by Sarah Sundin
“You’ll be my bunk mate.” Kay patted the bedpost. “Sorry to stick you on top, but I’m usually out late. I’d hate to wake you when I climb up there.”
“I don’t mind.” Any bunk seemed luxurious compared to a bedroll on the jungle floor.
“Sneaking out for a date tonight, Kay?” Vera pulled off her black Army Nurse Corps pumps and tossed them in the corner.
“Nope. Mondays are still open.” Kay stretched out on her bunk, her strawberry blonde hair fanned on her pillow. “Give me time. I’ve only been here a few weeks. Bob on Tuesdays, George on Wednesdays, Harv on Thursdays, Bill on Fridays, Clark on Saturdays—he’s special, and I take Sundays off. It’s the Lord’s Day, after all.”
Vera and Alice laughed. Georgie and Rose didn’t. Neither did Mellie.
“Shocked?” Kay looked up at Mellie with a spark in her green eyes. A spark of challenge and something else, something Mellie identified with—the expectation of rejection.
Mellie’s fingers felt numb. How could she have anything in common with a girl like Kay? She lifted her chin and shook her head. “I’m not shocked.”
“Give me time.” Kay closed her eyes. “I’ll shock you.”
The ladies got ready for bed, and Mellie’s shoulders relaxed. She wiggled out of her blue uniform skirt, took off the black tie and light blue blouse, and put on her nightgown. From her bag, she pulled out her mahogany hairpin box. Aurelio, her father’s favorite guide, had carved it for Mellie’s tenth birthday. Mellie traced the orchid painted on the lid, and her throat squeezed shut. Lord, please keep Papa and Aurelio and all the others safe under the Japanese.
Starting at the crown of her head, she pulled out dozens of hairpins until two long, thick braids flopped down her back, almost to her knees. She undid the plaits, then brushed it out, a long process.
The room fell silent. All watching her.
“My goodness,” Georgie said. “What gorgeous hair.”
“Thank you.” Like Jo March in Little Women, Mellie had her “one beauty,” her long thick hair. She gathered it over her shoulder and into her lap to braid it for sleep.
Vera let out a little laugh. “When was the last time you cut it?”
“I never have.” She could still see Papa’s sweet face marred by haunting pain as he warned her over and over. “A lady never shortens her hair or her name.”
Silence spoke louder than any words could have, and Mellie’s chest tightened. Why on earth had she said that out loud?
“A lady never shortens her hair?” Vera fluffed her glamorous dark hair. “What’s that make me?”
“Obviously not a lady,” Alice said with a snort. “But neither am I.”
“What about me?” Kay rolled over on her bunk. “I’ve got a nickname too.”
Vera gasped. “Shameless hussy.”
“I never claimed to be anything else.”
Mellie lowered her head and gripped her mass of hair down by her waist. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? No one understood how important this was to her and Papa. How could they when she didn’t tell them, and how could she tell them without exposing the family shame?
Georgie was a nickname too, and both she and Rose wore their hair above the shoulder, as did all young ladies nowadays. All but Mellie.
Remorse flooded through her. She stole a glance at Georgie and Rose, who had been so nice to her. Georgie dropped her gaze, and Rose picked up a book.
“I . . . I’m sorry.” Her fingers tangled in her hair, and pain zinged through the roots. If only her pain could erase the pain she’d inflicted. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“You’re living in the wrong century, sister,” Vera said.
Mellie shut her eyes against the damp heat welling inside. Why did she have to be so odd?
4
HMS Derbyshire
Atlantic Ocean
November 6, 1942
Tom sat on his bunk, as close to privacy as he could get at sea. Mom encouraged him to keep a journal, but he never bothered. Seemed so impersonal. But writing Annie, his anonymous nurse, provided the personal touch he craved.
Only one letter had been mailed before they sailed, but on board, he’d written a pile of them. Poor girl had no idea what she’d started.
The rocking of the transport ship made writing difficult, but it also gave him inspiration.
