by Sarah Sundin
As the convoy lumbered out of Constantine, Hank studied the sky as much as the road. German Stuka dive-bombers menaced the front, but the Luftwaffe wouldn’t venture toward Telergma until they realized an airfield was being built.
Sesame poked his head over the side of the jeep, and the wind buffeted his ears. Soon he lay down with his head in Tom’s lap, and Tom pulled out the latest letter from his mother to read again. To pray over again. The last section made his stomach squirm.
Thank you for telling me of your anonymous correspondence. However, I do feel you’d be better off with a journal. A few things cause me concern. What if you get accustomed to being open with this woman and forget to maintain the cheerfulness that serves you so well? What if you become attached to her—or she to you—and reveal your identities? What if she rejects you? I’m afraid you’ll set yourself up for a broken heart, and perhaps her as well.
You’re a wonderful young man, Tom, and someday a godly young woman will see that. In the meantime, please don’t settle for what looks like the easy road but could be the road to heartbreak.
Yep, his stomach still squirmed. He didn’t worry about himself, but he’d never thought about breaking Annie’s heart. She said she wasn’t looking for romance, but what if they did fall for each other? He could handle unrequited love. He’d done it before. But what about her? What if she insisted on revealing their identities? He couldn’t risk linking his name and his true self. It would be over.
Who was he kidding? It hadn’t even started. Most of the men had received responses. Maybe his first letter had been too secretive and raised alarms for her. Or maybe the deluge of shipboard letters made her think he was deranged.
He smiled and stroked his dog’s sleeping head. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.
Up in the front seat, Captain Newman let out a loud groan. “I don’t know why on earth I let my wife talk me into this.”
“Into what, sir?”
“This stupid Shop Around the Corner thing. These blasted letters.” He held up a handful of envelopes. “Sort them out. Figure out which letters go to which man. Then package up the letters for the girls. I feel like I’m running a matchmaking service, not a battalion.”
Tom sent him a grin. “Sorry, sir.”
“Yeah, you and your pile of letters. At least she doesn’t write as much as you do. Only two here.”
Tom’s heart turned over. “Two?”
“Yeah.” He flipped through his map case and handed back two envelopes with “Gill” scrawled on them in masculine script. “Last time I let my wife have her way.”
“Yeah.” His voice felt stiff, his fingers like chunks of wood. Annie had written him back. Two letters. That meant she wanted to correspond. With him.
He jammed a finger under the lip of the first envelope and worked it open, then the second. One was written November 7, the other November 16. She wouldn’t have received his shipboard letters yet. He unfolded the first letter. In the top right corner, she had drawn a cardinal sitting on a maple branch.
Dear Ernest,
Since you didn’t suggest a nickname for yourself, this is what I chose. If you’ve read The Importance of Being Earnest, you know it’s about a man who takes a name that isn’t his own, and a comedy of mistaken identities follows. I also think Ernest is a fine, solid name. If you prefer something else, let me know. I’m fine with Annie.
I was surprised to receive a reply, but pleased. I can’t imagine why you were intrigued by my letter, unless it was truly one lonely soul responding to another. That’s why I replied as well.
Each of us has a barrier to friendship. Despite your barrier, you’ve managed to attract friends on at least a superficial level. This interests me. I hope our correspondence will help me learn to make friends too. Is that selfish of me? Perhaps our letters will also help you deepen your friendships. We can certainly pray about it.
So what shall I talk about? My odd upbringing? My social inadequacies? My meditations on Scripture? Sweet stories of my father? Friendship is unfamiliar to me, and I don’t know how to proceed. But I have to start somewhere.
Last week I transferred to a new unit, which offers wonderful opportunities and challenges. However, a new base always means a few weeks of settling in. The nicest girls try to include me, I respond in an awkward manner, they give up, and then I retreat to my usual solitude. In the meantime, whenever possible, I stroll in the forested hills and enjoy the soft fall of rain and the song of the cardinal in the maples.
