With Every Letter (35 page)

She held it behind her back. “Absolutely not. It’s soiled. We’re going to the doctor right now. At the very least you need a clean bandage and some sulfa pills.”

Tom pulled his shirt back onto his shoulder but didn’t button it. “Doc gave me some pills.” His gaze skittered away.

“Are you taking them?”

He pressed his fingers to his temple. “I gotta—I gotta get back to work.”

Cold fear oozed into her heart. This was more than manly stoicism. He wasn’t taking care of himself. As if he didn’t care. “Tom, you need to take those pills.”

“I know.” He headed down the path between the tents.

Mellie felt dizzy. Something horrible had happened. Something worse than the injury and infection. Even though he
refused her help, she wouldn’t let him lose his arm, wouldn’t let him die.

“Lieutenant Blake!” The chief nurse waved from the entrance to Mellie’s tent. “Hurry up! Get to the plane. We’ve got an evac flight.”

Mellie grimaced. Not now. She had to help Tom. “Be right there.”

She dashed back to the crewmen who helped her earlier. “Excuse me. Please have the doctor see Lieutenant MacGilliver. It’s urgent. He’s very sick.”

“Sick? Why?” The red-haired man sauntered up to her. “Did he turn you down for a date? Must be sick if he did that.”

Her cheeks warmed. Did they think her that forward? “Excuse me?”

A tall skinny man nudged his pal. “Figures, Red. The hero gets all the dames, doesn’t even appreciate it.”

“Hero?”

“Sure, dolly. Haven’t you heard? The other day, clearing out that bunker.” Red pointed to the end of the field. “Shot five Italians—boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Got them each right in the heart. Five bullets, five corpses. Lived up to his name.”

The tall man laughed. “Got our own Killiver.”

Mellie gasped and whipped her gaze toward where she’d last seen Tom. He’d killed five men in battle? Oh dear, what he had to be going through.

Her fear solidified into ice. “Lord, help him.”

36

Ponte Olivo Airfield
July 18, 1943

Tom crept down the concrete tunnel, a pistol in each hand.

He darted into the bunker. Larry curled on the floor, clutching his leg. Tom shot him.

Annie sat in the corner, writing a letter, her face shrouded in darkness. He shot her.

“No, Tommy! Stop! Smile!” His mother walked to him, arms outstretched. He shot her.

His father twirled a pistol in each hand like a Wild West gunslinger. “That’s my boy. My son’s just like me.”

Tom shot him over and over, both guns, but he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t die.

“No!” He jerked awake, breathing hard, tangled in his bedroll, clammy with sweat.

Sesame whimpered beside him in the half-shelter rigged next to the perimeter wall.

“Sorry, boy.” Tom lifted a leaden hand and patted the dog’s head. All he wanted was sleep, but Luftwaffe bombing kept him awake, and when sleep came, it only brought nightmares.

He pushed himself up to sitting. His arm and head throbbed, and his skin felt on fire.

The bandage slipped down to his elbow, and he scooted it up and tightened it. He’d used the gauze in his first aid kit rather than see Doc Abrams. The doctor would send him to the hospital, and Tom couldn’t let that happen.

He checked his watch, strapped around his good arm. Already 0745? He needed to report to duty in fifteen minutes, but first he had to deliver his letter.

Tom eased his shirt on. He hated the extra layer of heat but he had to conceal his wound.

He crawled out of the half-shelter and stood. The world swirled about, and he braced himself against the wall.

Sesame bumped his knee, as if to push him back to bed.

“Sorry, boy. Stuff to do.” Tom shoved his feet forward, but his knees wobbled. If only he could keep some food down. Regardless, he had a letter to deliver and men to lead.

Down at the runway, medics loaded patients onto C-47s. Going there was risky but necessary. He had to find a pilot.

Grant Klein inspected the tire of one of the planes.

“Hi, Grant. Could you deliver another letter?”

“Hey, there’s the man of the hour.” He grinned. “Glad you’re on our side, Killiver.”

Only decades of hiding his emotions kept him from screaming. “The letter?”

He shrugged and pointed to the next plane. “Just give it to Kay. She’s over there.”

“All right.” But the distance stretched long before him. His gelatinous legs refused to walk in a straight line.

“Tom! Tom!” a woman called behind him. Mellie.

He turned too fast. Vertigo overtook him. He collapsed to his backside and flopped onto his back like a dead cockroach.

