by Lisa Bingham
Rosemary shook each woman’s hand, then asked, “How far to the hospital?”
The women glanced at each other and laughed, but it was Cavendish who spoke. “This is it, Major. Here at Little Baguio, we practice medicine al fresco.”
Even as she spoke, several other nurses rushed toward them. On seeing that the trucks contained injured personnel, they quickly snapped into action, calling to orderlies and instructing them to take the men to a series of cots that had been laid out under the canopy of the trees.
Stunned, Rosemary realized that what she’d taken for troop cots were actually makeshift hospital beds, laid out in rows, as if they were wards in a regular hospital. Once more, medicine had taken a huge step backwards in time.
Shaking off her dismay, Rosemary hurried to help unload the patients from the trucks in their convoy. Then, before she could even assimilate the change in venue, the ambulances with new wounded began to arrive and she was back in surgery, her ear again tuning to the distant boom, boom. It was fainter than it had been that morning, but never ceasing.
It was dark when she finally emerged from the rough wooden shack that had become one of their operating theaters. Until then, she’d been able to push back her own emotions through work and sheer dogged determination. But as she stepped out into the moist heat of the jungle with its ever-present hum of mosquitoes and insects, she suddenly felt alone. Oh, so alone. She hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye to Gilhouley when she’d left. His unit would probably remain at the front, and she had no idea when she would see him next. Yet, now, more than ever, she longed for his steadying presence.
“Major?”
She started when a voice called to her in the darkness. Turning, she saw John Macklin striding toward her.
“Hello, John. How’s Glory Bee?”
He grimaced. “The transfer took a lot out of her, but she’s doing well.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
John stopped in front of her, the tips of his fingers tucked in his pockets. “I wondered if I could borrow you for a few minutes.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
His features cracked into an embarrassed grin. “We’re getting married. There’s a chaplain here that I once worked with in China. He’s agreed to perform the ceremony.”
“What…now?”
This time, John’s smile was wide and undimmed. “Yes. Glory Bee was hoping you would stand in as her maid of honor.”
“Good heavens! Of course I will!”
Rosemary quickly stripped off her bloodied surgical gear, tossing it into a pile of similar garments left at the side of the hut.
“Can I run a comb through my hair first?” she asked, gesturing toward her tent.
“Sure. We’re in ward two.”
“I’ll be right there—oh, and John…does Glory Bee have anything special to mark the occasion? A veil? Flowers?”
He shook his head. “It’s just us.”
“I’ll be back. Give me one minute. But I want you to wait outside the ward.”
“Wha—?”
“Please. Do what I say. It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”
Rosemary ran the rest of the way to her tent. Alice was lying down on her cot, reading a magazine with the aid of a flashlight.
“Can I borrow your bed jacket?”
“My what?”
“You know, your bed jacket. That lacy thing you insisted on packing even though we were heading into the jungle.”
“Sure…but I thought Gilhouley was still at the front.”
“He is.” Rosemary grinned. “Get your shoes on. We’re going to a wedding.”
“A wedding?”
“Come on, Alice. Judging by the journey she’s had and all the blood she lost, the bride is probably only going to be awake for a little while, then she’ll be nodding off again.”
“Glory Bee and the priest? They’re getting married now?”
“Uh-huh.”
Alice scrambled to her feet, reaching for her own bag. She threw the ruffled silk and lace bed jacket in Rosemary’s direction, then reached for her shoes.
“Am I invited?”
“Of course, you’re invited. The whole hospital’s invited. It’s not like they can go anywhere private.”
Pausing only to replace the pins in her hair, Rosemary dug into her duffle. After a moment’s hesitation, she removed the corsage of violets, the perfumed sachet, and the last of a precious tube of lipstick.
“I’ve got eye liner,” Alice exclaimed, “and a white snood.”
Within minutes, the two women were hurrying back to the ward carved under the trees. They brushed by John without explanation, and wove through the cots to Glory Bee’s side.
Glory Bee was pale, but glad to see them.
“We’ve only got a minute before the groom will insist on joining us,” Rosemary said. “So let’s get you ready to be a bride.”
They combed Glory Bee’s hair until it shone, fashioning the front with two sweeping barrel rolls and tucking the rest of the brilliant strands inside the snood. Then they applied a little eyeliner, lipstick, and rubbed the sachet at the pulse points on Glory Bee’s wrists. Propping her up with pillows, they slipped her arms into the frilly pink bed jacket.
When Alice took a compact from her pocket and showed Glory Bee the effects of their efforts, her eyes filled with tears.
“I look…”
“Like a bride,” Rosemary supplied when Glory Bee’s voice grew choked.
As a final touch, Rosemary pinned the corsage of violets to her chest. “’Sweets for the sweet,’” she said, echoing the phrase that Gilhouley had printed on the card when he’d given them to Rosemary for her birthday. “Violets symbolize romance and modesty. Perfect for a wedding.”
“Where did you get them?” Glory Bee breathed, fingering the delicate silk-velvet blossoms.
“Gilhouley gave them to me for my birthday.”
