With Every Letter (6 page)

“My little nightingale,” Papa always said when Mellie sang to him, when she tended him when he was sick. “My angel of mercy.”

Papa said mercy was the Lord’s gift to her, the gift she gave back to others. Mercy came easily on the hospital ward, but in the outside world?

Mellie stepped between buildings, out of sight of passersby, and leaned back against the wall. She pulled out the engineer’s letter and scanned it until her vision blurred.

Something barred him from friendship just as her unconventional looks and shyness barred her. She needed someone who didn’t see. He needed someone who didn’t know.

Most of all, he needed mercy.

Her legs sagged. She glanced up to the rectangle of purpling sky between the buildings. “Lord, you want me to do this, don’t you? Please help me. Please don’t let me fail him.”

6

Arzeu, Algeria
November 8, 1942

Tom surveyed his platoon on the ship’s deck—three squads of thirteen men each, gathered in the darkness. The men masked fear with stoicism or wisecracks or grumbles about it being two o’clock in the morning.

“Sure could use a smoke,” Hal Weiser said.

Nobody offered him one. On this moonless night, even light from a cigarette could tip off the enemy to the ship’s position.

Today the Vichy French were the enemy. After almost two centuries of friendship and support, French soldiers were firing on Americans. Bright orange flashes onshore, crackling gunfire, and booming mortars confirmed it.

While the Western Task Force landed in Morocco and the Eastern Force landed at Algiers, the Center Force was landing on three beaches surrounding the port of Oran. Beach Z at Arzeu lay farthest to the east. After the beachhead was secured, tanks would sweep southwest to airfields at Tafaroui and Le Sénia, and Tom’s battalion would patch up damage.

“Okay, men, you can do this,” Tom said, grin fixed. “Make sure your helmet’s unfastened and your shoes untied.”

“Ain’t that cheerful?” Bill Rinaldi squatted to unlace his shoes. “If the Frenchies shoot up our boat, our helmets won’t drag us down. Ain’t it nice to know it’ll take us longer to drown?”

Tom adjusted his carbine strap over his shoulder. “No one will drown or get shot. The French are putting on a show before they surrender to prove to Hitler they tried.”

A sailor tapped Tom on the shoulder. “Your landing craft is ready, sir.”

“Thanks.” Tom peered over the side to the craft in the dark water below. “Okay, men, let’s go. Africa is waiting.”

“Belly dancers,” Earl Butler said. “Better be some luscious little belly dancers waiting for me.”

Rinaldi poked him with his elbow. “For you, they’d better be desperate little belly dancers.”

“Watch out, or you’ll end up with a luscious, desperate little case of syphilis.” Tom clambered over the side of the ship and anchored his feet in the landing net. “Remember what the sailors said. Hold on to the vertical ropes, not the horizontal ones, so the man above you doesn’t smash your fingers.”

“Smashed fingers would get me out of this racket,” Sergeant Lehman said.

Swell. Just what Tom needed—a squad leader with a bad attitude. “This is the best racket in the world. By the end of the day, we’ll control two airfields. The French will give up by sunset. Then we can push east into Tunisia while the Brits push west. Rommel will beg for mercy.”

“Sure he will, Lieutenant Sunshine,” Weiser said, but humor warmed his voice.

Tom made his way down the net, feeling with his feet for the rope rungs. “Okay, Weiser-guy, you and your squad are next.”

The men eased their way down the net, grumbling and
cussing, gear and gas masks and rifles slung across their backs so they wouldn’t get tangled in the ropes.

“You’re almost there, sir,” a British voice said from below, and a hand brushed his knee. “Place your foot here, sir. Now ease yourself down.”

Tom held on to the net by his waist. With his left foot on the rim of the boat, he stretched his right foot down until it hit the deck.

The sailor braced Tom’s shoulders. “Jolly good, sir.”

“Thanks.” Tom faced a tall, gangly sailor. “Let’s take care of the rest of this gang.”

