With Every Letter: A Novel

by Sarah Sundin

  “Can you believe this place?” Alice Olson strolled across the grounds with Kay and Vera. “K rations for dinner, sleeping on the cold, hard floor, and now it looks like rain.”

  Rose chuckled. “Thank goodness we came ashore yesterday. Alice has new and different things to complain about.”

  “I was worried she’d run out,” Georgie said.

  Mellie didn’t join their laughter, but she did smile. Alice’s whining had even gotten on Vera’s nerves.

  “Ladies!” Lieutenant Lambert called from the doorway. “Come inside please. Mail call and then we head to our bivouac area.”

  “Mail call.” The phrase hopped rabbitlike over the grass. They hadn’t had mail for over two weeks.

  The twenty-four nurses of the 802nd MAETS sat on the floor of the villa’s main room, void of furniture. The ladies wore their dark blue service jackets now paired with matching trousers. On board the Lyon, Georgie had helped the ladies refashion their jackets into the new waist-length style.

  A sergeant passed out mail, and the ladies chattered like parakeets in the Filipino jungle.

  Mellie received four letters from Ernest. She opened them and examined the dates—February 2, 6, 9, and 13. All before the German offensive. In Mellie’s heart, the thick pool of worry for Papa expanded to cover Ernest.

  Georgie waved a Victory Mail envelope in front of Rose’s face. “Look at this. Mailed February 8. We didn’t know where we were going, but the Army Post Office did.”

  “From one of your sisters?” Rose glanced at the envelope. “Your parents?”

  “Ward. Now that he discovered V-Mail, I’ll never get a full letter again.” Georgie opened the square envelope and pulled out a single sheet, one-quarter the size of a normal letter. She squinted at the contents. “He’d better improve his handwriting. Look at this.”

  Rose obeyed too eagerly. “It’s manly handwriting.”

  “Doesn’t he know they photograph his letter, put it on microfilm, ship the film overseas, then print it here all itty-bitty?”

  “At least he wrote.”

  Georgie sighed and gazed at Mellie’s envelopes. “I wish he wrote like Mellie’s man.”

  “He’s not my man.” A bubbly feeling in her chest contradicted her words. Over two weeks had passed without word from him, but now his warmth and insight and humor lay on four precious pieces of paper.

  She smoothed out the earliest letter and smiled at Ernest’s familiar square handwriting. Although she didn’t know his name or face, she knew his heart and mind and soul, what mattered in a man.

  The feelings that billowed inside her—were they nothing more than affection for a friend? She was so new to friendship it was hard to tell, but her feelings for Georgie and Rose didn’t compare. Her feelings for Ernest flipped her organs around and frolicked on her lips and tingled over her skin.

  Was it love? How silly to fall in love with a man she’d never met.

  And futile. Anonymity was the foundation for their friendship. He needed anonymity to express his feelings, and she needed it too. If he met her . . .

  A shiver disrupted the bubbles.

  If he met her, he’d be disappointed. Her looks were simply too . . . unconventional, so she hid behind anonymity.

  For the first time in her life, that bothered her.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for forgiveness. The Lord gave her a good life—serving him by serving others. Not only could she support herself, but she enjoyed travel and adventure. To ask for love on top of all that would be greedy.

  “Is Ernest all right?” Georgie asked.

  Mellie’s eyes popped open. “Ernest? Yes, I’m sure he’s fine. I haven’t read much.”

  “Admiring his handwriting?” Georgie’s smile tipped to one side. “It’s a lot better than Ward’s.”

  “What’s Ward have to say?” Rose looked over Georgie’s shoulder.

  “The price of feed, too much rain, the usual. You know us, like an old pair of shoes, comfy and boring. Oh, he said to say hello to Danny. Ah, his old childhood nickname for you.”

  Rose’s eyes softened. “Tell him I said hello back.”

  A sigh flowed from deep inside Mellie. She wasn’t alone in tumultuous feelings and unrequited love, if love was indeed what she felt.

  She turned to the first letter.

