by Lisa Bingham
Drawing back, he smiled. A slow, hot smile that held nothing of the priest, only of the man. A man who wanted her more than air.
Then, he was laying her down on the rock, sliding the wadded up ball of his shirt beneath her head as he bent over her, kissing a blazing path down her neck, down, down, straying to one nipple. The other.
Glory Bee’s eyes flickered closed, her arms flinging above her head as she surrendered to the passion roiling through her. She couldn’t think. She could only feel. And never in her life had she experienced anything so heady and arousing.
One of John’s hands slid down her side to rest on her thigh. Drawing deeply on her nipple, he allowed his thumb to stray toward her feminine nest, teasing the delicate hair before parting her and pressing against her most sensitive point.
She gasped, her back arching. And as she did, he continued the intimate foray of his lips down, down to where he placed a kiss against her belly.
It took several long moments before Glory realized that he wasn’t moving. He was barely breathing. Then her eyes flickered open and she caught him staring at her stomach…
At her stomach.
Before she could speak, he suddenly rolled to his feet.
Instantly conscious of her nakedness, she jumped up, reaching for her robe, as he grasped his shirt and rifle.
“John, I—”
But he made no indication that he even heard her. He stormed off into the jungle, leaving her shivering and alone and nearly torn asunder by her regrets.
• • •
John had nearly reached the abandoned village before the screaming of his lungs and the stinging welts caused by the thick underbrush brought him up short. Dropping his pack onto the ground, he tugged on the shirt that was still wadded up in his fist and thrust his arms through the sleeves, buttoning it to his neck, then jamming the tails into his pants.
He was about to reach for his rifle again when his legs buckled beneath him and he crashed onto his knees. Tipping his chin back, he fought the unmanly sobs that tore at his throat and chest. But when he felt as if his lungs would burst, he finally gave in to the storm of emotion that swept through him.
Dear God above.
She was pregnant.
Glory Bee was pregnant.
The wracking sobs came harder and faster, tearing down the painful defenses that he’d built so carefully around his emotions. And like the sudden bursting of a dam, his weariness—not only from the last few days, but of the weeks and months and years of denial—swept the walls down, and grief stormed through him, leaving him utterly vulnerable to its attack. He cried, not just for Glory Bee and what might have bloomed between them, but for the fall of his adopted homeland, for his students and Sister Mary Francis. And as the tears fell, they fed upon themselves weakening him even further. Images of Nanking that he’d meant to block forever stormed over him, emasculating him, until finally, he collapsed onto the ground, shaking with the fury of his emotions.
He could not have said how long he lay there or how long he grieved for those who were lost to him forever. He only knew that the late evening shadows were beginning to fall.
It would be dark soon.
And as much as he dreaded his next meeting with Glory Bee, he could not leave her alone in the jungle at night.
Pushing himself to his feet, he staggered forward toward the village. There were only a few things left to carry back to their camp. Pails and pans that could prove valuable in the jungle. And the fabric he’d removed from the windows and doors. They could serve as covers while they slept. He’d piled everything neatly at the edge of the village so that he could quickly collect them and be gone.
He was so deep in his own thoughts that it wasn’t until he heard the ca-chick of a rifle round being chambered that he realized he wasn’t alone.
Automatically, he lifted his own weapon to his shoulder, but a curt, “Put it down!” cut him short. “Now!”
Damning himself for his carelessness, John carefully set his rifle on the ground and straightened, holding his hands up, hoping that in the shadows, the pistol in his waistband wouldn’t be seen.
Then, just as quickly, he suddenly realized that the voice that had spoken to him in English. English with an American twang.
“My name’s John Macklin,” he said into the gathering shadows. He wasn’t sure how many men were hidden behind the bamboo huts. “If you’re a Yank, I mean you no harm.”
There was a beat of silence, then a man stepped around the edge of the first hut. Even in the shadows, John couldn’t have ever mistaken him for a Japanese soldier. He was well over six feet tall with a shock of red-gold hair. That combined with his bright blue eyes screamed “American.”
The man continued to hold him in the sites of his rifle and John had no doubt that there were others nearby.
“Where you from?” the soldier asked curtly.
“New Zealand, originally. But I’ve spent the last few years as foreman to the Wilmot Plantation about fifteen miles north of Clark Field.”
He couldn’t tell if the soldier found that to be good news or bad.
“What are you doing out here?”
John offered a short mirthless laugh. “Same as you. Avoiding the Japanese.” He let his hands drop a few inches. Then, when the soldier didn’t object, he brought them all the way down to his sides. Still moving slowly so that he wouldn’t startle the Yank, he crossed to the pile of belongings he’d left near the last hut and began to shove them into his pack.
When he straightened, the American no longer had his gun pointed at him, but held it at the ready against his chest. Clearly, he didn’t intend to stop John from collecting his things and leaving.
John was backing away when he suddenly stopped.
