With Every Letter (39 page)

Mellie stepped closer. “It should be. Please show them mercy. They didn’t do anything illegal. Make them dig latrines or something, but don’t make them leave. Send me. I’ve used up my second chances.”

Lambert’s gaze wavered.

Mellie pounced on the opportunity. “Please, ma’am. Send me. It’s best for the squadron, best for the future of flight nursing. Send me to Bowman maybe. I could help with training. A teacher doesn’t have to be popular. She just has to be good.”

The chief pursed her mouth and studied Mellie. She nodded.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Mellie spun away and fled the tent.

The Sicilian sun blazed down and evaporated her tears, leaving prickly tracks on her cheeks. Her dreams, her friendships, everything she’d worked for over the past year—gone.

Her chest collapsed from the weight of it. If she’d done the right thing, why did she feel so miserable?

41

Boccadifalco Airfield
Palermo, Sicily
August 2, 1943

The C-47 banked, and Tom looked out the window to Boccadifalco Airfield. A good solid runway, originally used by the Italian Air Force, and for the past three days by the United States.

His uniform felt strange after two weeks in pajamas, but his arm felt better. Sore, weak, but ready to work.

The plane leveled off for landing. The Mediterranean sparkled greenish blue to the north. Palermo was General Patton’s prize, a key port on Sicily’s north shore to funnel in supplies. The Seventh Army surged east toward Messina on the northeastern tip of Sicily, where the busy port cringed, waiting for the kick from Italy’s boot.

The ground neared, and Tom gripped the canvas edge of his seat. All those months working on airfields, but he’d only flown twice. Fever and morphine wiped out all memory of his first flight except Mellie’s sweet voice singing over him.

Tom puffed out a breath, and the plane bumped as if to
punish him for his unfaithful thoughts. The ride got rougher, and he glanced out the window. “Hey, we landed.”

The crates behind him didn’t respond.

The plane taxied for a minute, swung to the side, and stopped. The two engines built to a loud roar then died.

Clint Peters opened the door in the front of the cabin, a leather map case slung over his shoulder. “How was your flight on Cooper Air?”

“Sure beats how I arrived in Sicily last time—in a landing craft under artillery barrage.”

“High compliment. I’ll pass that on to Coop.”

“Speaking of the man, I need to talk to him.” He needed a courier who was motivated to find Kay Jobson, and Peters had eyes only for his Rose.

Clint pointed with his thumb toward the cockpit. “Head on in.”

“Thanks.” He passed through a door into the navigator’s compartment and opened the door to the cockpit. He’d never asked Roger to help before, but his C-47 came alone, and Tom needed this letter to go out today.

In the cockpit, Roger Cooper and Bill Shelby turned dials and flipped switches.

“Hey, Coop. Hey, Shell.”

“Hiya, Gill.” Roger slipped off his headphones from over his pilot’s crush cap. “How was the flight?”

“Swell. I was conscious this time.”

A smile cracked Roger’s square face. “If you’d asked, I could have knocked you out.”

“Excuse me, boys.” Shelby squeezed past Tom. “Gotta find a bush.”

Roger pulled off his cap and ran his hand through his dark red hair. “Go ahead, peanut bladder.”

“Better than a peanut brain.”

“Too bad you got both.”

Tom grinned, but he didn’t know them well enough to join the fun. “Say, Coop, can I ask a favor?”

“Sure. What do you want?”

Tom pulled out the envelope holding his hopes and dreams. “I need a letter delivered to Kay Jobson.”

Roger stared at the envelope, then gave Tom an incredulous look. “Should have called you the peanut brain. How’d you get mixed up with a dame like her?”

“It’s not really for her. She’s the go-between, knows the girl I’m writing to.”

“Leave Kay out of this. Who’s it for? I’ll give it to her.”

Tom raised half a smile. “Don’t know her name. We’re anonymous pen pals.”

“Anonymous? Like in
The Shop Around the Corner
?”

“That’s how this whole thing started. So, could you give this to Kay?”