  Dear Annie,

  Today’s friendship tip—ask questions. Most people love to talk about themselves. Even shy people warm up when someone shows interest in them. Ask where they’re from and what they do. Ask their opinion on the weather and the war. Ask about their family and friends. You can have a lot of conversation without revealing one thing about yourself. I’m an expert at that.

  All’s fine here except occasional unwanted visitors from above. Sesame doesn’t like them, but they don’t bother me. I like to think I’m courageous, but in reality, I’m not terribly concerned whether I live or die. Mom and Sesame and you are the only reasons I hop in the slit trench. Do you think people have more fear when they have more to live for?

  I apologize for the tone of this letter. You’re the only one who knows I’m in a foul mood. Everyone else thinks I’m happy. But how can I be when my CO doubts my abilities, when I doubt my own abilities, when my men don’t listen to me? I’m giving you friendship tips. Got any leadership tips for me? If I don’t learn how to lead, my career’s over.

  Thank goodness for anonymity. I’d hate to lose your respect too.

  Mellie looked up from the page. Some of the ladies were still reading and some had gotten up to get their gear ready for the truck ride and hike to the bivouac area.

  Poor, sweet Ernest, trying to advise her when he needed advice himself. But his words did more than awaken her concern. They prodded the bubbles back to life.

  She gave him a reason to live? Right up there with his mother and dog?

  With effort, she reread the last paragraph. Anonymity. He needed anonymity. She couldn’t let her feelings gallop out of control.

  “Oops. Wrong Lieutenant Blake.” Across the room, Wilma Blake from another flight stood up and waved a letter. “Mellie, got one of your letters again.”

  “Thanks, Wilma.” Another letter from Ernest? Maybe he’d have news from after the offensive. Mellie stood and met Wilma halfway. However, the letter wasn’t the usual envelope in an envelope from Captain Newman. The return address—the Red Cross.

  “Oh my goodness.” Her knees wobbled and her hands went cold. Papa was dead. No, Papa was alive. No, they still didn’t have word.

  “Mellie, are you all right?” Georgie called.

  “The . . .” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “The Red Cross.”

  “Heavens.” Georgie scrambled to her feet and over to Mellie. “Sit down. Sit down and take a deep breath.”

  “Papa.” The word tumbled out of her mouth, high-pitched and tight.

  Georgie eased her to the ground, and Rose scooted to her other side.

  “Are you okay?” Rose asked. “Do you want us to read it for you?”

  Mellie worked hard to focus on Rose. What had she ever done without friends? “Would you please?”

  After Rose pried away the letter, Georgie held Mellie’s hands in hers.

  Rose opened the letter, unfolded it, and scanned it. Her expression softened, and she glanced up. A gentle smile curved her lips. “He’s alive.”

  Mellie’s chest heaved. Her thoughts whirled. “He’s . . . he’s . . . ?”

  “Alive. Yes. He’s at Santo Tomas, a Japanese prison camp for civilians. He’s alive, Mellie. He’s alive. Here’s his address and instructions to write him.”

  A year of tension welled up and escaped in giant, laughing sobs. On either side, her friends embraced her, comforted her, supported her weight, and rejoiced with her.

  She wasn’t alone after all.

  Assi-le-Meur, Algeria

  February 27, 1943

  “I can’t believe we only get one quart of water each day for washing.” Alice Olso
n filled her helmet with water from the Lister bag, which hung like a giant udder from a wooden frame.

  “We also get two showers a week.” Mellie unbuckled her helmet, which barely fit over her hair.

  Vera glared at her. “That’s fine if you’re used to living in primitive conditions.”

  Mellie gave her a sweet smile. “I am.” Lieutenant Lambert encouraged her to share her knowledge of living in the field. Some accepted it, others didn’t.

  The bivouac area near Oran, nicknamed Mud Hill, was definitely primitive. Standing in line for chow, eating from mess kits, sleeping in tents under mosquito netting, latrines, slit trenches, and limited water.

  When Alice and Vera finished, Mellie knelt, opened the spigot, and filled her helmet with her daily quart of disinfected water. She chewed her lip. The shower time was too short for a shampoo. Somehow she had to figure out how to wash her mass of hair in one quart.