As for you, please tell me anything you’d like within the constraints of anonymity and military censorship.
Not knowing what else to say, I’ll sign “my” name.
Annie
Tom’s throat felt thick, like it did when he had a cold. “Thank you, Lord,” he whispered.
She was hesitant and warm and vulnerable and honest. And she needed him as he needed her.
He wanted to shout over the ocean so she’d get his answer immediately. Yes, write about anything at all, but write and write and write.
He proceeded to the second letter. No drawing this time.
Dear Ernest,
I hesitate to write you again. My reply couldn’t have reached you yet, and I haven’t received any further letters from you. Since you’re overseas, the process could take a month or more.
I need advice, and you’re the only one I can think to ask.
Even if you have only superficial friends, you present yourself in such a way that others accept your company, even seek it. I need to learn this. My job depends on it. My new chief nurse told me if I don’t make friends with the nurses, I won’t be able to stay. This job fulfills my dreams to travel and be independent and blaze new paths, and I’m heartbroken.
Two of the nurses reached out to me at the beginning, until my awkwardness pushed them away. Today, after the chief nurse gave me a one-week deadline, I reached out to them. I’ve never done anything like this before in my life. It was extremely uncomfortable, but they’re kind souls and sat with me at dinner. I think it went well, although I have nothing to compare it to.
I know I need to trust in the Lord, but honestly, Ernest, this terrifies me. Whenever I’ve opened up to others in the past, it’s always ended in rejection.
If you have any advice, I’ll take it.
Here I’ve gone on for a page about myself and not asked you a single question. Do you see why I need advice about making friends?
Please forgive me. How are you? I don’t know if you’ve joined the most recent large invasion, and I know you can’t tell me, but I’m praying extra hard in case you have. I hope you’ll reply. I’d love to hear your stories and dreams and thoughts.
My prayers are with you.
Annie
Tom’s chest felt lighter, as if all the air over Africa had entered and lifted him up, filling him with enticing strangeness. A true friendship lay before him in all its uncertainty and promise. For the first time since his father’s death, he could be genuine with another person. Best of all, this friendship wouldn’t be one-sided. She’d asked for his advice, and that made him feel bigger and stronger.
Mom had made her point. He’d be careful with Annie’s heart and make sure she knew their friendship could never grow beyond anonymity. But this was too good a gift, and all good gifts came from the Lord. How could he turn away God’s graciousness?
He returned the letters to their envelopes, settled back in his seat, and rubbed Sesame’s ears. Sesame and Annie—thank you, Lord.
The convoy wound its way through a village and turned south to a raised plain. Tom leaned forward in his seat. “Is this it?”
“Yep,” Captain Newman said. “Telergma.”
When the jeep stopped, Tom climbed out and unleashed Sesame. The dog was a good little hunter and always returned.
A cool wind brushed his cheeks. He squatted down and crumbled soil in his fingers. More sand content than clay, not unexpected so close to the Sahara Desert. The Twelfth Air Force had do
ne well selecting the site. The high ground and sandy soil would drain well. The open land had good approaches for aircraft.
Tom strolled along as trucks and jeeps parked and men unloaded. Few trees or bushes to remove. Of course that meant less lumber for building and fuel for campfires. He kicked at a boulder. That would have to go, but he didn’t see too many obstacles.
The runway would run east to west, aligned with the prevailing wind. Buildings and control tower to the north. He could see it in his mind. Tonight he’d set down plans with the other officers.
Tom turned his face to the pale sun. “Then I’ve got a letter to write.”
11
Bowman Field
December 11, 1942
Captain Maxwell distributed cardboard boxes to the eight tables in the classroom, ending with Mellie’s flight of six nurses. He set a box in front of Vera Viviani and flashed her a grin. “This is the only one you get, ladies. Plasma is a precious resource. Treat it with care.”
“Of course, sir.” Vera glanced through her long lashes. “I treat everything with care.”
“I’m sure you do. You ladies are fine examples of—” His gaze landed on Mellie. His smile twitched.
