Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  That, however, would all soon change.

  After weeks of Betty’s diplomatic, systematic prodding, Captain Kitzafenny had agreed to swap her out with a trained medical tech, as soon as one could be spared from Port Moresby. Betty had heard conditions at the major supply port, located on the southeast side of the island, differed drastically from her primitive encampment in Hollandia. Insect and climate issues, though present, would be vastly more tolerable in a developed area with rec hall dances, day-rooms, and beauty shops. Rumor even had it WACs there cooled off in the afternoons by swimming in crystalline waters off sandy beaches shaded by coconut-garnished palm trees. Precisely what she had signed up for.

  Now all Betty had to do was keep tight to the rails and not give her CO any cause to nullify their agreement.

  “Knew I’d find ya at the bar.” Rosalyn Taylor’s velvety drawl reflected the mischievousness in her smile. The South Carolinian private, slight with high cheekbones and short black ringlets, stooped out from the ward’s entry of mosquito netting. She secured the screen back in place, protecting patients suffering odorous wounds from being eaten alive.

  “I was just so parched,” Betty explained sluggishly, preparing to rise. “Did someone need me?”

  “Ah, relax, honey. You’ve been working your fanny off.”

  Betty plopped back down. Her feet throbbed in her shoes.

  Rosalyn lit a cigarette, took a drag, and blew the smoke off to the side. She wiped her glistening face with her sleeve. “I declare, if it isn’t hotter than a blazin’ bin of cotton.”

  The midday temperature felt like two hundred degrees to Betty, thanks to the impossible humidity and her sweat-dampened twill. She dropped her head back and stretched her gaze to the scattering of clouds, her mind reaching for the coolness of higher altitudes. “Cripes. Is it always going to be this hot?”

  “Supposed to taper some by January.”

  “January, huh.” Betty pulsed the chest of her shirt to create a pseudo breeze, then gave up. The movement did no more good than rocking before a coal stove. “So, a couple months and my clothes might stay dry for five whole minutes.”

  Rosalyn chuckled through another stream of smoke. “Reckon you shouldn’t get your hopes up too high, darlin'. Monsoons will be here before you know it.”

  The bulletins just got better and better. Maybe one of the active volcanoes on the island would simply erupt and put them out of their misery.

  “Afternoon, ladies.” Tom, the first ward man Betty had befriended, approached with a bundle. Accustomed to the altered shades of everyone’s skin from anti-malaria tablets, she hardly noticed his yellow hue anymore. “Ambulance driver dropped it by.”

  Betty thanked him for the package as he continued on. She perked up and set her cup aside, never too tired for a gift. From the scrawled words, she already knew who’d sent it.

  To: Miss Grable

  From: Junior

  Rosalyn shook her head. “Gotta hand it to the poor boy. If nothin’ else, he is determined.”

  Averaging twice a week, Junior had employed the help of soldiers whose regular runs to the hospital made them ideal couriers for her diverse presents: shelled jewelry created by natives; collectible currency from the Japanese occupancy; fresh apples bartered off ships in the harbor—like manna from heaven compared to their greasy canned mutton and dehydrated rations, the only food that didn’t mold in the humidity. Not that Betty could tell, from the taste of them.

  “What’s your guess?” she asked Rosalyn. “Two tickets to Hawaii this time?”

  “If it is, Junior will have to buy himself another one. ‘Cause that second seat there’d be mine.”

  Betty smiled and opened the package. On top, bound in tissue, reading For the prom, was a handmade corsage of white orchids and red hibiscus blossoms. She brought the cluster to her nose. In contrast to the usual jungle-hospital stench, the floral fragrance was grander than an entire bottle of Chanel No. 5.

  “Bless his heart,” Rosalyn said, “that boy must be head over heels. Only way of getting orchids round these parts is fetching ‘em from the highest treetops.” She took the corsage and gave it a long whiff. “I do hope you humor the kid, for outright riskin’ his life. At least a peck on the cheek, regulations or not.”

  Kid was certainly the appropriate title.

