With Every Letter: A Novel

by Sarah Sundin

  “Yeah,” Ferris said. “Eating garlic and speaking that Wop language.”

  Giannini sprang at Ferris, fists flailing.

  “Stop it! Break it up!” Tom thrust himself between the men, absorbed a couple of punches in his ribs, and pushed the men apart.

  Moskovitz grabbed Ferris’s arms from behind. Sesame barked, curses stained the air, and the platoon circled.

  “Enough!” Tom shouted. “You’re fighting the wrong people. The enemy’s that way.”

  “Says who?” Ferris strained against Moskovitz’s grip, his narrow face red. “Got the enemy right in our midst. Japs and Wops and Krauts.”

  “That’s enough.” Tom got right in Ferris’s face. “They’re Americans, you fool. Have you forgotten what makes America strong? It’s people from every country and culture. You want a nation where everyone looks alike and sounds alike?”

  “Sure do.” Ferris spat onto the ground.

  “Swell. Hitler started one. You can go there.”

  Ferris jerked back, his dark eyes large.

  “Yeah, Ferris,” someone called out. “That’s what you want? I’ll get you a ticket.”

  “All right, enough.” Tom raised his hands. “We’re all on the same side. I won’t put up with any baloney. We’ve got a job to do. Let’s do it.”

  “You tell ’em, Lieutenant.”

  Tom stared down Ferris and Giannini. “Shake hands. Now. We’ll talk later.”

  The men’s handshake looked more like an arm-wrestling match.

  “Come on, boys. Move on out.” Tom threw an imaginary fastball toward Ponte Olivo, and the platoon marched forward.

  Tom’s heart beat too fast and his arms quivered. But his heart slowed to a stop when Captain Newman approached from the front of the column.

  Newman pulled Tom to the side of the road and eyed his platoon. “Quincy reported a fight back here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tom’s shoulders sagged, but he squared them. “Ferris called Giannini a Wop. Giannini threw punches. I broke it up.”

  “He did, sir,” Moskovitz said. “He sure told ’em.”

  Newman turned a scrutinizing gaze to Tom. “You did?”

  “Yes, sir. They’ll dig some extra ditches tonight.”

  “Good. Keep it up.” The captain clapped Tom on the back and returned to his position.

  Tom’s shoulders relaxed. He’d done it. He’d shown leadership, the strong kind.

  Sesame gave him a wide doggy smile.

  “Good job.” Moskovitz’s black eyes sparkled. “Gill.”

  A smile twitched up. Maybe he’d finally earned respect. “Thanks for helping, Mossy.”

  Moskovitz scrunched up his face. “Don’t call me that. I hate it.”

  “I know.” He grinned and jogged toward the head of the platoon.

  “You said no name calling.”

  “I also said call me Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  Tom jogged with a light step. He put down a fight. Moskovitz liked him again. Newman might let him stay. Tonight’s letter to Annie would be full of good news, the kind of news that might convince her to meet him.

  The airfield lay on a plain ringed by low hills covered with golden grasses and green scrub. A short stone wall ran around the perimeter.

  “Take cover!” The shout rippled down the column.

  Tom led his men to a ditch beside the highway. Men clambered down. Gear clanked.

  “They said it was clear,” Moskovitz said.

  “Yeah.” Tom peered over the edge.

  An Italian soldier walked through the main gate and waved a white flag. Dozens of men followed, all waving something white and grinning. “Viva Americani! Viva Americani!”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Tom wiped sweat from his upper lip. “Guess the field’s clear after all.”

  A small detachment herded the jubilant prisoners toward the rear, and the rest of the men prepared to work.

  Newman divided the airfield into sectors, with Tom’s platoon in the northern sector. Tom assigned Ferris to the west, Giannini to the east, and Kovatch separating them in the center.

  They didn’t need mine detectors. The Germans had strewn five-hundred-pound demolition bombs all over the field, interconnected with a maze of detonation cord. The mine detector teams inched forward and cut the det cord.

  Right outside the perimeter wall, Tom sank a tent stake into the ground and tied up Sesame in the shade. “I’ll get you when the field’s clear, boy.” He filled his mess kit cup with water from his canteen and went back to work.