“You can’t stay here,” he said when it became clear that the soldier was more than willing to let him go. He pointed to the ridge he’d climbed earlier. “Last time I checked, there was a patrol heading in this direction. As soon as they top that rise and see the village, they’ll be coming down that hill to investigate.”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”
“That’s where I came from. The Japanese have been burning their way up that slope, hoping to flush out refugees and guerrillas. It’s only a matter of time before they show up.” Lifting the pails that he’d stacked one inside the other in his left hand and his rifle in his right, John said, “If you want someplace safe for the night, you’d better follow me.”
• • •
If Rosemary’s mother had envisioned her daughter’s career to entail taking temperatures and distributing reading materials, Rosemary wondered what Elise Dodd would have thought if she could have seen Rosemary’s activities for the day.
She and her girls had begun by pumping water from the well so that they could scrub down every bed, every table, every piece of equipment before it was taken into one of the many huts that made up the medical complex. They had assembled and lined up cots in the wards, helped stock cabinets with medicines, and unrolled linens and mosquito nets by the handful.
Soon, Rosemary had the sense of being back on the farm—not that the duties were the same. But the backbreaking physical labor was similar and their shifts were long. What meals they had been given were taken on the run, and any thoughts of taking breaks or enjoying the sunset were completely forgotten.
Even more reminiscent of her work at home was the need for adapting to the materials at hand. Since their sterilizing equipment had gone down with the ferry, Rosemary and Alice made a raid on the kitchen, absconding with a pressure cooker and an outdoor electric ring, which they installed in the center of the surgical pavilion—a fancy name for several huts which had been arranged to face one another in order to better utilize shared equipment.
Then, when Rosemary thought that they were beginning to get a handle on things, an ambulance arrived, disgorging its patients, several of whom needed surgery.
So it was dark when she staggered toward
the beach where she’d been told that the other nurses had gone to cool off.
Seeing Alice’s familiar shape in the dim light, Rosemary slogged through the sand toward her. Alice sat with her hems rolled up, her feet extended toward the bubbling surf.
“There you are,” Alice said warmly as Rosemary settled down beside her. “How was surgery?”
“Long,” Rosemary said with a sigh, rubbing the back of her neck. Following Alice’s example, she removed her shoes and socks and rolled up her pants. As soon as the cool water of the bay bubbled over her feet, she sighed in delight.
“We’re supposed to report the quartermaster first thing in the morning. They’ve given us permission to replace the pilot’s coveralls with a set of tans. The new uniforms should be much cooler.”
“Thank heavens.” Rosemary tipped her head back so that the breeze would dry the sweat on her face. When she opened her eyes, she could just make out the figure of a nurse lying spread-eagle in the sand. “Is that Lieutenant Reyes? What’s going on with her?”
Alice chuckled. “Some idiot covered all of our equipment with this…greasy lubricant to keep them shiny and new.” Her brow creased. “Cosmoline, one of the orderlies called it. Anyway, the only thing we had on hand that would clean it off was ether.” She nodded to the woman lying prone in the sand. “Rita, there, spent a little too long on the task and nearly knocked herself out. A couple of the orderlies carried her out here hoping that the fresh air would help her come to her senses.”
“I can hear you, Alice,” Lt. Reyes grumbled.
“Keep breathing deeply, Rita,” Alice called.
Rosemary shook her head in disbelief. “Good lord. It’s not bad enough that we’re being shot at by the Japanese, now we’re being gassed too.”
A tipsy-sounding giggle came from Rita’s direction.
“Hey, I have some news,” Alice said suddenly.
Rosemary’s brows rose. If it was another rumor about approaching ships or sightings of far off formations of American bombers, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear it. Rumors ran rampant here on Bataan, even worse than at Stotsenberg.
“I worked on a fellow from the press corps this afternoon.”
In an instant, Rosemary was at attention. “Did you ask him about Gilhouley? Were they together? Was Gilhouley all right?”
Alice lifted a hand to stop her babbling. “I asked, but he hadn’t seen The Great Gilhouley. Not since Stotsenberg.”
Rosemary sagged in disappointment.
“He said Gilhouley wasn’t with the rest of the press corps when they were absorbed into the Cavalry unit.”
“How can that be?”
Mindful of Lt. Reyes, Alice leaned closer. “He said Gilhouley was put in charge of a special team. One of the other men was from the press corps as well. He didn’t know the details, only that they were heading north in a car they stole from one of the cooks.”
“North? Are you sure?” Rosemary asked, her heart thudding with fear.
“That’s what he said. But who knows if that’s true or not. He said the men were being pretty hush-hush about what they were doing.”
Rosemary stared out into the darkness, remembering how vague Gilhouley had been when she’d questioned him about being reassigned to the Cavalry. Evidently, he hadn’t been free to relate the details to her.
Which meant that what he was doing was probably dangerous.
“Hey, maybe I shouldn’t have told you,” Alice said quietly.
Rosemary quickly shook her head. “No. I’m glad you did. I’d rather know the truth than be wondering.”
She didn’t know quite how to interpret the information. If Gilhouley had headed north, that meant he hadn’t been caught in Manila or the stream of a retreating army. But it also meant that, unless he’d found a way to get back to the front, he could be stranded somewhere behind enemy lines.