  “Well, I don’t know about that.” Betty’s thoughts dissolved at the sight of the remaining item in the wrapping. The most splendid treasure on the island. Men’s khaki trousers!

  Utter joy sprang Betty to her feet. She hugged the thin slacks to her chest and barely contained a squeal that shot from the base of her lungs. “He deserves a kiss, all right!” She bounced childishly on her heels, not caring how foolish she must have appeared.

  “Thank the Lord,” Rosalyn said. “Now I don’t have to worry about you up and stealing my only pair while I’m snoozin'.”

  Betty shook out the creased pants and held the top edge to her waist. Back home, she wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing men’s clothing, and this was far from the uniform she’d envisioned when enlisting. Yet here she was, celebrating as if the baggy summer trousers were spun from twenty-four-karat gold. Already she felt several degrees cooler.

  Rosalyn rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “You split these seams apart, top to bottom, and you can stitch ‘em up to fit ya just fine.”

  Sewing was a laborious skill Betty had yet to acquire. Her aunt had tried to show her how to mend socks once, but Betty’s disinterest cut the lessons short. Julia hadn’t even bothered. And what need was there? Even now, a better option stood right beside her.

  “Thing is, Roz, I’m not much of a seamstress,” she began with a slight pout. “But if you’re interested in, say, a trade, I’ve got a beautiful shell necklace I’d be willing to part with.”

  Rosalyn exhaled a gray plume while retaining a knowing smile. “Tell you what, sugar. I’ll do you one better than that. Before lights-out, you come sit on my cot and I’ll teach ya how it’s done. A little thread, a few loops, and you’ll be off and runnin'. How’d that be?”

  “Well, I suppose I could.” Betty sheathed her disappointment, still hopeful. “But wouldn’t it be easier, with me staying out of the way? Maybe I could just watch this first time.”

  “Honey, I was a high school home arts teacher. By sunrise, you’ll be able to make yourself up a whole wardrobe if you like.”

  Betty was about to scrounge up another tactic, then reminded herself that gaining the reputation of being a goldbrick could roughen her pathway to Port Moresby. Besides, in this heat, if it meant a break from her loathsome winter coveralls, a needle prick or two was a meager price to pay.

  “It’s a deal,” Betty agreed as she shooed a mosquito scouting the landing pad of her hand. She watched the bug drift away on nonexistent wind.

  Rosalyn blew more smoke. “You hear about the fresh casualties coming from Leyte?”

  Betty nodded. Another endless night ahead. She rubbed her eyes at the prospect.

  “Best get movin', then. Don’t want Kiss-her-fanny to catch us resting on our laurels.” Kitzafenny’s near miss with a scorpion’s tail in the latrine had recently landed her the secret nickname, one that fit in more ways than one.

  Betty finished up her water and handed over the empty cup, a makeshift ashtray. In exchange, Rosalyn surprised her with an envelope. “Kept a little goodie for ya. Reckoned you’d like to pass it along yourself.”

  Betty bit her lower lip, suppressing a grin that rose like a welt at the sight of his name: Flt. Lt. Leslie Kelly. She shrugged casually. “What makes you think I’d want to deliver this?”

  “Mercy. I have no idea.” Rosalyn smirked before rounding the tent.

  Left alone, Betty studied the name in the return address: Nellie Miles. Yet another of his female correspondents with a surname differing from his own. Evidently, he’d established girlfriends in a chain of ports. A tomcat she’d be wise to steer clear of.

  His quiet reserve,
however, failed to match. A mystery. One that had caused her mind to spin with possibilities, of who he was, who he’d been before the war. On the rim of sleep at night, she’d let her imagination fill in the gaps. As a child, she had created a make-believe father in the same manner, her mind assembling him like Frankenstein—but with better looks and a nicer outfit, military stripes riding the sleeves. Girls with fathers who’d died in the Great War, she had learned, spurred sympathy rather than gossip.

  Betty laid the lieutenant’s letter atop her bundled gifts. She headed toward Ward Four, on the east end of the complex. One step after another, she told her heart there was no need to flutter. He was just another pilot. In the Royal Australian Air Force. With the palest blue eyes she’d ever seen.