“Gang, sir?”

Tom laughed. Americans did have a gangster reputation abroad. “Figure of speech. My platoon. Half of it, anyway.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll take care of your ‘gang’ right well.”

Tom and the sailor helped the men into the boat. No one fell overboard, although several tumbled to the deck. Two of his squads boarded the Landing Craft, Assault while Larry Fong and the other squad boarded another LCA.

The coxswain wheeled the landing craft away from the transport and across the bay, covered by gray clouds from the Allies’ smoke screen. The craft’s wake glowed grassy green from phosphorescence. Tom stared, transfixed. Even in times of war, God created beauty.

A whistling sound, a great splash about a hundred yards to starboard, a giant plume of water in the air.

Tom ducked. Men swore. One man retched overboard. After two weeks on the open ocean, he wasn’t seasick.

One of the British machine gunners in the back of the boat cursed the French. “See if we ever defend your country again. How many of our fathers died in the trenches in the last war? How many of our lads died when the Nazis blitzed through? Too many, I say.”

“Easy now,” the other gunner said. “Soon we’ll all be friendly-like again. Then we can take on the Nasties together.”

Tom swiveled his attention to the bow, where the coxswain conferred over charts with the fourth crewman and pointed at various spots on the shore. Were they lost?

The coxswain swerved the boat farther east. Another LCA burst out of the smoke screen and headed right at them. The sailors yelled at each other and pulled parallel, while Tom gripped the side of the boat for support. After a shouted conference, they agreed on a course.

Tom puffed up his cheeks with air, then blew it out. In this war, Operation Torch was the first joint operation between the British and the Americans, the first big landing for the U.S. Army, and the first American land action outside of the Pacific.

If they failed today, it would set back the effort against Germany for a long time.

And the American troops were as green as the wake behind the landing craft.

“We’d better not prove to be yellow too,” Tom muttered.

In a few minutes, the LCA neared the shore. Orange flashes of tracer fire illuminated the scene. Landing craft swarmed. Some had grounded offshore, probably on sandbars.

The LCA pulled up to the beach. A scraping sound on the hull, and the boat stopped fifteen feet from the shore. Tom scanned the beach. No gunfire greeted him.

The bow ramp creaked open and splashed cold seawater on Tom.

He’d get wet anyway. “Come on, boys.” Holding his carbine over his head, he headed down the ramp. He dropped into the chilly ocean, up to his waist, and sucked in a breath. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”

He sloshed to shore. His men followed, directing less-than-fine words at the water.

Once his feet touched African soil, he tried to sprint, but his legs wobbled and the ground pitched around him. His untied shoes didn’t help. Too much time at sea. How long before he redeveloped land legs?

He staggered to a sand dune and ducked into its shelter, his carbine clutched to his chest.
Please, Lord, don’t make me fire it. Don’t let me kill someone
.

In basic training, his first shot on the rifle range had hit the center of the bull’s-eye. Dead center. “MacGilliver really is a Killiver,” someone had quipped. Tom had directed the rest of his shots to the outer rim of the target. He made sure his score was high enough to pass but low enough to silence the comments. If only he could silence the school-yard rhyme that never left his head.

MacGilliver the Killiver

Needed gold and silliver,

Begged from the DeVillivers.

Old bum MacGilliver.

MacGilliver the Killiver

Shot them through with skilliver.

Our tears will never spilliver

For old Tom MacGilliver.

“Gill! Gill!” Weiser prodded him in the arm. “What now?”

Tom shook out the memory and glanced around. Two dozen shivering dark shapes hunkered by the sand dune, the passengers from his LCA. Now he had to find the rest of his platoon, the rest of his company, and the road to Tafaroui. Easy as Mom’s blackberry pie.

After he tied his shoes, he peeked above the sand dune. All looked clear. He motioned to Weiser, and the signal went down the line. Tom swept his arm overhead, leaped to his
feet, and scrambled over the dune. Sounds to his rear assured him the men were following. Just as he thought they would.