Roger loosened his tie and got up from his seat. “I keep my distance. That girl’s bad news. Can you mail it to her?”

“Yeah, but it takes so long.” Tom followed the pilot out of the cockpit, his throat constricting. He needed this done now. “How about Mellie Blake? Do you know her?”

Roger turned and pointed a finger at Tom. “Now, there’s a nice girl.”

Relief turned up the corners of Tom’s mouth. “Yeah. Could you give it to her? She could give it to Kay.”

“Sure.” He opened his hand. “Agrigento’s one of our prime stops.”

“Thanks. Have her tell Kay I’ll be at Termini Airfield.” Tom held out the letter, and Coop plucked it from his fingers. Part of him wanted to grab it back and keep things the way they were, but the other part of him—the new, strong
part—released it. Even if it devastated Annie and ended their friendship, he had to do this.

“Termini. All right.” Roger ambled down the valley of crates in the cabin and tapped the envelope into his palm. “Complicated way of doing things.”

“It’s going to change.” One way or the other, everything would change.

Termini Airfield
Sicily

Tom climbed out of the back of the two-and-a-half-ton truck and stretched his limbs. Thirty miles over winding coastal roads pocked by bomb craters took a lot out of a man.

Three other passengers hopped down after him, while a crew from the airfield approached to unload the cargo.

In the late afternoon sun, Tom took the lay of the land. A good, flat field overlooked the Tyrrhenian Sea to the north, the town of Termini Imerese lay to the east, and farther east a mountain stood sentinel. Olive trees and prickly pear cactus dotted rugged hills to the south.

All he wanted was to find Larry and Sesame, but first he had to report to Newman. He headed into the city of tents beside the runway, following signs written on scrap wood and stuck into the ground.

“Go find Mossy. Good boy. Find Mossy.”

Tom turned to the side. That was Larry. And Sesame trotted in his direction.

“Sesame! Hey, boy!”

The dog stopped and cocked his head.

Tom squatted and spread his arms wide. “It’s me, boy.”

Sesame chortled and ran to Tom, his legs skittering in all
directions. He leaped into Tom’s arms and knocked him on his rear end.

Tom laughed. “Hey, boy. Calm down.”

Sesame’s nose and tongue competed with each other, sniffing and licking.

“I know I smell funny, but so do you.” Tom burrowed his nose in his dog’s short, smooth fur and grinned at the familiarity.

“Well, look who’s back.” Larry stood over him. He was smiling.

Tom struggled to his feet as twenty pounds of squirming canine flesh threw off his balance. “Hi, Larry. Thanks for taking care of Sesame. He looks great.”

“He’s a swell dog.” His expression grew serious. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too. Say, thanks for that letter you sent. You don’t know how much I needed it.” Tom’s voice deepened too much, so he coughed to cover up.

“It needed to be said.” He raised a sharp salute. “I appreciate what you did that day.”

Tom’s throat thickened. Larry’s respect meant more than anyone else’s. Did he dare hope for friendship again? He shifted Sesame to one side and extended his hand. “Thanks.”

Larry studied his hand, then grasped it, shook it heartily, and gave Tom a grin he’d missed.

“About time you showed up, Gill.” Captain Newman’s voice sounded behind him.

“Sorry, sir.” Tom turned and saluted. “My limousine driver called in sick.”

Newman smiled. “I’ll walk you to your tent, get you up to speed. Fong, you’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir. Excuse me a second.” Larry unsnapped a pouch on Sesame’s belt. “Better deliver this message to Mossy in person. Sesame’s done for the day.”

“I’ll say.” Tom hugged the dog tighter. He did not want to let go.

Newman walked at a fast clip down a tent-lined path. “Here’s the situation. Got here a week ago, laid down square mesh track, rolled PBS over it.”

“Good.” Prefabricated Bituminous Surfacing, jute impregnated with asphalt, came in large rolls, easy to lay, easy to repair, and easy to pack up when the front moved forward.