  Within half an hour, narrow paths edged by white tape crossed the field. But they still needed to remove the booster charges and haul away the bombs. They’d have to stay up all night. The airstrip needed to open the next day.

  Tom followed the path to check on progress and finished with Giannini’s squad.

  Giannini tipped back his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow. “What a mess.”

  “Yep.” Tom surveyed the field. Could they have left snipers?

  Quincy’s squad had checked the buildings, but Tom frowned at the northern edge of the field. The stone wall butted up against an earthen embankment, and a slit ran the length of it. A bunker, partially collapsed by bomb damage.

  Tom turned around. Quincy talked to one of his squads not far away. “Hey, Quincy! Did you guys check out that bunker?”

  Quincy waved him off. “Don’t be a granny. It’s bombed out. And didn’t you see how they pranced out to surrender like pansy girls?”

  “So you didn’t check the bunker.”

  “What? You think they’re taking a siesta in there? They’d have opened fire by now. Think, Gill. Think.”

  Tom’s jaw set hard. He was thinking. Thinking maybe the Italians had learned lessons from the Germans about lying low and waiting for a moment like now, when dozens of men filled the field, guard down.

  He squinted at the dark slit in the bunker. Was it his imagination, or did he see movement?

  “Giannini, let’s make sure the bunker’s clear. Rossi, Lopez, bring a satchel charge in case we have to blow the door. Lucas, Simon, Ambrose, you’re with me.” Tom led the men toward a bombed-out section of the eastern wall about a hundred feet away. He watched the bunker.

  Was that movement? A thin shadow formed below the slit.

  The shadow of the barrel of a machine gun.

  “Get down!” Tom shouted. “Everyone down!”

  A flash of light. The gun pock-pock-pocked. Bullets skittered over the asphalt, and men leaped into bomb craters.

  “Go! Run! Now!” Tom motioned his team past him to the break in the wall.

  Crouched over, he bolted for the break. In front of him, bullets zinged past the men’s feet. Giannini, Rossi, and Lopez made it through the break.

  Lucas screamed, arched his back, and went down.

  “Lucas!” Ambrose dropped to his knees beside his friend. “No!”

  “Get up, Ambrose. Keep going.” Tom ran hard. Not only was it dangerous to stay in the open, but they had to clear the bunker before others were hit.

  Ambrose stumbled to his feet and ran through the break, followed by Simon.

  Bullets whined closer and closer. Tom leaped over the rubble in the break.

  Something slugged him in the shoulder, spun him midair.

  He flopped to the ground outside the wall.

  Tom grabbed his left shoulder. Warm and wet. He groaned.

  “Lieutenant! You’re hit.”

  “I know,” he said through gritted teeth. But he wiped his hand and pushed himself up to sitting. He refused to send his men into danger while he sat in safety. He tossed his carbine aside and drew his pistol, which he could use with one hand. “Just my shoulder.”

  Giannini fumbled with his first aid packet. “Let’s get a bandage—”

  “Later.” Tom managed a smile. “Apparently that bunker isn’t clear.”

  A few nervous laughs.

  “We can’t get close enough to
toss in a grenade from the front. We might have to blow open a door.”

  “I’ll toss in the grenade.” Ambrose scowled. “If they killed Lucas, those—”

  “No grenade,” Tom said. “Let’s see if they’ll surrender. Giannini, you speak Italian?”

  “No.” His face darkened again.

  “I do,” Rossi said. “And I ain’t ashamed of it.”

  “Great. How do you say, ‘Hands up. Surrender’?”

  “Mani in alto. Arrendetevi.”

  “Everyone say it.” Tom stood, careful to keep his head below the wall. “Mani in alto . . .”

  “Arrendetevi,” Rossi said.

  “Arrendetevi.”

  “You gotta roll your r’s.”

  “I’m not rolling my r’s.” A dagger of pain jabbed into his arm. He winced but kept going.

  Tom paused at the corner, then darted out, pistol drawn.

  No one there. A metal door cut into the slope of the embankment. Machine gun fire swept the field, answered by rifle shots from the Americans.

  Tom motioned the demolitions men forward. Rossi hung a satchel charge from the door handle, while Lopez spooled out detonation cord. They retreated behind the corner and lit the det cord.

