With Every Letter: A Novel

by Sarah Sundin

  Fong shook his hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant . . . ?”

  The moment suspended in air, the always-too-brief moment when Tom could be one of the guys. Before they knew his name. Mom was right when she discouraged him from changing his name—lying would be wrong—but he still wished he were someone else.

  He set his face in the proper cheerful expression. “Lt. Tom MacGilliver.”

  The sergeant’s eyebrows popped up in recognition.

  Captain Newman set his hand on Fong’s shoulder. “The sergeant will take Weiser’s place as platoon sergeant, and Weiser will take Duke’s squad, since Duke’s in the hospital and won’t join our excursion. Fong had a couple years of engineering school at the University of California before he got called up. That’s why I put him with you, Gill.”

  Tom’s grin widened. “Cal, huh? I went to the University of Pittsburgh. We can pick each other’s brains.”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t get past my lower division work. But after the war—can’t wait to get back. In the meantime, on-the-job training.”

  “Great. Glad you’re in my platoon.” He motioned for the sergeant to come with him and set a path down the starboard side of the ship. He could think of several reasons for the captain’s decision, the least of which was to put the engineering student with the graduate engineer. Chinese or not, the sergeant wouldn’t be accepted in authority over a squad. And Tom’s platoon served as the dumping place for men the other two platoon commanders in the company didn’t want. The misfit platoon.

  A brisk breeze snaked by, and Sergeant Fong held on to his garrison cap. “Say, Lieutenant, that’s a bum rap of a name. Just like MacGilliver the Killiver.”

  Thank goodness Tom had years of experience smiling over the pain. “He was my father.”

  “Your . . . I’m sorry, sir.”

  “He left when I was five and was gone when I was seven. Barely knew him. And I take after my mother. Completely harmless.”

  “Of course. I never—I didn’t mean—”

  “So what field of engineering are you interested in? I’m in civil.”

  Fong’s face relaxed a bit. “Electrical, sir.”

  “Good.” Tom nodded and leaned on the ship’s railing. He gazed around the estuary of the Mersey River, where dozens of British and American transports anchored, holding the Eastern and Center forces for the invasion of Algeria. The Western force would sail straight from the U.S. to French Morocco.

  “That would be a good place for a bridge.” He pointed northwest to where the Mersey narrowed between Liverpool and Wallasey. “A suspension bridge. The towers and cables would resemble sails, honor Liverpool’s nautical history.”

  The sergeant frowned. “Isn’t there a tunnel under the river?”

  Tom rearranged his arms on the ship’s railing. “Tunnels are so . . . impersonal, hiding underground as if the two sides were ashamed to associate with each other. Bridges are visible, personal, proud to make the connection.”

  Larry squinted at the empty space over the river. “Yeah. Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  The design flew together in Tom’s head. “I want to build bridges all over the world, connect people and places.”

  “Great goal, sir.”

  “Mm-hmm.” If only he could build a bridge between himself and one other human being.

  Gray and white images flickered on the screen in the ward room as Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan bantered in The Shop Around the Corner.

  No one displayed rage and anguish and depression like Jimmy Stewart. Through his acting, Tom could feel those emotions without risk, the tightened muscles, the quickened pulse, the drooping face. Mom said movies were a safe outlet. Movies and prayer. Tom never missed a chance for either.

  And Jimmy Stewart displayed plenty of emotion in this film. An underpaid store manager, unappreciated by his boss, found love in an anonymous letter exchange, only to find that the woman he’d grown to love was actually the obnoxious clerk he parried with every day. Only in Hollywood could that come to a happy ending, but it did, with a kiss and a crescendo of music and a fade to black.

  The tail end of the film whap-whap-whapped in the projector, and Tom jumped up to still the reel.

  The thirty officers of the battalion shifted in their seats, ready to leave, but Captain Newman stood and held up a hand. “Excuse me, gentlemen. That’s not all. Please be seated.”

  Tom settled back into his chair.

  “With Lieutenant Colonel Black’s permission . . .” Newman nodded to the commanding officer of the 908th. “I have an invitation for you.”