Beneath these surging waves is a vast world I can only imagine. Do the starfish look up at our convoy and wonder about our school of loud, gigantic fish? Do the sea anemones jive to the tunes the boys play on their harmonicas? Do the octopi watch the U-boats slither by, and could they send an ink cloud to warn us?
You thought your stories were odd. Welcome to the little world inside my head. I’d love to hear your stories, the odder the better, and I pray you choose to send them. We both need friends.
“Lieutenant MacGilliver?” a deep voice called out.
Tom craned his neck to look to the doorway, where Corporal Reilly, Captain Newman’s clerk, stood. “Yes?”
“Sir, the captain would like to see you in his cabin.”
“Thanks, Reilly.” Tom extracted himself from the tight confines of the bunk and grabbed his overcoat. After seeing Newman, he’d take a nighttime stroll on deck in the fresh air. The men were restricted to soap-free saltwater showers every three days, and the cabin had grown rank.
Twelve days at sea made Tom feel like a true sailor, stepping over raised thresholds while ducking his head, and scampering up and down the ladder-like stairways.
He entered Newman’s cabin and saluted. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Have a seat, Gill.” The captain sat at a miniature desk next to his bunk and motioned to a chair. He held up a bottle of scotch. “Drink?”
“No, thank you, sir.” Booze had turned his father into a bum and then a murderer. He never wanted to find out what it would do to him.
Captain Newman shrugged and poured himself a shot. “You’ll change your mind in a few days.”
“We’ll see.” Tom managed a grin.
“Tonight we’ll pass through the Straits of Gibraltar under cover of darkness. Another day at sea, then after midnight we’ll land at Oran, Algeria—if the U-boats don’t spot us first.”
“Yes, sir.” So far the convoy had traveled all the way from England without a U-boat encounter. A miracle.
Newman sipped his liquor and peered over the rim at Tom. “Can you handle it?”
“Absolutely, sir.” Fear had never found a home in his soul.
“More important, can you handle your men?”
Tom rubbed his hand over his forearm, making the little blond hairs stand at attention. “Of course. They like me and trust me.”
“They like you as a man. But will they follow you as a leader?”
“Don’t see why not.”
Newman sighed and picked up a stack of papers. “Three companies in this battalion. Three platoons in my company. You know which of the nine platoons has the most discipline problems? Yours. By far.”
Because he got all the misfits. “Yes, sir. They’re spirited.”
“Spirited.” The captain ran his hand through his dark hair flecked by gray over the ears.
“They’ll settle down. They’re cooped up on board with nothing to do.”
“It’s more than that. They see you as a pal, one of the boys.”
Tom nodded. That’s what he wanted.
Newman took another sip of scotch. “It doesn’t work. Look at Quincy’s platoon. He’s got those men under tight control. They’re scared of him, and he uses that.”
Fear as a means of control? “That’s not the kind of man I am, sir.”
“But you’ve got your name. Your name alone sparks fear. Use it.”
Tom sat back in the chair. His eyes stung. “I can’t. I won’t.”
Newman leaned forward. “You’re a good man, Gill. But they don’t have to know that.”
“I can’t be anything else.”
T
he captain lowered his head and let out a deep sigh. “I took a big chance when I chose you. Sure, you’re an actual engineer, and we need engineers like crazy. But for the other commanders, that faded away when they saw your name.”
“I understand, sir.” When he and his mom moved to Pittsburgh after his father’s execution, none of the teachers wanted Tom in their classrooms. Too dangerous. And if not too dangerous, too disruptive. Seven years old, and no one wanted him. That hadn’t changed.
Newman raised his head and looked Tom in the eye. “I saw something in you I liked. I saw goodness. I saw intelligence. I saw ingenuity. That’s why I took you. But now I need to see something more. I need to see you lead these men with authority. This is life and death, Gill.”
“I won’t let you down, sir.”
“For heaven’s sake, if you won’t use your name, at least use your rank. That’s why you have it, so the men will obey your orders instantly.”
“They will, sir. I guarantee it.” They’d obey because they liked him and wanted to please him, not because they feared him.