  Tom studied the five faces before him, smeared with dirt and fear and determination. “Soon as it blows, we go in. Follow me.”

  “Mani in alto,” the men mumbled. “Arrendetevi.”

  Tom squeezed his eyes shut. Lord, give me strength. But please don’t let me kill anyone.

  An explosion whomped through the air.

  “Follow me!” Tom charged forward, pistol ready. “Mani in alto! Arrendetevi!”

  The door lay twisted in the entrance, surrounded by chunks of dirt and concrete.

  Tom climbed through and picked his way down a concrete tunnel, his heartbeat so loud it had to announce his presence.

  A man sprang into the tunnel.

  “Mani in alto!” Tom cried.

  The man leveled a rifle at him.

  “No! Arren—mani in alto!”

  “No!” The Italian’s finger cocked around the trigger.

  Tom fired first.

  The man reeled back, thumped to the ground. Eyes glazed.

  Tom gasped. What had he done?

  Shouts in Italian, footsteps pounded.

  “Arren . . .” Why couldn’t he remember the word?

  “Arrendetevi!” Rossi cried. “Arrendetevi!”

  Another man ran into the tunnel, fired his rifle.

  Tom squeezed the trigger. The Italian crumpled to the ground.

  “Lord, no!” His chest constricted. Why wouldn’t they surrender? “Mani in alto! Mani in alto!”

  He stepped over his victims and into the main room of the bunker. A rifle pointed at him. Tom shot. A man fell.

  A gunshot. Tom turned, fired. Another man dropped.

  One man remained. He maneuvered the machine gun, turned it to face inside the bunker instead of outside.

  “No, don’t. No.” Tom shook his head. His eyes stung. “Mani . . . mani . . .”

  The man’s eyes—black. Liquid. Hate. The machine gun barrel rotated closer and closer. Bullets spat out, ricocheted off concrete.

  Tom pulled the trigger.

  Silence flooded the bunker, a rushing sound like water, rising to drown him.

  He dropped the pistol and collapsed to his knees. His breath came in bursts as hard as the bullet fire only moments before.

  A quiet curse behind him. Rossi shuffled in, Giannini, Lopez, Simon, Ambrose.

  The men held their rifles in the victims’ faces, prodded the bodies with their feet, knelt to feel for a pulse.

  No pulse. He’d killed them all. His lips tingled. He licked his lips, tasted salt.

  Giannini stared down at him, a strange look, part admiration and part fear. “They’re all dead. One shot each. Right through the heart. All of ’em.”

  Tom’s breath huffed out in rhythm, in a jump-rope rhythm.

  “Thank God he’s on our side,” Ambrose said, then cussed. “MacGilliver the Killiver.”

  35

  Foch Field

  Tunis, Tunisia

  July 17, 1943

  The lid of Mellie’s stationery box barely fit anymore, thanks to the profusion of Tom’s letters. Before she shut the lid, she held a postcard to her heart and thanked God for the thousandth time since it arrived the night before.

  Papa had written. Well, he had checked off the little boxes on the pre-printed card the Japanese supplied. But his hand had marked the boxes that he was happy and healthy and well fed, and his signature graced the bottom, as strong and masculine as ever. And in the bottom corner, he’d drawn a tiny orchid. He might not be allowed to write the words that he loved her, but he’d drawn it.

  “Sorry I haven’t had any letters from Tom lately.” Kay packed her nightgown in her barracks bag.

  “It’s not your fault.” Mellie slid the box into her musette bag with her other necessities. “Everything’s topsy-turvy since the invasion.”

  “You don’t know where he is, do you?”

  “Nope. But he’ll find me. Or rather, the pilots will find you.”

  Kay fluffed her hair off her shoulders. “I hope so. My date schedule’s topsy-turvy too.”

  Mellie laughed and peered under the pair of bunk beds. “Looks like we got everything.”

  “Only here a week. Barely time for Georgie to make curtains and matching pillows.”

  “What’ll she do when we’re in tents?”

  Kay swung her bag off her bed. “Oh, we’ll have the cutest tent in Sicily.”

  Mellie pressed her finger to her lips. “We’re not supposed to know.” But anticipation rippled through her at the thought of quaint Sicilian villages and sun-drenched vineyards.