“Tom! Oh dear. Oh no.” Mellie dropped to her knees beside him, along with a man.

Doctor Abrams.

“No.” Tom rolled to his side and pushed up on his good elbow.

“No, you don’t.” Doc Abrams pressed Tom’s chest so he lay flat on the ground.

Tom groaned and closed his eyes, trapped on the rough, gravelly asphalt. “Asphalt. Good surface.”

“Thanks for finding me, nurse.” The doctor unbuttoned Tom’s shirt.

“Oh dear. I’m glad I found you when I did.”

Tom forced his eyes open. Mellie leaned over him, black curls shining around her face. She looked so pretty. So worried.

He lifted his hand to pat her cheek, but he still held Annie’s letter.

The letter! “I need to—I need to give this to Kay.”

“Kay?” Mellie stared at the envelope.

“The flight nurse. You know who she is?”

Mellie nodded and took the letter. “I’ll give it to her.”

“Thanks.” At least she didn’t ask questions. Then he’d have to explain the woman he loved to the woman he was attracted to.

Not that it mattered anymore. Nothing mattered. He was going to die.

The doctor swabbed the inside of Tom’s elbow. So wonderfully cold. Then a needle poked through. “He needs to be hospitalized immediately.”

“No.” Tom rolled away from his grip. “No hospital. Leave me alone.”

Mellie pushed him back down. “The 93rd Evacuation Hospital?”

“No. He’ll need at least two weeks of treatment. Can we evac him today?”

“Um, yes.” Mellie pulled her lips between her teeth. “I have
room on my plane. But you’ll need to clear it with Captain Maxwell.”

“I’ll do that right now; send a medic with a litter. Go ahead and load him up. I gave him morphine to calm him down, ease the pain.”

Tom grabbed the sleeve of Mellie’s blouse. “No. You can’t do this. I can’t leave.”

She gave him a gentle smile. “How can you stay here? You’re almost delirious with fever. You’re no good to your battalion.”

“No good.” He flopped back to the asphalt. Pebbles poked the back of his head. “I’m no good at all.”

“Hush. That’s not what I said.” With an icy hand, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead. Felt really good. “You can’t work now. You need to heal and rest.”

“No good. No good at all.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s true. I’m a killer. You know that?” He tried to fix his gaze on her. “You hear I killed five men?”

“I did.” Her hand cupped his cheek, as cool as water. “I heard the enemy shot at you and your men, you begged them to surrender in their own language, but they refused. You single-handedly cleared a bunker. They give out medals for actions like that.”

“No. No.” He shook his head, grinding gravel into his scalp. “Don’t deserve a medal. Deserve to die.”

“Don’t talk like that. Ssh. Ssh.” She sat up straighter. “Oh good, the litter. Thank you, gentlemen.”

The medics rolled Tom to the side, slid the litter under, then hefted him on. They fastened straps across his chest and thighs.

“No.” Tom pulled at the straps. “Don’t. I gotta work. Sesame. What about Sesame?”

Mellie took his hands in hers. “I’ll get someone to watch Sesame. You need to get well.”

Tom squeezed his blazing eyes shut. “I don’t want to get well.”

“Think, sweetheart, think. You need to get well for Sesame. He loves you. So does your mom. And so . . . you need to get well for them, for the people who love you.” Her voice cracked.

He couldn’t open his eyes against the heavy weight of morphine. Sweetheart? Why did nurses talk to patients like they were children?

Something wet on his forearm. He cracked his eyes open. Sesame whimpered and licked his arm. “Hey, boy. Someone will . . .” Who? Who would take care of him?

The medics lifted the litter.

“Mellie! Mellie!”

“Right here.” She walked beside him. “What is it?”

“Larry. Sgt. Larry Fong. He likes Sesame even if he doesn’t like me.”

“I’ll tell Dr. Abrams. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of him.”

“Good.” And his mom would get by. She’d be better off without him to worry about.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Mellie winked at him. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Tom managed a smile. Between the morphine, the straps, and the burly medics, he wouldn’t be going AWOL, as much as he wanted to.

The litter rose, jiggled, and Tom entered the dark, stuffy interior of the plane, filled with the smell of unwashed bodies, blood, and a touch of vomit.

The medics clamped the litter in place along the right side of the plane, with two litters below him. Morphine surged warm and drowsy in his veins. Why couldn’t it be cool instead of warm?

