With Every Letter (27 page)

Mellie folded back the blanket to check his dressings and provide an excuse for conversation. Three bullets had punctured his right leg, but the bones hadn’t been damaged and infection hadn’t set in. A few weeks of convalescence and he’d be back to work.

“A sniper did this?” she asked softly. “You were at the front?”

“The airfield at Kairouan.”

Kairouan lay close to Tunisia’s east coast and close to the front. “Was Lieutenant MacGilliver with you? Is he all right?”

A harsh laugh. “Of course he’s all right, the rat.”

The rat? Mellie frowned. Tom and Larry were friends. “What do you mean?”

Larry swiveled his head to look at her. “Stay away from him. He’ll pretend he’s your friend, but when it really matters, forget it.”

Mellie’s legs went numb and tingly as if she’d sat on them wrong. “I don’t . . . what do you mean?”

“I got hit, dropped my rifle. Sure, he got me to safety, but
he didn’t fight for me. He had a great line of fire on the sniper, didn’t shoot. I got hit again. And again. And he didn’t shoot. When it comes down to it, he only cares about his reputation.” Hurt and anger glittered in Larry’s black eyes.

Part of her wanted to defend Tom. She knew why he didn’t want to kill. But another thought choked off her defense. Tom let down a man under his command and a friend.

Could he be trusted? If he didn’t stand up for his men, would he stand up for her?

She thought she knew Tom, but perhaps she was mistaken.

The plane banked sharply to the left, and Mellie grabbed the litter rack for support.

Were they under fire? None of the evac flights had been attacked since the nurses arrived.

Mellie headed for the tail of the plane, now an uphill climb. The C-47’s twin engines roared as the plane picked up speed and dropped altitude. She swung around the tier of litters and pressed her face to the window.

Six Spitfire fighter planes escorted the three cargo planes. In the distance, five fighters darted and spun. Three Spitfires and two single-engine fighters, similar in shape to the Spits. One zipped past, and she backed up and sucked in her breath. A cross was painted on the side, the black cross of the Luftwaffe.

The C-47 banked again, to the right this time, and the men talked all at once.

Sergeant Early worked his way up from the front of the plane. “Okay, boys, nothing to worry about. The fighter jockeys got it under control.”

If only it were that simple. The plane carried patients, but cargo planes couldn’t bear the Red Cross of protection. Allied fighters made a game of shooting down Axis transports, starving the Germans and Italians of troops, fuel, and food. These Luftwaffe pilots would want revenge.

Black smoke flowed from one of the planes bearing the U.S. Army Air Forces’ blue star on a white disc. “Oh no,” Mellie said.

The little plane climbed as if aiming for the sun, hovered for an excruciating moment, then plummeted toward the earth.

Mellie gasped and stepped back.

“See?” Early grumbled behind her. “Combat’s no place for a sniveling woman. Now they’ll ground you dames and let us get back to work.”

Mellie pulled herself tall. “I’m not afraid, Sergeant. I’ll give these men the care they deserve.”

She headed down the aisle and assessed the patients. Some looked terrified, some looked angry, and some called out shots as if the fighter pilots could hear their advice. All needed a calming touch.

Once more she sang “It Is Well with My Soul,” too overcome to think of a new song.

Somehow she had to find that peace like a river again.

28

Kairouan Airfield
Tunisia
April 14, 1943

The tent for company headquarters stood before Tom, canvas flapping in the hot breeze. Inside his future would be destroyed.

He drew a deep breath and tried to pray, but he couldn’t get past “Lord.” He had no right to pray for mercy from Captain Newman after he’d failed Larry and the whole company.

No one respected him anymore.

He thought killing a man would ruin his reputation. Rather, sparing a man had killed his reputation.

“’Bout time you get what you deserve.” Quincy’s voice.

Tom groaned and walked toward the tent.

“Newman will ship you home, back to pansy-land where you belong.” Quincy whacked the carbine that hung over Tom’s shoulder. “That’s a gun. You’re supposed to use it.”

Tom stiffened but kept walking. Confrontation would do no good.

Quincy barked out a laugh. “Your father was more of a man than you are. At least he fought for what he wanted. Even if all he wanted was booze.”