Captain Newman grunted. “I’ll hold you to that. Now go get some sleep. You won’t get much, if any, tomorrow, and from then on, who knows?”
“Thank you, sir.” Tom left the cabin. He climbed stairway after stairway until he reached the deck, and he drew in a bracing breath of cold sea mist. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
He pulled on his overcoat and turned up the collar. The cold gave him an excuse to hide his face until his smile returned.
His men would follow him. They had to. After the war, he’d need a solid recommendation from Newman to get a job. The name MacGilliver rubbed the luster right off his engineering degree.
His chest filled with unbearable, unallowable heat. Dad hadn’t thought about what his actions would do to his family. Tom had to bear the burden of his name for the rest of his life.
His breath steamed in front of him, and he blew it off, blew it all off. He had to. Lord, help me keep control. Help me lead my men. Help me prove myself.
He headed toward the bow of the ship. Despite Newman’s advice, Tom wouldn’t get much sleep tonight.
A sharp burst of laughter ahead of him. Two men pushed a third man, jeering him.
Tom paused, and his hands clenched in his coat pockets.
“You heard me, chopsticks. Whatcha doing out at night? Signaling your buddy Adolf? Telling him our plans?” Hal Weiser, the lunkhead.
Larry Fong held up one hand and walked away at a brisk pace. He laughed too. “I’m one of you. American through and through.”
“That’s what all spies say.” Who was that with Weiser? Sergeant Lehman? He shoved Larry, made him stumble.
Tom dashed forward, a grin on his face. “Hey, guys! Sergeant Fong, there you are. I’ve been looking for you. Weiser, Lehman, get some sleep while you can.”
Weiser’s fingers worked by his side. “We’re just having fun.”
“Yeah, but it’s late. Good night, boys. Fong, I need to go over something with you.” He put his hand on Larry’s shoulder and led him toward the bow.
Weiser and Lehman grumbled, but they didn’t follow.
Larry’s muscles remained tense.
Tom jiggled his shoulder. “Never mind them. They flunked geography.”
A harsh laugh. “Great. Put that on my tombstone.”
“When they see they can’t rattle you, they’ll leave you alone and find other prey.” Tom stepped up to the bow and leaned his elbows on the railing. “Looked like you smiled the whole time. Do you ever stop smiling?”
Larry cocked one eyebrow. “Do you?”
“No,” Tom said with a laugh.
“Me neither. I don’t dare.”
Tom gripped his elbows. He had to be cheerful to show people he wasn’t a killer. Larry had to prove he wasn’t the enemy. “Has it always been like this for you?”
“Not much in San Francisco. A bit at Cal. But when the war started, it got bad. That’s why I joined up. It didn’t help.”
“Give them time. When they see what you’re made of, you’ll win them over.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. In the meantime, I’ll serve my country as best I can. At least I’m not locked in a relocation camp like my Japanese friends. Just as American as I am, not that I can say that out loud.”
Tom nudged his arm. “You just did.”
“You’re different. You understand.”
“Yeah.” Tom understood more than Larry knew.
In the darkness, the other ships of the convoy showed as a hint of shape, as too much black against the shimmering sea, as a disturbance of the waves. More black lay ahead on the port side, a giant triangle cut out from the starry fabric of the night sky.
“Gibraltar,” Larry whispered, as if his voice might carry to the enemy.
“Wow.” The British territory stood guard at the entrance of the Mediterranean, between Spain to the north and Spanish Morocco to the south. Officially neutral, Spain was one of many unknown variables in Operation Torch. Only a few years earlier, Hitler had helped Franco rise to power in the Spanish Revolution. Would Hitler call him on his debt?
“What do you think the French will do?” Larry asked.
“Who knows?” The French were the biggest variable. French Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia were occupied by Vichy France, the government set up in southern France after the Nazi victory in June 1940. A few weeks later, the British sank French ships to prevent them from falling into German hands. Over a thousand French sailors had died. The Vichy hadn’t forgotten.