“One squadron of the 31st Fighter Group relocated here yesterday, their HQ joined us today. We need to expand the field, get installations in place.”

Tom’s blood ran faster. Newman wouldn’t brief him if he planned to send him stateside. “I’m ready to work, sir.”

Newman gave him a cautious look. “I’ll keep things the way they were. Quincy gets the men working, you can handle the paperwork, and I can still use your expertise.”

“Sir, I’d like—”

“I switched sergeants around again. Fong will return as your platoon sergeant—special request—Moskovitz will get his squad back, and Giannini will fill Fong’s spot with Reed.”

All good news, but Tom wanted more. “Sir, I’d like my platoon back.”

Three men from Ferris’s squad approached.

“Hey, the Killiver’s back!” Conrad Davis shouted.

“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” Bernie Fitzgerald slapped Davis on the shoulder. “That’s our man.”

Bill Rinaldi stepped forward, a gleam in his eye. “Say, Gill, I gotta get a picture with you. My old man won’t believe I know such a hotshot.”

Tom’s heart spiraled down into his stomach.

“Later, boys.” Newman guided Tom past. “You see what it’s like, Gill? Reporters swarm all over this place. The men think you’re some sort of murderous superhero. You’ll dis
tract them from their work. You can’t get your platoon back. Got to wait for this to blow over. If it ever does.”

“Yes, sir.” Heat expanded his chest. If any other man had done what Tom did at Ponte Olivo, things would already have blown over. But they didn’t bear the MacGilliver name.

42

Over Sicily
August 5, 1943

The headlines of the
Stars and Stripes
blurred to gray in Mellie’s eyes. How could they print such things about Tom? They made him sound like an unfeeling killing machine rather than the kind soul she knew so well.

If only she had conversation to keep her occupied, but Sergeant Early dozed in the seat beside her, and the plane carried litters, blankets, and splints. Air evacuation drained these vital supplies from the front. When sea shipping wasn’t available, they had to be returned by air, one planeload for every ten evac flights.

Down by her feet, her musette bag drew her gaze, and Mellie’s stomach and heart went into twin palpitations. She flipped the page of the North African edition of the servicemen’s newspaper.

The Soviets had defeated the Germans at the Battle of Kursk and had them on the run. The Americans had invaded New Georgia in the Solomon Islands, slowly gaining lands from the Japanese. The U.S. Eighth Air Force had finished a Blitz Week of heavy bombing against German industrial
targets. And Lt. Ruth Gardiner, a flight nurse with the 805th MAETS, had been killed in a plane crash in Alaska, the first American nurse killed in a combat theater in World War II.

Mellie sighed. The 805th had arrived at Bowman Field right before the 802nd left. Mellie hadn’t met any of the nurses, but everyone felt the loss keenly.

Bowman Field now offered a formal six-week program at the newly designated School of Air Evacuation. Mellie would see it firsthand and soon.

“That’ll be good.” If she said it often enough, she’d believe it.

The C-47 tilted into a wide right turn in preparation for landing.

Mellie stared at her bag and then shoved away the newspaper. She’d have no peace until she read Tom’s letter. She’d put it off all day since Roger Cooper handed it to her in Agrigento. Tom’s letters had become more romantic and more adamant that they should reveal their identities. Her arguments held no sway with him.

She unstrapped the bag, opened the envelope, and unfolded the letter.

A photo and a piece of newsprint fluttered into her lap. Tom’s service portrait and the
Stars and Stripes
article about the Ponte Olivo incident. Mellie gasped.

Tom’s photo . . .

Oh, he had the most inviting smile, the most pleasant face. She’d never seen him in dress uniform before, and he sure looked handsome. She pressed the likeness to her lips, the closest she would ever come to kissing him.

And the clipping. The article included Tom’s name and picture.

He was revealing his identity to her, and her fingers went numb. Somehow she focused on the letter.

My beloved,

This is the last letter I’ll address to Annie.

“What?” Mellie’s vision clouded over. Oh goodness, it was over. It was already over. She blinked hard and returned to the letter.