Fire coiled up Tom’s spine and spun him to face Quincy. Tom’s breath chuffed out, but he couldn’t speak, didn’t trust himself with words. His fingernails dug into his palms, and he restrained his muscles. If he didn’t, his fists would add more damage to Quincy’s warped face.

That face broke into a narrow-eyed smile. “Just once I’d like to see you lay into me. I’d beat you to a pulp. That’d feel good.”

Tom turned on his heel and marched toward the tent, breathing hard. Part of him wanted to take Quincy’s bait and get the beating he deserved. Instead he’d let Newman do the beating with a demotion or transfer.

Tom ducked inside the tent, Quincy right behind him. Newman sat at his field desk, and Corporal Reilly tapped on a typewriter at another desk. Sergeant Moskovitz sat on a camp stool and shot Tom a disdainful look. The squad leader used to like Tom.

In the stifling heat, Tom saluted the captain and held his chin high.

Newman motioned for Quincy to pull up a camp stool but gave Tom no such courtesy. Tom stood stiff and waited for the deathblow to his career and dreams.

The captain leaned an elbow on the desk, pinched the skin between his eyebrows, and sighed. “I don’t know what to do with you, Gill.”

“Yes, sir.” He understood.

Newman thumped a pile of papers. “I need your engineering expertise, but the Army has structure. There’s no room in the Tables of Organization for an officer who can’t lead.”

A slap to Tom’s face. “I know, sir.”

“I thought you were getting better, taking charge. But then you failed to protect Sergeant Fong. All because you don’t want to kill.”

A solid punch to Tom’s chest. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Quincy snorted. “Pansy.”

“That’s enough, Quince.” Newman’s gaze probed into Tom with a flicker of understanding, but he shook his head and set his lips in a hard line. “That won’t do. This is the Army. We’re at war.”

“I know, sir.” Shame shuttered his eyelids, but he forced them open.

Newman rubbed the back of his neck. “The military isn’t set up for flexibility. I’ll do what I can to keep your expertise while protecting the men.”

“Aren’t you shipping him home, Captain?” Quincy said.

Newman turned a hard gaze to the platoon leader. “I need a trained engineer in this company. He’s the only one. You and Gill will have to work together.”

Quincy rocked forward. “What?”

“Excuse me?” Tom said.

Newman held up one hand. “It’s the only thing I can think of. Quincy, you’ll command both platoons and work with the men. Gill, you’ll do the paperwork for both platoons and stay away from the men. I can still use your expertise. You keep your title, but only in name.”

Tom nodded although his neck felt like a steel girder. He could still serve his country. He wasn’t demoted. He wasn’t going home. But he had a humiliating blemish on his record.

“No disrespect, sir.” Quincy’s tone contradicted his words. “But why couldn’t you pick Lieutenant Reed to work with him? Why do I have to be saddled with this—”

“No. I trust you to lead these men. Kovatch and Ferris are used to you, and you can pick the man to replace Moskovitz.”

Tom glanced at his favorite squad leader. “What’s happening to Moskovitz?”

“He’s replacing Fong as your platoon sergeant.”

Moskovitz’s gaze drilled holes into the base of Newman’s
desk. Tom’s heart sank even lower. Who would want to replace Larry after what Tom had done—or hadn’t done?

“It’s only temporary,” Newman said. “Three months, no more. Gill, if you can earn back the men’s respect and my trust, I’ll put things back to normal. If not, I’ll send for a replacement.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tom’s mind whirled. How could he earn back the men’s respect if he couldn’t work with them? How could he earn trust doing paperwork?

And how could he save his dream? Adding a tarnished military record to his tarnished name would destroy his engineering career. He’d never be able to build. He’d never be able to support his mother and allow her to retire. He’d never be able to—oh, who was he kidding? What woman would marry him anyway? Annie deserved better.

“Quincy, Moskovitz, you’re dismissed,” Newman said. “Reilly, you too. I need a few minutes in private with Gill.”

He reminded himself to keep his shoulders square. What more could Newman say to him? He couldn’t be brought any lower.

Newman shuffled papers on his desk. After the men left, he lifted his gaze to Tom. “It’s about the letters.”

“The letters?”

“Those stupid anonymous letters. I won’t do it anymore.”

Tom was wrong. He could be brought lower. “What do you mean, sir?”