  He put one foot on a chair and raised a sheepish smile. With his square face and dark good looks, he could be in a movie himself. “This is my wife’s idea. Personally, I think it’s corny, but my wife’s a beautiful woman, so what can I say?”

  Tom joined in the men’s laughter.

  “This movie inspired her. She charmed the nurses in her charge to write letters to you oafs. Anonymous letters, like in the movie.”

  He held up a stack of envelopes. “You each get one letter. You can reply or not, your choice. If you do, play by my wife’s rules, or she’ll make my life miserable. No names, no pictures, and no personal details—hometown, people’s names, anything like that.”

  Tom sat up taller, and his mouth drifted open. If he were in an actual movie, a shaft of light would have pierced the deck of the ship and landed on him.

  Anonymity.

  Free from the prison of his name, he could be himself. He hadn’t had that with another soul since he was seven. Even with his mother, he kept tight control to reassure her.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Lord, please. Let the letter be from the right sort of woman.

  Lieutenant Newman passed out the envelopes, and Tom ripped his open.

  A snapshot tumbled out. A pretty brunette in a cheesecake pose.

  He sighed. Even though she’d broken the rules, he read the letter. The young woman gushed over movie stars and big bands and dancing with her friends, and said she sent the photo so he’d write back. So he’d know she wasn’t an ugly hag.

  Tom looked up. All around him, men smiled and pointed to their letters. Once again, alone in a crowd. He’d pass the letter on to a man who would appreciate her froth and bubbles.

  A few rows ahead, three officers broke out in raucous laughter, centered around Lt. Martin Quincy, one of three platoon commanders in Company B.

  Quincy stood. “You fellows want a laugh? Listen to this dame—‘Before I start this letter, I must be clear that I’m searching for friendship, not romance. I don’t want to mislead you or toy with your affections. I do apologize if you hoped for a romantic letter from a perky beauty.’

  “You know what that means?” Quincy shook the letter. “She’s a cross between a monkey and a cow.”

  “You lucky dog.” Lieutenant Reed, the third platoon leader, broke down in laughter. “Imagine your children. Your ugly mug and hers.”

  Quincy cussed. “Just my luck. Who wants to trade?”

  “I do,” Tom whispered, but his voice didn’t carry over the crowd’s jeers.

  Quincy crumpled the letter and lobbed it into the trash can by the door.

  The men rose to leave, but Tom stayed in his seat, gaze fixed on the trash can. No one deserved to be thrown away. Abandoned.

  After the officers left, a private arranged the movie reels for rewinding, and Tom retrieved the letter from the trash. He worked it open. Thin old-fashioned handwriting crossed the page, and a flowering vine had been penned up the left side of the paper, with a little bird perched in the top corner. She might not be perky, but she was creative, and Tom smiled.

  He skimmed the part Quincy had mocked and read on.

  An anonymous correspondence appeals to me. In the real world shyness bars me from friendship, but letters remove that barrier. I must warn you, I have little experience with friendship, but I can offer you encouragement and prayer and a listening ear. If this sort of correspondence a
ppeals to you—and I realize it seems strange—please read on. If not, please know you will still be in my prayers.

  If you’ve continued, you probably wonder what kind of woman I am, but anonymity restricts what I can share. I am an only child. My mother died when I was two, but my father is the dearest, most wonderful man, who loves me deeply. I spent half my life stateside and half abroad, accompanying him on botanical excursions. In the jungle I was isolated from other children, and at home I didn’t fit in with the American boys and girls. As a result, I didn’t learn how to make friends. Most people consider my upbringing lonely and odd, but it was a delightful adventure in many ways.

  In the wilderness, I took care of my father and his helpers when they were sick or injured. This is how I found my calling to be a nurse. Nothing gives me greater joy than comforting the sick and wounded and nursing them back to health.

  I’m afraid you’ll find my stories odd. As you may have guessed, I’m not like most young women, and I’ll understand if you don’t wish to correspond.