“How are you doing, Lieutenant?” The big-chinned medic spoke—the man who’d been rude to Mellie the day Tom met her. “Got a fever, huh?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Yeah. Well, we’re out of aspirin. Everyone is. Chew this.” He held out something that looked like wood. “Willow tree bark. Lieutenant Blake’s a genius. Did you know the first aspirin came from willow tree bark?”

Tom’s gaze swiveled around, uncooperative. “Lieutenant Blake?”

“The flight nurse. She’s the best.” He prodded the bark between Tom’s lips and sent a furtive glance down the aisle. “Chew. And don’t go blabbing about this in Tunisia. We don’t want to get her in trouble.”

“No.” Apparently Mellie had won the fellow over. Tom bit down. The bark tasted dusty and bitter.

“She’s back.” The medic headed for the front of the plane. “Say, Lieutenant, I gave him the bark.”

Tom made a face and gazed up into the nurse’s brown eyes. “It’s worse than his bite.”

Mellie let out a chime of a laugh. “Oh, you’ll be just fine, Tom.”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to be fine.

“Comfortable?” She pressed her hand to his cheek. “I don’t think you need a blanket.”

Tom tried to smile, but his cheek only twitched under the coolness of her hand. Why did she have to be sweet to him? “My dog?”

“Sesame’s with the doctor, and he’ll get him to Larry.”

“Good. I can die in peace.”

“Don’t talk like that.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re not going to die. We’ll get you fluids and sulfa. A few days, and you’ll be fine.”

He turned his head away. “I don’t wanna get well.”

“Of course you do. The fever’s talking.”

“No. No. It’s a bad line, my father’s. Needs to end.”

“Nonsense. You’re a fine man.”

He fought against the comfort of her shaking voice and her hand stroking his cheek. He didn’t deserve comfort. “Just like him. Never thought I was. Same. Needs to end.”

“Tom MacGilliver, look at me.” She turned his head and got within six breathtaking inches of his face. “Look at me. Listen to me. You’re not your father. You’re a wonderful man, full of compassion and strength and honor.”

He covered her hand with his. Her gorgeous mouth twisted in concern. Even now with his lips on fire—even now he wanted to kiss her. What kind of man was he? “Honor? No.”

“Yes, honor.”

“Uh-uh.” He told Annie he loved her, but he couldn’t get Mellie out of his mind.

“Hush. Now, you rest. Don’t worry about anything. Just go to sleep.”

“Sleep.” Tom’s eyelids slid shut. Sesame was taken care of. Annie would receive his last letter. Now he could die.

37

3rd General Hospital
Mateur, Tunisia

“Next.” The physician motioned the medics to bring Tom’s litter forward.

Mellie flipped the page on her clipboard and stole a glance at Tom’s sleeping form, at peace at last.

“Yes . . . ?” Captain Donaldson raised a pale eyebrow.

“Lt. Thomas MacGilliver, age twenty-five.” Mellie used her professional voice despite her raging emotions.

Both pale eyebrows shot up. “Thomas MacGilliver? Like—”

“Yes, sir. But that’s irrelevant.” Mellie read the medical information, although she knew it by heart. She relayed how she gave him five grains of sulfanilamide, though not how she cajoled him to swallow. After the morphine had taken him away, she hung fluids, cleansed the wound, and applied sulfanilamide powder and a fresh bandage. And she sang him hymns of comfort.

The physician shifted the bandage and whistled. “Bit longer and he might have lost his arm, maybe his life.”

“I know, sir.” Her voice tripped over the lump in her throat.

“Admit him to the medical ward,” he said to the nurse at his side then turned back to Mellie. “Any more?”

“He’s the last one.” More than anything, she wanted to press a kiss to Tom’s fevered forehead, but two medics raised his litter and carried him away. At least the 3rd General was in Mateur, so she could visit him on her stops.

Mellie stepped out into the Tunisian sun and whipped Tom’s letter from her trousers pocket. No drawing adorned the letter, and his handwriting scrawled all over the page.

Dear Annie,

This is my last letter to you. I got shot the other day, and I’ll be dead by the time you read this. It’s best this way.

You see, Annie, I’m just like my father. Worse. I killed five men. Five. I want to build but I destroy, just like him. I can’t stand how people sing my praises as if I’d scored a grand slam, I can’t stand myself, and you shouldn’t stand me either.

This is a bad line. My dad’s killer blood flows in me. It needs to stop. I should never have children, never get married. I should never have let myself fall in love. And Annie, my sweet Annie, how could I let you fall in love with me?