“It’s too much time and hassle. I’ve done it for six months. That’s enough. The other men stopped writing or they correspond openly. You’re the only one left.”

A jagged hole ripped open in his gut. He couldn’t lose Annie, not now. Her friends had abandoned her, and he needed her as never before. “But sir, we both need this correspondence.”

“You can still write her. I’ll give you her name and address. But I won’t play postman anymore. I’ve had it.” Newman pulled out a notepad.

Annie’s name. Her address. Tom leaned forward and peered at the notepad, willing the words to form. Finally he could have a real relationship with a real woman.

Newman lifted the pen. With a few scratches, he could shred the anonymity that cloaked them both.

“No, sir,” Tom said. “Not now.”

Newman glared at him. “You don’t understand. I won’t do this anymore. I’m fed up with you and I’m fed up with these blasted letters.”

Tom’s eyes closed. “I understand, sir. But we promised each other. We promised to keep it anonymous. I can’t take her name and address without her permission. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“I won’t do this—”

“One more letter, sir.” Tom fixed his gaze on the captain. “Please send one last anonymous letter from me. I’ll explain the situation, ask for her name and address. But it has to come from her, sir. I won’t betray her trust.”

Newman’s eye twitched.

Tom winced from the irony. He’d betrayed Larry’s trust and Newman’s as well.

“One letter,” Newman said in a clipped tone. “Only one.”

It would be the hardest letter Tom ever had to write. What would he do if Annie said no?

29

Maison Blanche Airfield
April 24, 1943

Mellie laid her head on her pillow with Tom’s letter beside her. Her mood matched the day—the Saturday after Good Friday when Jesus’s body lay dead in the tomb. The disciples had lost all hope with no knowledge of resurrection around the corner.

“Where’s my Easter?” Mellie rolled onto her stomach and raised herself on her elbows.

Tom wrote the letter the day Larry was shot. Mellie picked it up again.

I have no excuse. All I could think about was not becoming a killer, a fear that I’m just like my father. I froze. I could hear the taunts and see my mother’s dismay that all she’d taught me had gone to waste.

So I let my friend get hurt, again and again. I put my reputation above another man’s welfare. A hero does the opposite. What does that make me? A coward. A congenial coward.

Mellie sat up on the top bunk and gazed out the barracks window. A hot sunny day outside made the room as oppressive as her thoughts.

In the letter Tom had written before this, after the Remain Overnight, he’d expressed a desire to meet her and see if something more could develop. As a prerequisite for meeting her, he’d even admitted his father was executed for murder. He took a romantic interest in Annie at the same time he found Mellie wanting.

She wrote a firm letter of refusal coupled with the assurance that his father’s history didn’t affect her decision. But what if she
should
reject him? His kind heart had drawn her, but kindness wasn’t enough. A man—a human being—needed strength as a foundation for kindness. Papa was both strong and kind.

Her chest, her throat, her eyes swelled shut. She missed Papa so much. He’d give her wise advice. But the Japanese allowed only twenty-four words in the body of letters to their prisoners, and she still hadn’t received a note from him. Not uncommon with the Japanese.

Mellie pressed her hands over her face. “Lord, show me what to do. Show me how to respond to Tom. He needs me, but do I need him? And please give me someone to talk to. I miss Georgie and Rose. Could you see fit to let them forgive me? I need a friend. I need to talk—”

Someone laughed out in the hall. Mellie wiped her face and stuffed Tom’s letter back in its envelope.

“If they won’t let us fly to the front, the beach is the next best thing,” Georgie said.

“Better hurry. We’ve got ten minutes before the truck leaves.” Rose flung open the door.

Neither of them glanced at Mellie. They burrowed in their bags, laughing and pulling out bathing suits.

More than ever, Mellie longed for a friendship like theirs. A lifetime of shared joys and hurts allowed them to forgive each other. Rose had to be pleased that Georgie overcame her fears to follow her to Alaska and Africa. Her sacrifice showed true friendship. And Georgie overlooked Rose’s attraction to Ward. Of course, Rose’s romance with Clint helped.

But Mellie? They didn’t share a history with her. The benefits of her friendship didn’t balance out her betrayal.

In the suffocating heat of the barracks and loneliness, the fresh air of the beach and friendship beckoned. “The beach trip,” she said. “Can anyone go, or do you need an invitation?”