  Whether or not you choose to reply, I’d like to fulfill this program’s purpose of improving morale. I appreciate your willingness to sacrifice and the hard work you perform in the service of our country. My prayers are with you.

  Sincerely,

  an anonymous nurse

  Tom lay the letter down and smoothed it in his lap. This was his kind of woman.

  3

  Bowman Field

  Louisville, Kentucky

  November 2, 1942

  In the dark, Mellie lugged her gear from the bus stop toward the administration building at Bowman Field. She was supposed to meet the chief nurse, Lt. Cora Lambert, in her office before six o’clock. Would she still be there two hours later? If not, how would Mellie know where to go?

  Since no one was around to see, Mellie let herself smile. She wanted adventure but hardly expected it on an air base in Kentucky.

  Following the instructions she’d received in the mail, Mellie located the administration building. The doorknob turned in her hand—unlocked, thank goodness. She stepped into the dim entryway. At least she could camp inside if Lieutenant Lambert had retired to quarters.

  “Hello?” Mellie called.

  A door creaked open, and yellow light washed down the hall. “Lieutenant Blake?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come in. Mercy, you’re late.”

  “The bus was delayed at the Louisville depot.” Mellie entered the office and set down her gear. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

  Lieutenant Lambert took Mellie’s hand in both of hers. “How nice to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you too.” As long as she told herself this was a professional encounter, not a social one, she’d be fine.

  The chief’s gaze circled Mellie’s head. Her brown eyes widened, her smile flattened, but then she blinked and gave a genuine smile. “Lieutenant Newman spoke highly of you, and I think the world of her. We went to nursing school together.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Mellie unfastened her blue cape.

  “Oh, keep that on. I’ll show you to quarters. You must be exhausted. Are you hungry? Poor dear. The mess is closed, of course.”

  Mellie followed the chief’s tall, trim figure outside. “I bought a sandwich at the train station.”

  “Smart thinking. We’ll need that here.” Her voice lowered into a growl.

  Was that an invitation for a question or just complaining? Mellie winced. She never knew how to respond. “Oh?” she said.

  “You poor thing, coming at such a time.”

  For once, Mellie had chosen the right path. “Oh?”

  The chief flung up one graceful hand. “Just two weeks ago—two weeks—the Army Air Force called for an air evacuation group with both heavy and light transports, but now—now some Director of Military Requirements says he won’t approve puddle jumpers.”

  “Puddle jumpers?”

  “Heavy transports are the large cargo planes, the C-47s. Light transports are smaller puddle jumpers meant for short flights. That was the idea. Light transports can go into combat areas, because they don’t need a long airstrip, and the heavies for the longer hauls. But now? Well, Directors of Military Requirements should keep their noses out of medical care.”

  Mellie adjusted the strap for her barracks bag over her shoulder. “Isn’t that our purpose? To fly close to combat areas?”

  “Exactly.” Lieutenant Lambert’s eyes glowed in the moonlight. “Whisk the patients out of danger, speed them to hospitals, and care for them en route. And some desk jockey can’t see the vision. Granted, it’s revolutionary putting women close to combat. But we can handle it.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s why I came.”

  “Good. You girls are wonderful. So brave and passionate. Some of the nurses did mock air evacuation for the big Army maneuvers in Texas. They just got back. We split them among the three squadrons. You’ll be with Vera, Alice, and Kay. Lively girls and very qualified. They were stewardesses with Pan Am. Perfect for flight nursing. Not only are stewardesses required to be registered nurses, but they’re trained in how to deal with emergencies in the air.”

  Stewardesses. Pretty and perky. “Wonderful.”

  “Here we are.” Lieutenant Lambert opened the door to a wood-frame building. “They had to scramble to build nurses’ quarters. Nothing for women, of course.”

  Mellie stepped into a hallway filled with the scent of fresh-cut pine.

  “Six to a room. Each squadron will be divided into four flights with six nurses each. Rooming together will let you make friends.”

  Mellie sighed. If only it were that easy to make friends.