• • •
Glory Bee hardly moved the whole time that John was gone. After dressing in trousers and a fresh shirt, she sat on one of the boulders by the stream, waiting, waiting, hardly knowing what she would say to him when he returned, but certain that she owed him an explanation.
As the jungle began to come alive with its eerie night noises, she wrapped her arms around her middle, wishing that she dared to light a fire. Not for the heat. The air was sticky and hot, so thick with moisture that it felt difficult to drag it into her lungs. No, she longed for the brightness it would provide as the shadows lengthened around her.
Resting her forehead on her up drawn knees, she wished with all her might that she could erase the hours to that point when John came crashing through the underbrush, ready to save her from whatever had frightened her.
She couldn’t imagine Michael ever doing that.
Glory Bee sighed.
A rustling alerted her, and she jumped to her feet, swiping her cheeks dry with her palms. Her pulse suddenly beat in her throat like a startled bird and her mind scrambled for something to say.
But when John pushed his way into the clearing, he wasn’t alone. Glory Bee instinctively shrank back as three…four…five men melted out of the forest. All of them were armed, grim-faced, and exhausted.
She wasn’t the only one who was surprised, because as the soldiers came to a halt, they suddenly stared at her, becoming even more still and alert.
“It’s the stripper!” one of them blurted.
“Shut up, Petey,” another muttered out of the side of his mouth.
The leader scowled at them. “Berman, put Baptiste down over there by the stream.”
For the first time, she noted that one of the strangers was being supported by a soldier with hair so short it was nearly non-existent. The two of them stumbled across the stream. Then the fellow named Berman carefully settled the other man on the ground. Immediately, Baptiste—who she suspected was Filipino—closed his eyes and fell asleep.
“Is he injured?” she asked.
The short blond kid that they’d called Petey offered her a wide grin. “Partly. But partly, he’s drunk.” The soldier had a drawl, but thicker than her own. He was from somewhere in the Deep South. By the Gulf, she’d guess.
When she frowned in confusion, the leader explained. “He was shot earlier and needed stitches, so Private Peterman, here, offered him some homemade alcohol. It’s taking longer than expected for the effects to wear off.”
“Does he need anything?”
“No. But thank you all the same.” The tall leader quickly made introductions. “Sorry, I’m Lieutenant Gilhouley. These men here are Privates Berman, Kilgore, and Peterman.”
“But they call me Petey,” the curly-haired kid inserted with a grin.
Gilhouley gestured to Baptiste who had begun to snore. “That’s Sergeant Baptiste.” He hitched a thumb in John’s direction. “We happened to meet up with John here at a village not too far away. He offered to let us stay here at your camp for the night.”
“Of course.” She wove her hands together, enduring a beat of awkward silence before saying, “You must be hungry.”
It was clear from the way the other men looked suddenly hopeful that they were in need of something to eat, but Gilhouley quickly said, “We don’t want to use your rations. I’m sure you’ve only got enough for yourselves.”
Glory Bee looked at John, but he continued to avoid her gaze. “Don’t be silly, Lieutenant. I’m sure that we can come up with something.” Gilhouley clearly intended to refuse, but Glory Bee insisted, “It shouldn’t take long to heat something up.”
At long last, Gilhouley nodded. “Berman, Kilgore, take the watch. I’ll relieve you after dinner. Petey, look through our packs and see what we have that can be added to the meal.”
In the end, Glory Bee took the cooking pots that John had brought and quickly made rice, which they topped with tins of chipped beef taken from the soldier’s packs. Since Glory Bee wasn’t accustomed to making rice at all, let alone over a small flame, the fare was sticky and bland, but the soldiers ate h
ungrily and she soon followed suit. Thankfully, she hadn’t taken into account just how much the rice would swell up, so there was more than enough to go around, even with a group of hungry men.
As she washed out the pots, mess kits, and utensils, Petey quickly moved to help her, then laid out their gear on a rock to dry. Then, with a grin, he took a candy bar from his pocket and handed it toward her.
“Here, ma’am. A little something for later.”
She tried to demur, but he pushed it toward her. “Come on. I can get more at base once I get back. It’s just gonna melt into a puddle if things get much hotter.”
Since it was important to him that she take it, she smiled. “Thanks.”
Standing, he returned to the spot where the men had set out their packs. The four younger soldiers quickly settled down for the night, leaving Gilhouley and John to sit keeping watch.
When it became apparent that she was in the way, Glory Bee indicated the shelter she’d formed earlier that day. “I think I’ll turn in,” she said to no one in particular.
As she walked toward the split in the rocks, she prayed that John would follow her, that he would say something, anything—even if it was only goodnight.
But her only response was silence.
• • •
John pulled his gaze away from the dejected slant of Glory Bee’s shoulders, refusing to watch as she settled down to sleep. Instead, he returned his attention to Gilhouley and poked the fire with a stick in order to scatter the coals and extinguish the flame.
“How familiar are you with the area, John?”
He glanced up, still fiddling with the glowing coals.
“I’m more familiar with the western slope of the Madres, but I can find my way around. Why?”
Gilhouley debated what to say before finally explaining. “I need to get my men back behind American lines as soon as possible.”