  “Goodness gracious, where could we be going?” Kay batted her eyelashes.

  “Berlin. We’ll evac Adolf.”

  Kay burst into laughter. She led the way out of the old villa and toward the airstrip. “So what’s the plan with Tom?”

  “Plan? Hold him off and extend the correspondence as long as possible.”

  “That’s not a plan. What’s your goal? Do you want to be with him?”

  “I’ve told you. He loves Annie but he finds me unattractive.”

  “But do you want to be with him? Just dream.”

  Mellie didn’t have to dream to picture his grin, his deep laugh, and his strong arms around her. “I do.”

  “So make a plan. Now, when you’re with him, which Mellie are you?”

  “Which Mellie?”

  “Yep. Confident nurse Mellie or pitiful wallflower Mellie? Which are you with Tom?”

  She groaned and tilted her face to the hot African sun. “He’s seen both.”

  “Well, leave mousy Mellie in Africa. Men don’t find self-pity attractive. Be confident in who you are. They like that.”

  Mellie gave her a grin and a nudge. “Easy for the pretty girl to say.”

  Kay rolled her very pretty eyes. “Honestly. When you relax and smile, you are pretty.”

  “When I smile?”

  “Yeah. When you try not to, you look like you’re sucking a lemon.”

  Mellie sighed. Why did she have to be so self-conscious?

  A C-47 waited for the nurses of the 802nd. They were supposed to take a hospital ship to Sicily on July 13, but when casualties were lighter than anticipated, the ship didn’t sail.

  Meanwhile, the flight nurses were grounded. The brass agreed on the importance of air evacuation, but the past few days, they’d sent planeloads of patients to Tunisia without the benefit of nursing care.

  The wounded deserved better, and Mellie wanted to be a part of it.

  She climbed onto the C-47. Vera Viviani greeted Kay with a squeal and pulled her into the seat next to her. She shot Mellie a sidelong look coupled with a quick curl of her upper lip.

  Oh brother. Why was Vera jealous of her friendship with Kay? Georgie and Rose weren’t. M
ellie tucked her hair behind her ears and sat in a canvas seat next to Georgie.

  Her friend ran a needle through turquoise cloth she’d bought in the Casablanca bazaar. The more nervous she was, the faster her stitches, and today her needle flew. On July 11, in a horrid incident, American ships and artillery accidentally shot down twenty-three C-47s carrying hundreds of paratroopers. And the airfields in Sicily lay mere miles from the front. Georgie had reason to fear.

  Mellie patted her friend’s arm. “The dress is coming along nicely. You do beautiful work.”

  “Thank you. You’ll look darling.” Georgie had already made similar sundresses for herself and Rose. “You can wear it to the beach, to parties, anytime Lambert lets us dress up. With the little bolero jacket, it’ll work for spring and autumn too.”

  Mellie fingered the soft cotton decorated with cobalt blue swirls. What would it be like to wear the dress on the beach under the stars, with Tom holding her close, gazing into her eyes, murmuring his love into her ear, brushing his lips over hers?

  An empty dream without a plan. But with a plan? With mousy Mellie and lemons and monkeys left behind in Africa?

  Her hand closed around the fabric. Lord, give me a plan.

  Ponte Olivo Airfield

  Mellie set her gear on the cot in the canvas tent. “Just like Mud Hill.”

  “Ah, happy memories,” Georgie said with an exaggerated lilt. No one missed their first week in Algeria.

  “Did you ladies save some plasma cans?” Mellie pulled four from her barracks bag. “Set the legs of your cot inside and fill the cans with water. That’ll keep bugs out of your bed.”

  Alice shuddered. “That’s disgusting. Why do you always talk about bugs?”

  “She likes bugs. They’re her friends.” Vera brushed off her cot. “Ugh. Filthy.”

  “Get used to it, princess.” Rose fiddled with the rigging for mosquito netting. “The girls in the field and evac hospitals always live like this. They never get posh barracks like we did.”

  “Nope.” Mellie inched toward the tent flap. “I’m going to explore before lunch.”

  “Don’t take long,” Kay said. “You heard Lambert. We might get flights today.”