  But no need for fluttering.

  In a fluid motion, she swooped around the netting and entered the tent.

  “Heya, Betty,” the burly lumberjack called from the first bed. “My bathwater ready yet?”

  “Still looking for a tub big enough.”

  “Well, if you’re doing the sponging, it’s worth the wait.”

  She shook her head while strolling away.

  Right on cue, the Tennessean banjo player whistled his standard—“Pistol Packin’ Mama”—in ode to her arrival.

  Next came the father of newborn twins, beaming at a fresh photo.

  “They gotten any bigger, Grady?” she asked.

  “An inch a day, according to the missus.”

  “Be outgrowing you before long.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” With the Pacific’s poor evacuation system, the possibility wasn’t all that far-fetched.

  On the sixth cot to the right was the paratrooper with one leg missing from mid-thigh. As was his nightly routine, he meticulously polished both his high-laced boots to a perfect gloss.

  “Evening, Sergeant Doyle.”

  A nod. “Miss Betty.” Then back to shining.

  Finally, up on the left sat the ever-reserved Flight Lieutenant Leslie Kelly. Sketchpad on his lap, he moved his pencil around fairly well in spite of the casts on both forearms. Quick thinking had saved his entire crew, though his forced landing of their Beaufort had earned him bilateral wrist fractures and deep lacerations on his leg and chest. A chest she’d repeatedly dreamt of exploring, mapping every ridge and plain with her hands.

  “Afternoon, Lieutenant.”

  His gaze brushed over her face before returning to his drawing. Earthy brown bangs fell across his broad forehead. “G’day,” he said quietly.

  Her nerves rose beneath her skin. And for what? The man’s scruffy jaw and rugged build portrayed nothing better than a lawless explorer of the outback.

  Channeling her energy, she tucked in a loose corner of the sheet at the bottom of his cot. As she stood, a stray lock flailed like a mast from her head. She shoved the strands into her loose hair roll, noting the odd shade of her arms—an orangey combination from red dust and the yellowing effect of her Atabrine. No longer would she gripe about the camp’s absence of mirrors.

  Compensate with your poise, she told herself.

  Free hand on her tilted hip, she stretched her lips demurely. “I see you’re an artist.”

  His attention held to his paper. “Just passin’ the dyes.”

  It took her a moment to realize he meant passing the “days.” His accent only swelled her intrigue, as did the way he grasped the pencil with his left hand rather than his right. Another unique characteristic.

  She glimpsed the picture he was fashioning in lead. A squinty animal. Round and furry. Quite good, actually. “That’s a lovely koala,” she said.

  He halted and raised his glacier blue eyes. See there? A simple stroke to the ego was all it took. Typical male traits clearly knew no national boundaries.

  “It’s a wombat,” he corrected her with a slight edge.

  “Oh. Right.” She kept her smile while thinking, What the heck is that?

  Back to the mission.

  She presented his envelope. “They missed this one, during mail call.” She set it next to him on the sheet and added in a playful tone, “One of your many lady friends, I suppose.” She waited for a reaction, a denial or affirmation.

  He returned to his drawing pad. “Ta,” was all he said, tossed out like last week’s funnies. A bone to a whimpering dog.

  Her jaw gaped for only a moment before she sealed it shut, hiding her simmering frustration.

  Admittedly she wasn’t in top form, but she’d still declined enough date requests from patients to know she deserved a warmer reception. After all, most men on the island had gone without seeing a civilized female for over a year. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out that barbed wire surrounded the girls’ barracks more to protect the nursing staff from their own soldiers than the enemy.

  So what reason could he possibly have for snubbing her outright? And what did he think made him so special?

  The one thing she did know: She wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

  “Good day, Lieutenant,” she said through tight lips, and strode off before he could reply.