No sign of other people. No sounds of gunfire. No roads or paths. He ran for a stand of scrub pines where he could get his bearings. His legs cooperated better, but the land still heaved from side to side.

“Hi yo, Silver!” a panicky voice shouted from the pines.

Tom dropped to the ground and shouted back the campaign’s countersign, “Awa-a-a-ay!” He didn’t want his men shot up by a trigger-happy GI.

“Howdy, Lone Ranger.” Relief tinged the voice now.

Tom got to his feet and led his men to the pines. Sand clung to his wet uniform and made it even heavier. He squatted below the branches and shook hands with a sergeant with a broad face. A dozen men hid in the brush with him. “Which outfit?” Tom asked.

“Sixteenth Regimental Combat Team. Can’t find the rest of my platoon. This whole thing’s a stinking mess.”

“We’re with the 908th Engineer Aviation Battalion. Don’t suppose you know where the road to Tafaroui is.”

“Don’t know where
I
am.”

“We’re in Algeria. That’s all I can say.”

“Sure about that?”

Tom chuckled and looked around. The beach curved around the bay, and gunfire rang out to the northwest. “Suppose we should go where the action is.”

“Go ahead. I’ll wait for the action to come to me.”

Tom stared into the sergeant’s eyes. Although the man wasn’t in his unit, Tom could order him as an officer. “Come on. We need every hand, every gun.”

“Nah. I should wait here for the rest of my platoon. They landed thataway.” He pointed southeast, away from the town of Arzeu, away from danger.

Tom hesitated. The man was lying, but Tom didn’t want to make any enemies.

He turned to Bernie Fitzgerald, Weiser’s assistant foreman, who carried the map and compass. “Fitz, any idea where we are? How far the road is?”

“Don’t know. Can’t find any landmarks. I think we’re about a mile east of where we were supposed to land.”

“All right. We’ll head toward town, see what we find.” Tom led his men away from the shelter of the trees.

Keeping low, he hugged the side of a bluff and made his way west. Soon he spotted a large landing craft unloading a tank. He motioned for the men to get down, and they dropped to the sand.

“Hi yo, Silver!” Tom shouted.

The armored troops glanced around, rifles at the ready. “Awa-a-a-ay!”

Tom rose and lifted one hand in greeting. When the other men lowered their rifles, Tom led his platoon to the landing craft. “You boys with Combat Command B, by any chance?”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

“Great.” The 908th was supposed to follow them to Tafaroui. The day looked a lot brighter.

A GMC truck rumbled down the rough Algerian road. Tom kept a smile on his men, crammed in the back of the truck open to the pale gray sky. The infantry had secured Arzeu not long after sunrise, and the tanks dashed for Tafaroui.

Tom had found truck rides for his platoon. Thank goodness he’d located Larry and the other squad, but he’d heard nothing of the other two platoons in his company.

For lunch, Tom spread canned cheese from his K ration onto a cracker as the truck bounced along. They passed
through a vineyard, the foliage snipped off to expose bare, twisted vines, then through an orange grove, bright with fruit.

He had plenty to tell Annie in his next letter. Although he couldn’t mention where he was, he could tell colorful stories. Now he could mail his stack of letters. But would they push her away? Possibly, but they’d served a good purpose, and he wouldn’t change a word.

The soldier in the passenger seat leaned out the truck window and faced Tom’s men. “Village coming up.”

“Get your weapons ready.” Tom gobbled his cracker and made sure his carbine was ready to go. The French weren’t succumbing as quickly as the brass had hoped.

Little stone houses with tile roofs lined the road. Stone walls fenced off each home.

The men fell silent. Tom studied the roofs and trees and walls, and he erased his smile. Couldn’t have the men think he was eager to kill.

A high-pitched zing. A bullet pinged off the roof of the truck.

“Take cover!” Tom vaulted over the side of the truck. The shock of landing reverberated up his legs.