“I promise to return them right away.”
Rosemary squeezed her hand. “Not before we snip off a few of the blossoms for you to keep. You need a memento of the occasion. Plus, I’ve been told, these violets are particularly lucky.” She thought of Gilhouley and the flower still tucked in his pocket.
Again, Glory Bee’s eyes shimmered with tears.
“Thank you.”
Now that the bride had been suitably prepared, John and the chaplain walked toward them. Rosemary helped Glory Bee to her feet, then handed her to John who wrapped his arm around her waist to support her.
Rosemary had attended many weddings. As the commanding officer of a unit of nurses, she was accustomed to attending the ceremonies of girls who fell in love overseas. But this one was different. There were no decorations, no dress, no cake—no marriage license, no certificate, no mass. There was just the exchange of vows between a man and woman who were clearly in love. And she could honestly say that she had never been to a union that had been more blessed and sacred.
As John bent to kiss his bride, Rosemary felt a sting of jealousy that their marriage had been performed, while hers…
Who knew what would happen between Gilhouley and her. She had no idea where he was or how long it would be before she spoke to him again.
But she wouldn’t begrudge the current couple their happiness. Pushing aside her melancholy, she hugged them both, offering her congratulations. Then, she and Alice gathered food from the chow line, coffee and doughnuts for wedding cake, and threw an impromptu reception for the new bride and groom until it became obvious that Glory Bee was exhausted. Borrowing folding screens from the operating room, she and Alice gave John and Glory Bee as much privacy as possible in the crowded wartime ward, then headed toward their tent.
“That was beautiful,” Alice murmured.
“Mmm.”
“You’ll be next, I suppose.”
Rosemary didn’t answer. She didn’t dare say it aloud for fear of jinxing things.
“Is he worth giving up your care
er?” Alice teased.
“Yes,” Rosemary whispered into the darkness. “Yes, he is.”
• • •
After the women had left, John sat on the side of Glory Bee’s cot. Lifting her hand, he kissed the wire ring on her finger. She bit her lip, thinking a moment, then twisted to dig beneath her pillow. “I have a wedding present for you.”
John felt a moment of embarrassment since he hadn’t thought of a gift for her, but she waved away his disquiet.
“You’re my present, John. You and this wedding and this time we have together. My gift is a little…token. Apparently, a lot of the men around here are superstitious and carry something to give them luck—Petey has a rabbit’s foot, Kilgore a bottle cap, Berman a picture of his girl. I thought I’d give you a good luck piece.”
She handed him a small bundle that had been wrapped in old newspaper and tied with a length of string.
“How could you find anything to give me while you’ve been sick?“
“Gilhouley. Apparently, he’s able to supply more than just wedding rings.”
John untied the string, feeling unaccountably like a kid at Christmas. But when he pulled aside the paper to reveal a chain with a small crucifix, he looked up at her questioningly.
Sitting up, she lifted the chain free from its wrappings and settled it over his head. “You may have left the priesthood, John. But you don’t have to leave God. Your faith…it’s one of the things I love about you. And even though you don’t think that you’re on speaking terms with God right now…I figure He can watch over you when I’m not around.”
John fingered the cross, then looked up at his bride. “I love you so much.”
She nodded, pulling back the covers. “I know. So get your shirt off and get in here.”
He looked around. Even with the screens, he could sense dozens of soldiers mere feet away.
“I don’t think that’s a good—”
“We’re married, John. No one’s going to care if you lie down next to me.”
“Glory Bee, I—”
“Shut up, John, and get into the bed.”
When he would have settled uneasily beside her, she shook her head.
“Take off your boots and your socks. And your shirt.”
“Glory Bee—”
“No one is going to see or care.”
He hesitated, debating the circles under her eyes and the sounds of the men sleeping on the other side of the screen. But then, he decided that they could all go to hell. He might not be able to make love to his bride, but he could hold her in his arms.
Bending, he unlaced his boots and peeled off his socks, setting them carefully beneath the cot. Then, with Glory Bee watching, he began to unfasten his shirt.
Her eyes followed his every move with a hunger that still had the power to bring him to his knees.
“Oh, honey,” she sighed when he shrugged out of his sleeves.
John flushed in embarrassment, flicking a glance at the screen. “Stop that.”
“Why? We’re married. You’re mine now. All mine.”
“And as my wife, you will behave. You’re too weak and tired and I’m not about to…perform in public.”
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she looked disappointed.
Moving as gingerly as he could, he slid onto the narrow bunk behind her. The bed squeaked, and he winced.
Glory Bee turned onto her side to give him more room, and he did the same, his arm draping around her waist, his hand splaying over her stomach.
“How’s our daughter?”
“Fine. Just fine. She’s been kicking up a storm today—probably she’s excited by the wedding. I keep asking Rosemary to let me listen to her. I think she’s going to be a musician. She has good rhythm.”
John smiled into her hair. “I don’t care what she does as long as she’s healthy.”
“You say that now. Wait until she’s sixteen and bringing the boys home.”
“There will be no boys. Not until she’s thirty-two.”