  Lieutenant Lambert knocked on the second door on the left and led Mellie into cramped military quarters. Two bunk beds stood along one wall, and on the facing wall stood another bunk bed, a sink and mirror, and two wooden chairs. Yellow ruffled curtains hung on the window at the end of the room, an addition by one of the women, no doubt.

  Two nurses on the bottom bunk closest to the window scrambled to their feet.

  “Hi, ladies,” Lieutenant Lambert said. “Are Vera, Alice, and Kay still out?”

  “Nine o’clock curfew, ma’am,” the taller of the girls said in a Southern accent. “They still have time.”

  “They’ll be back soon,” the shorter girl said in a matching accent. “Is this—are you . . . ?”

  “This is Lieutenant . . .”

  “Philomela Blake. Fill-o-mell-a.”

  “Well, isn’t that the sweetest old-fashioned name?” The shorter girl clasped Mellie’s hand in hers, warmth in her blue eyes and an expectant smile on her face—the smile of someone always well liked and never disappointed. “I’m Georgie Taylor and this is Rose Danilovich. We’ve been friends forever. Inseparable. But we’re not exclusive.” She leaned closer, brown curls as bouncy as her voice. “We simply love making new friends.”

  In Mellie’s experience, friendliness never lasted long, but she’d enjoy it while she could. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m leaving now, ladies,” Lieutenant Lambert said. “Have fun getting acquainted.”

  “We will,” Georgie and Rose called as the chief left.

  Mellie scanned the room. All the bunks had been claimed except the top bunk on the left. “Is this mine?”

  “Sure is.” Rose wore her sleek dark blonde hair fashionably curled above her shoulders. “Little rack there for you to hang your things, shelf above, barracks bag on the floor. You know the drill.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Mellie unfastened her cape and hung it up, then added her dark blue service jacket.

  “Philomela,” Rose said. “Don’t think I’ve heard that name before.”

  “It comes from a Greek myth. It means ‘lover of music’ or ‘nightingale.’”

  “Oh!” Georgie sat on her bunk and leaned forward, her hands on the edge of the mattress. “Nightingale. And you’re a nurse. Isn’t that the sweetest thing? Like Florence Nightingale
herself.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Mellie fumbled with bobby pins, removed her garrison cap, and set it on the shelf. How could she escape before she said something stupid? Would it look rude if she claimed fatigue and went to bed?

  “That’s a mouthful though.” Rose leaned against the post for the bunk. “What do we call you?”

  Only Papa could call her Mellie. Nicknames were reserved for intimates, he always said. “Just call me Philomela.”

  “All right then.” Rose sat next to Georgie. “Where are you from?”

  “California mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  Mellie clasped her hands together. She couldn’t go to bed yet, but where to sit? The lower bunks belonged to other girls, and the two chairs were draped with drying stockings. She perched on the edge of a chair, away from the laundry.

  “Mostly?” Rose repeated.

  Mellie drew a deep breath and gazed at the ceiling. “Papa was a botany professor at Stanford. We spent half our time in California, half on excursions. The Philippines mostly, but also the Dutch East Indies, Burma, French Indochina.”

  “How exciting,” Georgie said. “To think Rose and I never left Virginia before this old war started.”

  “Mm.” Mellie wrestled with a smile, wanting to be polite without unleashing its startling fullness.

  Laughter rang in the hallway, the door flew open, and three women walked in, a brunette, a blonde, and a redhead, like a poster for Pan American Airways.

  They stopped inside the door and took in Mellie. Identical little twists appeared on their lips.

  “You must be the new girl.” The redhead lost the twist. She walked over, and Mellie stood to shake her hand. “I’m Kay Jobson. Welcome to the squadron.”

  “Thank you. I’m Philomela Blake.”

  “My, that’s quite a name. I’m Vera Viviani.” The brunette shook Mellie’s hand without looking her in the eye, a little smirk on her full lips—as full as Mellie’s, but her mouth didn’t have the breadth Mellie’s did.

  “Alice Olson.” The blonde had a wide-eyed, innocent beauty, but her eyes glinted as she exchanged a glance with Vera.