Although her heart folded in two, Mellie turned to the box and patted it. “Let’s get started.”
“This is exciting, isn’t it?” Georgie gave her shoulders a cute little lift. “Someday we’ll get to administer plasma in flight.”
Maxwell returned to the front of the classroom. The nurses would keep the handsome surgeon busy with questions they really didn’t need to ask.
Vera pulled the box to her end of the table, Alice tore off the tape, and Kay lifted the lid.
Mellie frowned. They only had one box and needed to share. Should she speak up? “I think that box is for all six of us.”
Alice looked up with wide innocent eyes. “Oh . . . well, of course. But there’s only enough work for two or three.”
Mellie chewed on her lip. “Perhaps we could put it in the center of the table so everyone could see, then we could take turns performing the steps.”
A corner of Vera’s mouth flicked up. “Who put you in charge?”
Mellie dropped her gaze to the table. She thought she’d been polite, but she’d failed again.
“Come on, Vera.” Rose held up her hands, palms outstretched. “Mellie has a point. We’ll fly alone, so each of us needs to know how to do it. This may be our only training.”
Mellie glanced around the room. The other flights of nurses cooperated, laughing and helping each other. “In the field, we’ll need to work together.”
Kay reached in the box and used a drawstring to pull out two tall tin cans. She set them smack in the middle of the table. “I don’t want to do all the work around here.”
Alice’s face reddened, and Vera pursed her lips.
Kay flipped her strawberry blonde hair off her shoulders. “Rose, Georgie, open the cans. We’ll go clockwise. Is that fair, Philomela-Mellie?”
She nodded. “Thank you. And please call me Mellie.” She couldn’t tell if Kay’s teasing was friendly or mean-spirited, but at least they’d all get to train. They needed it.
Something had shifted in Washington. Generals called for air evacuation in the Pacific and North Africa, and everyone rushed to get the nurses off the ground. On November 30, Gen. David Grant, the Air Surgeon, made a public call to recruit flight nurses. Bowman Field buzzed with activity. The day before, two squadrons were officially activated and named the 801st and 802nd Medical Squadrons, Air Evacuation, Transport. Mellie was in the 802nd.
Rose and Georgie pried keys off the tops of the tin cans and opened the lids. A little whoosh signaled the breaking of the vacuum. They laid out the contents of the cans—a 300-cc glass bottle of sterile water, a bottle containing translucent white flakes of dried plasma, rubber IV tubing, and needles.
Mellie scanned the instructions that came in the box, then passed them on to the others. “First we need to transfer the water to the plasma bottle.” After she wiped both stoppers with rubbing alcohol, she poked a double-ended needle through the rubber stopper in the water bottle. Tilting both bottles sideways, she inserted the other end of the needle into the plasma bottle. Water gurgled through and wet the flakes.
Vera took the bottle assembly and swirled it to dissolve the plasma. “It’s losing the vacuum. Must not have been done right.”
Mellie winced. She’d been very careful.
Georgie patted Mellie’s forearm and smiled at Vera. “Sometimes that happens. That’s why they include an airway needle.”
Vera inserted the needle into the rubber stopper of the water bottle. Air rushed in, and the water resumed its flow. “What are your plans tonight, gals?”
Georgie pushed the rubber IV tubing to Alice. “Rose and Mellie and I are going to see The Road to Morocco at the Palace Theater downtown—Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and Dorothy Lamour. Doesn’t that sound fun? We’d love it if y’all joined us.”
Vera, Alice, and Kay gave Georgie a blank look. The question hadn’t been directed to her.
“Isn’t that sweet of you?” Alice inclined her blonde head. “I’m going out with my boyfriend.”
“I have a date,” Vera said.
“Friday’s Bill’s night.” Kay arched one eyebrow. “He ships out soon. Gotta give him something to fight for.”
Mellie studied Kay’s face. Why did she delight in shocking people? Why did she need so many men to feel complete? And what kind of hurt produced such behavior?