  Mellie closed the spigot and picked her way through the mud toward the tent she shared with eleven other nurses.

  In the jungle she could wash in rivers and streams, but not in Algeria.

  She glanced down at her helmet. A quart was barely enough to dampen her hair. She knew better than to complain, but her scalp itched from dirt and bugs, and she longed for a good scrubbing and thorough rinse.

  She passed a group of nurses washing their hair in their helmets. They managed, but they wore their hair nice and short. Practical. And cute.

  Mellie worked her fingers under her braids and scratched.

  For the first time in her life, she wanted to hack it all off.

  What about Papa? He’d be so disappointed, so worried. Her long hair reassured him she wouldn’t turn into her mother.

  Mellie stopped and stared over the sea of khaki canvas tents under the leaden sky. Or did she wear her hair long to assure herself she wouldn’t turn into her mother?

  That was ridiculous. Wild living never tempted her. Papa knew that. Mellie knew too. Did it run deeper?

  She scrunched her eyes shut and swayed. Telling her mother’s story to Ernest opened unexplored compartments in her mind. Had she truly forgiven? Was her long hair nothing but a rejection of her mother?

  Would a haircut, in some tiny way, act as a badge of forgiveness?

  She opened her eyes and looked around. Hundreds of ward and flight nurses, none with hair below their shoulders. Short hair wouldn’t make the women like her, but would it show the women that she liked them? That she was willing to identify with them?

  What about Papa?

  Mellie strode forward, careful not to lose a drop of water. Had she clung to her long hair in a subconscious attempt to keep him alive? Why, that would be silly and superstitious. Besides, after what Papa had endured, he would be thrilled to see Mellie even if she were bald.

  Outside her tent, Georgie and Rose played cards, their hair wrapped in towels.

  “Hi, ladies.” Mellie burrowed her helmet down into the mud so it wouldn’t spill. Before her friends could ask questions, she ducked into the tent, heavy with the scent of damp, dirty canvas.

  She opened her carved mahogany box, set it on her cot, and yanked out dozens of bobby pins. Determination filled her chest, and a smile flicked up. No more poking bobby pins.

  Her braids swung down almost to her knees. “Georgie, may I borrow your sewing scissors?”

  “Sure,” she called from outside. “You know where they are. What do you need them for?”

  “Just need to trim something.” She grasped a braid in one hand and the scissors in the other and paused. Lord, it’s just hair. It needs to go for hygienic reasons. It needs to go so I can forgive my mother. It needs to go so I can be part of the group. And it needs to go if I’ve made it an idol.

  With her jaw set, she sawed at the braid. Too thick. She poked the scissor point between the plaits and cut them one at a time. One, two, three.

  A long, black braid dropped to the dirt like a dead snake.

  Mellie grabbed the metal mirror from her toiletry kit and stared at her dim image. On the left side, her hair unwound, popped free of the braiding, and sprang up just below her chin.

  “Oh my goodness.” She’d cut it shoulder length, but it had wave—more wave than she knew. It was short. So short. She pawed at the locks, the springy ends, the curls, the void below her shoulders. Her head felt light and lopsided.

  “I’ve done it now,” she whispered. Now she could ask for help.

  She wrinkled her nose. She hated to draw attention to herself and have everyone make a fuss, but it couldn’t be avoided.

  “Rose,” she called. “You’re good with haircuts, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why?”

  Georgie gasped. “You don’t want to cut your hair, do you?”

  Her cheeks flamed. “Already have. I need help evening it out.”

  The women burst through the tent flaps. Their mouths hung open.

  Mellie gave them a shrug and a wink, and fluffed the short side of her hair. “Being a lady is overrated.”

  Rose laughed. “Goodness. What did you do? Why?”

  “It’s heavy, it itches, and it isn’t practical here.” Mellie grabbed her towel and edged past her friends and out of the tent. She sat on a camp stool and held out the scissors to Rose. “Please. I look ridiculous.”

  Georgie squatted in front of her with wide, concerned eyes. “You never said anything.”

