”

Kay turned back, her green eyes intense. “On the contrary. Now you’re finally ready to be a friend.”

A rivulet of sweat ran down her breastbone. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never had friends, then when I finally get friends, I ruin everything.” Her jaw tightened and wobbled.

“That’s why you’re ready.” Kay tapped one finger into
Mellie’s shoulder. “Now you know you’re no better than the rest of us, and you can be genuine friends with someone.”

Mellie’s throat swelled. “Georgie and Rose still won’t talk to me.”

“They’re talking to each other again.”

“Thank goodness,” she whispered. They needed each other.

“Keep apologizing, and in the meantime, come to the beach with me.”

The image of bombshell Kay and frumpy Mellie together at the beach brought up a strangled, damp giggle. “I don’t understand. Why do you want to be friends with me?”

Kay looked off into the distance, and a twinge of hurt contracted around her eyes. “You’re different. I have more in common with you than I do with Vera and Alice.”

How could that be? Mellie’s mouth drifted open. “Well . . . I . . .”

Kay glared at her. “Fine. I understand. You think I’m a slut. You think I’m not good enough for you.” She marched off, her slim hips swaying in practiced rhythm.

What had she done? How could she make things worse? Mellie ran after her. “Wait, Kay! That’s not what I meant, not what I think.”

Kay didn’t slow down. She flipped a hand over her shoulder. “Don’t bother.”

Mellie stopped and tipped her head back. Would she ever learn how to get along with women?

Mellie filled in the last of the vital signs on the flight manifest and made plans for the rest of the flight. The men needed distraction. With the plane’s interior temperature close to one hundred degrees, the griping would escalate. If only the C-47 could climb to a cooler, higher altitude.

She tried to think, but Sergeant Larry Fong lay on his stomach on a midlevel litter, and his morose presence addled her thoughts. She’d met him when Tom walked her back to her tent after dancing, and he recognized her.

Larry had been hit by a sniper. Had Tom been hurt too? Or worse?

She shook off the thought and sang “When Peace Like a River.” Maybe the lyrics about peace and water would calm and cool the men and herself. As she sang, she checked her patients’ canteens and replaced wet compresses.

She finished the round by Larry’s litter. “How are you doing, Sergeant?”

He shrugged and stared ahead, his chin resting on his forearms. Not the cheerful man Tom described in his letters.