Alice giggled. “Gordon should give me something to fight for. I’m shipping out soon. He’s staying here.” Then her face stretched long. “I sure will miss him.”
“I understand,” Georgie said. “I’m going to miss Ward. At least here he can visit every once in a while. He’s just a hopeless little boy when I’m away. Goodness, he was beside himself when I was in Alaska. But now I’ll be overseas. Poor thing.”
“Yes. Well.” Alice pulled the water bottle and needle from the plasma bottle. “Why is it if a man goes overseas, his woman is supposed to wait for him, but if a woman goes overseas . . . ?” Her mouth crimped.
“Oh, honey.” Georgie stretched one hand along the table toward Alice. “I know he’ll wait.”
Alice jerked up her head. “I didn’t say he wouldn’t.”
Georgie’s hand retracted.
Mellie stared at Alice. How could someone so beautiful have insecurities? And how could she snap at Georgie, who only wanted to give the whole world a hug?
She wanted to pat Georgie’s arm or hand or something, whatever girls did. But would that comfort her or embarrass her?
Rose and Georgie exchanged a soft look, a twitch of a smile, a humorous lift of the eyebrows. How did they do that? Friendship took practice.
Mellie shouldn’t have stopped at the PX on the way to the theater. If she’d known Ernest had written eight letters and they’d all arrive today, she would have waited. But now she sat on the bus, trying to read and absorb, while Rose and Georgie sat in the seat in front of her, watching with expectant grins.
I’ll never understand man’s inhumanity to man. Just because his ancestors came from China, not Europe, my platoon sergeant gets teased, excluded, and worse. He’s a good man—smart, funny, bighearted, but all they see is the color of his skin.
Isn’t that why we’re fighting this war in the first place? Because the Germans hate the non-Germans? Because the Japanese hate the non-Japanese? How are we any better?
Poor Annie, saddled with my rant. But that’s one of the reasons I crave your friendship. I can’t rant to anyone else. And this kind of nonsense makes my blood boil.
“Well?” Georgie’s Southern drawl slung the word up the musical staff. “What’s he have to say?”
Mellie wanted to soak in Ernest’s words. He cared deeply about his men. He hated how people judged others. And he’d chosen her to confide in. Yet she lifted her head to engage with her friends. “He says all sorts of wonderf
ul things.”
“It’s so romantic,” Georgie said. “The meeting of two hearts, two minds.”
“It’s not romantic, it’s—”
“I wish Lambert would set up something like that.” Rose crossed her arms on the seat back and leaned her chin on her forearms. “About the only way I could meet a fellow.”
Georgie nudged her with her shoulder. “Nonsense. A lovely girl like you? Give it time.”
“You’re the one talking nonsense.” Rose wrinkled her freckled nose. “You’re the sweet flower the boys buzz around. I’m the blunt-talking sidekick. In the movies the sidekick never gets the boy, or if she does, it’s the hero’s loudmouth best friend, and the sidekicks insult each other and exchange weird smacking kisses. That’s not for me.”
Mellie smiled although Ernest’s open letter called to her. “The insults or the kisses?”
“Neither,” Rose said with a laugh. “I want a fellow who says nice things to me and kisses me like I’m precious. Georgie has that with Ward. I want it too.”
“Well, you can’t have Ward.” Georgie winked. “But we’ll find you someone, right, Mellie?”
“Me?” She laughed. “I can’t be much help. Men don’t look at me unless I’m changing their bandages or giving them morphine.”
“You did something right to get engineer-man to write eight letters,” Rose said.
Mellie shook her head and stared at the letter in Ernest’s square handwriting. She couldn’t imagine what she’d done to deserve pages full of funny shipboard stories, deep musings on God, and insights on friendship and loneliness.
Her fingers itched for pen and stationery, but she tucked the envelopes into her Army Nurse Corps shoulder bag.
Rose looked out the bus window. “We’re here, ladies. Louisville’s finest theater.”
“I love the Palace,” Georgie said. “The theater alone is worth the ticket price.”