  “You might have talked me out of it. Now you can’t.” She wiggled the scissors in Rose’s direction. “Please. Would you please even it out?”

  “Love to.” Rose fingered Mellie’s cut hair. “When I’m done, we’ll have to beat off the boys.”

  A little laugh popped from Mellie’s lips. “A miracle worker, are you?”

  “You know I am.” Rose put one hand on her hip, tilted her head, and snipped the scissors in the air. “Watch and be amazed.”

  Georgie took Mellie’s hand. “But why? You said long hair was important to your father.”

  “It is.” Mellie closed her eyes as Rose chopped off the other braid. Her head felt as if it would float away. “He didn’t want me to turn out like my mother.”

  “Your mother?” they said together.

  The story came more easily now that she’d told Ernest. “She was raised in the Philippines. Her father was stationed there in the Army, married to a Filipina. Papa met her on one of his botanical excursions. After I was born, they came to California. My mother had never been to the States, and she decided she’d never really lived. She bobbed her hair, went to the speakeasies, and neglected Papa and me. One night when I was two, she crashed a car into a tree and died.”

  “Oh no.” Georgie squeezed Mellie’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  Rose’s scissors kept snipping. “That’s why he never wanted you to cut your hair.”

  Mellie nodded.

  Rose clamped a hand on her head to stop her. “If you don’t want it any shorter, sit still.”

  Georgie rubbed her thumb over the back of Mellie’s hand. “You’re not your mother. You know that, don’t you?”

  Mellie gave her a smile. “I know. That’s why I cut my hair.”

  Rose snipped away. “You tell your old man you’ve got two gals to keep you out of bars. We’ll keep you straight.”

  “You’d better,” Mellie said with a laugh. “You know what a wild woman I am.”

  Georgie’s eyes glistened. “Wait till you see. You’re as cute as can be. Let me get a mirror.”

  Her hair tickled her neck and cheeks. “Are you done, Rose?”

  “Hold your horses, missy. You’ve got gobs of hair.” Scissors snipped. “A little more.”

  Georgie returned and handed Mellie the mirror. “See? You look like Rita Hayworth but with black hair.”

  Mellie blinked. She didn’t recognize the face in the mirror. It looked so modern. Nothing like the movie star, nothing at all, but she did look almost . . . almost cute.

  Rose fiddled with her hair. “See, y
ou roll it like this, up from your forehead. My, you have a nice hairline. And you pin it here. I am so jealous. Your hair is so thick and wavy. Just gorgeous.”

  Mellie fingered the fluff of curls around her jawline. Somehow it minimized the severity of her mouth. She ventured a partial smile and startled at the sight. For the first time, she saw a hint of exotic beauty.

  “You look so pretty,” Georgie said. “But then I always thought so.”

  What would Ernest think? Mellie peered at her image, fuzzy and dark in the metal mirror, and she sighed. She’d never find out, and that was best.

  18

  Youks-les-Bains Airfield

  Algeria

  February 28, 1943

  Tom forced himself to lift his chin as he stood at attention in the crowded company headquarters tent.

  Captain Newman addressed the group with stern words.

  How could Tom look his CO in the eye? Weiser and Lehman were demoted to corporal and transferred to Quincy’s platoon. Sergeants Ferris and Kovatch, who headed squads in Quincy’s platoon, were transferred to Tom’s platoon to replace them. Two corporals were promoted to replace Ferris and Kovatch.

  A mess. And all Tom’s fault.

  If he’d been a better leader, Weiser and Lehman would have obeyed orders when evacuating Thélepte.

  Shame burned in his chest. His engineering degree saved his position, but Newman’s grace only extended so far.

  Tom had to change. But how? He didn’t want to be cruel like Quincy or aloof like Reed. Newman wasn’t the best example either. He was pleasant and excellent at logistics, but he couldn’t contain Quincy or teach Tom.

  The wind ruffled the canvas, just as Annie’s last letter had ruffled Tom. She suggested looking to Jesus Christ as an example of the perfect leader.

  Yeah. Perfect. How could he draw parallels? The disciples had chosen to follow. Tom’s men had been drafted.

  “Company dismissed,” Newman said.