  20

  November 1944

  Chicago, Illinois

  Julia snatched a napkin from the tabletop dispenser and wiped the chocolate shake dripping down her chin. She narrowed her eyes at Ian and tried for a scowl. But her giggles swiftly broke through and blended with the clamor of the hamburger joint—the sporadic dinging of a service bell, the prattling of customers, a Tommy Dorsey tune on the nickelodeon.

  Ian reclined in his white booth seat with a cocky grin.

  “You did that on purpose!” She hurled her wadded napkin at him.

  He showed his palms, a poor feign of innocence. “Not my fault you took a drink right then. I was just telling a story here.”

  Contemplating his tale, she eyed him dubiously, scanning for truth. “Did you and your buddies actually do that?”

  “You wouldn’t blame us if you knew the sarge. He was a real boot.” Ian chomped on the last of his fries.

  “So, then what did he do,” she challenged, “when he found the poor animal in his bed?”

  “That’s the topper of it all,” he mumbled around his food, then washed it down with a slurp of malt. “Sarge was so drunk, he rolled over and gave the goat a smooch on the kisser. Sobered him right up when he realized the hairy thing wasn’t his wife.”

  The image sent giggles again flowing out of Julia. So many this time, her stomach muscles revisited the weariness of a hike around Devils Lake from her Girl Scout days.

  “Whole prank was my bunkmate’s idea. Sarge had it in for the fella since day one. And all because Marv’s last name was Sir. He’d scream in his face, ‘I hope you don’t expect me to call you Sir, Private!’ “ Ian shook his head. “Marv must’ve had double the amount of duties, on account of that blessed name.”

  Recovering, Julia dabbed her happy tears with a fresh napkin and leaned back to catch her breath. Exaggerated or not, his stories were keepers.

  “Are you sure you were in the war all this time?” she said. “Sounds more like a fraternity party to me.”

  The broadness of his smile withered unexpectedly. Memories seemed to pass like a stream beneath his cloudy hazel eyes. “Had our share of both good times and bad, I suppose.” His words came out heavy, almost muffled. He rubbed his thumb on his beveled malt glass, then shifted his gaze to the darkened window.

  Julia regretted the insinuation of her quip. Awkwardness had dangled between them when they first reunited at the bowling alley tonight, but by the fourth frame enough laughter and ribbing had brushed the discomfort away. So much so, in fact, the incidents from her visit the month before—his family dinner quarrel and nightmare manifestation—had slipped into the outskirts of her mind. Only once during their game had she witnessed him jolt at the cracking of bowling pins. And even that was easy to dismiss, given his smart appearance. The pressed slacks and button-up shirt, the Brylcreem-slicked hair. Though still leaner than he was
prior to the service, Ian’s face had gained a healthy fullness, increasing the warmth he now exuded in her direction. At last, an air of acceptance for his brother’s girl.

  And she wasn’t about to lose it.

  Julia aimed for a sly expression. “So what do you think Christian’s going to say? You know, when he hears I whipped his big brother at bowling.”

  Ian smiled as he met her eyes, his outer glow returning. In the reflective glass, he was again the spitting image of her fiancé. “Well, he might have some trouble buying that one.”

  “Oh, and why’s that? Because no male Downing could possibly be beaten by a girl?”

  He moistened his lips and leaned forward, elbows on the table. A curling motion of his finger invited her closer. She obliged, eyebrow raised. The intimate space between them felt cozy as flannel. A space reserved for Christian that only his sibling could borrow with ease.

  “Truth is,” he said quietly, “I might’ve understated my usual score by a bit.” A likely excuse to protect his male ego.

  “Are you claiming you let me win?”

  He sat back. Another grin settled on his face. “You really did bowl a decent game,” he assured her. “If it’s any consolation, it’s one of the few sports I still beat Chris at.”

  As she analyzed the remark, her pride began to cower. She knew firsthand that Christian’s athletic abilities didn’t exclude the art of bowling. Which meant, if Ian was being as honest as he sounded, he indeed had purposely fumbled tonight’s game of tenpins.

  She flew back in her seat and crossed her arms, feeling her cheeks flush. “I did a victory dance for five minutes, and you never said a word.”