Tom drummed his fingers on the railing. “The top brass thinks the French will drop their guns when they see Americans wade ashore. But if they don’t fight us, what will the Nazis do to Vichy France? It could go either way.”
“What about the Germans? Sure, the British just routed them at El Alamein, and Monty’s got Rommel on the run. But do you think Rommel will send troops into Algeria?”
“Who knows? Lot of unknowns. Our army’s one of them. None of us have seen combat yet.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been almost a year since Pearl Harbor. About time we got in the fight.”
“Yep.” Gibraltar grew more massive in Tom’s sight. Only one thing he could count on—the Rock of Ages, far stronger than Gibraltar.
5
Bowman Field
November 7, 1942
Bits of cloud flecked the sky as if angels had indulged in a pillow fight. Mellie crossed the tarmac toward a C-47 cargo plane and lifted her voice to stir up the feathery clouds, singing “All the Things You Are.”
She rounded the plane’s tail and stopped short, her song suspended on a low note. Three nurses already stood by the cargo door, wearing their dress blues. Mellie had planned to arrive first.
Vera Viviani snickered and whispered to Alice Olson, “All the things he is will never be hers.”
Although her cheeks flamed, she gazed around with a neutral expression as if she hadn’t heard. How embarrassing that they thought she pined for love. She just liked the song. At least her dark complexion hid her blush.
Mellie glanced at her watch. Today they were supposed to do something productive for a change. So far they’d done nothing but calisthenics and marching drills as the brass argued about whether or not to use the nurses and in what capacity.
A tune drifted to Mellie—“Keep ’Em Flying.” Rose Danilovich and Georgie Taylor marched to the plane, arm in arm, belting out their own lyrics. “Get us flying. Get us in the air. Get us flying. Grounding us ain’t fair.”
Mellie smiled and pressed her fingers to her mouth. Georgie had a rich, strong alto, which would blend nicely with her own soprano. Rose sang off-key but with courage and spirit.
“Come on, ladies,” Rose called. “Sing along. We’ve got a squadron theme song.”
“A song?” Kay Jobson stepped back and crossed her arms. “Then I need to transfer.”
“We’re nurses,” Alice said in a condescending tone. “If you want to sing for the t
roops, join the USO.”
Mellie edged forward. Her heart thumped, but the conversation had crossed into the professional domain. “As nurses, our job is to comfort our patients. What could be more comforting than music?”
“That’s right, Philomela.” Georgie grinned and extended her free arm. “You’ll join us in our song, won’t you?”
Mellie froze. The image of her singing arm in arm with two other girls was such a foreign image. Appealing, but so strange.
“But Philomela’s a lady.” Vera pressed a hand to her chest. “That would be beneath her.”
Georgie’s hand settled back to her side, the invitation fluttered away, and Mellie ducked her chin. She’d never make friends. How could she when she didn’t know how? And how on earth could she learn? Mellie felt like she was learning to walk at the age of twenty-three.
Mellie blinked hard and studied the plane. The Douglas C-47 was the military version of the DC-3 passenger plane used by civilian airlines. Painted a muted medium green, the plane had a cute snub nose and a large square cargo door. Between the cargo door and the tail, the U.S. Army Air Forces’ white star on a blue disc was painted at eye level.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Lieutenant Lambert strode up, followed by four enlisted men, and she beckoned to about three dozen nurses scattered nearby. “Today these gentlemen will instruct you in the proper use of the litter.”
A tall blonde nurse raised her hand. “Won’t medics carry the patients?”
“Ideally, yes.” Lieutenant Lambert motioned for the ladies to stand in a circle around the enlisted men. “This is experimental, as you know. No one’s performed medical air evacuation in an organized manner. Our plan is to gather patients at airfield holding units. We’ll fly in, and medics will load the patients under our guidance. However, this is war, and war doesn’t follow plans. If there aren’t any trained personnel on the ground, you’ll recruit and train. If you’re under fire or ditching a plane, you’ll carry patients yourselves.”
“Oh my,” Georgie whispered to Rose.