Glory Bee laughed, then whispered, “Undo my hospital gown in back.”
He groaned. Even holding her with the thin shield of fabric was nearly more than he could bear. With each second he spent holding her, his body pounded. As soon as she fell asleep, he was going to have to head for the showers and hope they were cold.
“No.”
“Come on, John,” she murmured enticingly. “I want to feel you against me.”
He knew he should refuse. He knew that he should insist that she get her rest, but he couldn’t control his hand. It moved of its own volition to slip the bow free, baring her spine.
Pulling her close, he shuddered, pushing her hair aside so that he could kiss her. Just once.
But once became twice. Then three times. Four. Her skin was velvety and he couldn’t help himself as he trailed a string of caresses down her neck, pushing aside her gown enough that he could kiss her shoulder.
She wound her fingers through his, drawing his hand upwards to her breast, and he hissed as the fullness filled his palm, the taut nipple drilling into his sensitive flesh.
“You’re killing me, Glory Bee,” he whispered next to her ear. “We have to stop.”
“Why?”
“You’re hurt.”
“But I’m not dead,” she gasped, turning her head to meet his lips with her own. “And I’d have to be dead not to want you. Tonight. Right now.”
“We can’t.”
“Why?”
“You’re hurt. You’re tired. You’re—”
“I’m hungry, John. I’m hungry for you.”
Summoning every ounce of control he possessed, he shook his head. “No. It’s not right. It’s not…”
She reached behind her to grasp him through the fabric of his pants and all coherent thought shattered at the exquisite pressure of her touch.
“We’ll be quiet,” she whispered.
“Glory—”
“We’ll be really, really quiet,” she said cajolingly. Then she captured his hand and drew it down, down, down, until she’d placed his fingers against the wispy hair at the apex of her thighs. “Touch me, John.”
And he was suddenly powerless to resist, his fingers spreading wide, exploring the part of her that he had never touched before—not just with her, but with any woman.
“Unzip your pants,” she panted against him.
Powerless to refuse her, he did as she’d ordered, and his manhood immediately sprang free, pressing against her buttocks.
Although he was not completely unaware of the mechanics of lovemaking, he had never dreamed that the softness of her skin against him would fill his body with such fire. He’d been so sure that there would be no wedding night between them that he hadn’t bothered to even think about it. He’d figured that he would plan out an elaborate getaway once she was completely on her feet—maybe scrounge up a tent and fill it with flowers. He’d envisioned laying her down, her nightdress still on so she wouldn’t be scared, and positioning himself on top of her. Missionary style, isn’t that what they called it?
But there was nothing prim and proper about the way she reached back to stroke him, her fingers wrapped firmly around his shaft, her buttocks grinding against his hips.
“I want to feel you inside me,” she whispered.
He opened his mouth to protest, then threw all protests away. Why was he arguing? He was in bed with his wife. His wife! There was no need to be prudish or hesitant. This woman wanted him. And sweet heaven above, if she kept stroking him like that, he was going to come here and now.
His fingers returned to her moist nest, sliding into her, fondling, caressing. His efforts must have felt good because her breathing became labored and she held him there with one hand.
“Yes, John, yes,” she whispered. “I like that. I really, really like that.”
Her words filled him with a surge of power.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said against her ear.
“You
can only hurt me by waiting.”
“I don’t—”
She shifted, reaching between them to pull his shaft down so that it slid between her legs. Wrapping her thigh over his, she had only to tip her hips and…
He slid into her so abruptly, so completely, that he gasped, astonished at the pure bliss of the sensation.
But she didn’t give him time to think or react, she began to rock against him, faster and faster. His body grew taut, his breathing labored, his entire being centered on that point of contact, that intimate joining. His senses were completely overloaded, bringing him to the brink, and he fought to hang on long enough to…
Before he knew what she meant to do, she grasped his hand, rubbing his fingers against the spot where they joined. And then, her body clenched around him and she pressed her face into the pillow to stifle her cries.
His own climax came hard and fast and he spilled himself into her, his arms wrapped around her waist as he thrust once, twice, then plunged one last time, holding it, holding her.
And then, bit-by-bit, the strength bled from his body and he collapsed against her, his forehead resting against the nape of her neck.
It was some time later when he felt her shift. Then she laughed, ever so softly.
Immediately, he tried to draw back, but she held onto him tightly until he relaxed.
“If I’d known that’s what you were capable of, padre, I never would have let you out of the forest,” she said teasingly.
“Have I hurt you?” he whispered.
“No. I’m feeling very, very good.”
“Honest?”
“Mmm.”
He pressed a kiss to her neck. “I think my days of celibacy are over.”
He saw her smile in the darkness—a slow, satisfied smile that looked very much like the cat who’d eaten the canary.
“On that, you have my whole-hearted agreement.”
The night erupted in gunfire and he immediately rolled toward Petey, shielding the other man’s body with his own.
“What the hell?”
Was this it? Was this the end that they’d feared? After all these years of fighting to survive, of enduring disease and starvation and abuse, had the Japanese finally decided to kill them all in their beds?
