On Distant Shores

by Sarah Sundin

  “Oh, I couldn’t do either.”

  “But you will. You’ll write to Hutch and tell him the truth. Or I’ll make myself comfortable and wait until dear Ted comes home so I can tell him his wife is still exchanging love letters with her fiancé.”

  Phyllis stared Georgie down. “Who do you think you are? Marching into my home and ordering me around?”

  “I’m a friend. A friend of a man who’s been nothing but faithful all his life.” She sauntered over to a desk. “Is this where you wrote all those romantic letters to Hutch? The letters saying how much you love him and miss him and can’t wait to marry him?”

  “That’s quite enough.”

  “You’re right. It is. Now make your choice. Tell Hutch or tell Ted.” She opened a drawer. “Look. Isn’t that the prettiest stationery? Here, I’ll set up for you. Your stationery, an envelope, your pen. Have a seat, sugar pie. Time to write one last masterpiece.”

  Phyllis stomped over and sat so hard the chair creaked. “If anything happens to John, it’s your fault.”

  “Yes, you keep telling yourself that.” Georgie sat on the edge of the desk and smoothed her dark blue uniform skirt over her knees. “Oh, don’t mind me, sweetie pie. You just write your little ol’ letter. I’ll help you start . . . ‘Dear John—’”

  She gasped. “I never start my letters that way.”

  “How else would you start? ‘My dearest darling’? That wouldn’t be appropriate.” Georgie waved her hand over the paper. “Go ahead. Don’t let me make you nervous.”

  “Fine.” Phyllis put pen to paper.

  “Oh dear. It’s not October 3. It’s October 4.”

  Icy blue eyes. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. I don’t mind at all. I love to help people.” She batted her eyelashes.

  Phyllis wrote hard for several minutes in chilly silence. “I told him this was your idea. Some friend you are, breaking his heart and crushing his morale.”

  “Please tell him that. And tell him Georgie said hi.”

  “Be quiet so I can finish.” A few more lines and she folded the paper.

  “I’d better proofread that for you.” She snatched it from the blonde’s fingers and scanned the letter, finding nothing but the truth, although in shaky handwriting.

  Phyllis stood and held out her hand for the letter. “You may leave now.”

  “Address the envelope.” Georgie slipped off the desk. “I’ll mail this myself. We wouldn’t want you to misplace it or have the baby drool on it, would we?”

  Phyllis pursed her lips and scrawled Hutch’s address on the envelope. “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t like you very much.”

  “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” Georgie took the envelope. “The feeling is mutual.”

  “I’m sure you can find your own way out.”

  “How kind of you. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.” She headed out the door before she could hear a retort.

  As she trotted down the stairs, her hands began to shake. She paused on the second landing, leaned against the wall, and stared at the two pieces of paper. With a heavy heart, she slipped the letter inside the envelope and sealed it shut.

  Sealed Hutch’s fate. Phyllis was right about one thing. The Army had stripped away everything that gave him joy. This letter would steal his last dream—the dream that had been snuffed out over a year earlier without his knowledge.

  Georgie pressed the letter to her chest. “Lord, be with him.”

  20

  93rd Evacuation Hospital, Montella

  October 5, 1943

  Hutch slorped through the mud toward Bergie’s tent. Even the gooey mud couldn’t pull his spirits down. Snuggled inside his field jacket, his application for the Pharmacy Corps and his most recent letter from Phyllis warmed his heart.

  For the first time in months, Phyllis sounded cheery. She and her roommates, Edwina and Betty Jo, had spent a country weekend in Connecticut with Edwina’s family, picking apples and glorying in the fall leaves. Edwina’s sister had a four-month-old baby boy, and Phyllis described his antics.

  She’d be a great mother, gentle but firm, and maybe he’d have the honor of ushering her into motherhood in the near future.

  Phyllis was his destiny. Georgie was a distraction, cute and perky and present, a crush issuing from his starved heart. But Phyllis was Rebekah to his Isaac.

  And Bergie was Abraham’s faithful servant. Bergie had met Phyllis at the soda fountain, the modern equivalent of the well. He knew right away, deep in his heart, that she was the woman for Hutch, and he introduced them.

  Hutch knew it too. With Georgie gone, he could see clearly again.

  Still, he prayed for Georgie—for God to see her through her grief and guide her decisions. Knowing she’d be home with her family and Ward eased his concerns. She’d be loved and supported, as she deserved.

  Hutch counted the pyramidal tents in the officers’ area. Back in Philly, he didn’t have to knock to enter the Bergstrom home. But in Italy, rank separated him from his best friend.

  He peered inside the tent. Bergie lounged on his cot, and Capt. Al Chadwick lounged on his. No barging in. “Captain Bergstrom, sir? Permission to enter, sir?”

  Bergie laughed, sat up cross-legged, and set down his magazine. “Granted, of course. Come in. Sit down.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He stepped inside and over the slit trench that served as drainage ditch and air raid shelter. He shot a glance at Chadwick. “I’ll stand.”

  An almost imperceptible curl of the lip, and the man disappeared behind The New England Journal of Medicine.

  “What’s up?” Bergie asked.

  Hutch would have preferred to ask when Chadwick wasn’t present, but he didn’t want to waste any time. “I received the application for the Pharmacy Corps. Dad’s asking for reference letters from the dean of the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy and from my first employer, but I need some from Army contacts. Colonel Currier agreed to write one, and I have to ask Lieutenant Kazokov. Would you be willing to write one, sir?”

  “I’d be glad to. But what’s it worth? Sure, I can tell them what a great fellow you are, but honestly, how can I evaluate your work?”

  “Threefold. First, you can account for my character. Second, you can describe how I relate to physicians. Third, you can evaluate how my work affects your practice.”

  Bergie laughed. “Typical methodical Hutch.”

  “Methodical is good in a pharmacist. Put that in.” He grinned. “Sir.”

  “All right, then.” Bergie swung one leg over the side of the cot and slipped on his combat boot. “Since you’ve got my letter written for me, tell me how your practice affects mine.”

  Didn’t he know that? Hutch shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Don’t I always get you the meds you need, properly prepared, in a timely manner?”

  A snort from behind The New England Journal. “Except aspirin. Remember that?”

  Hutch snuffed out a spark of annoyance. “Sir, if you’ll remember, that was a theater-wide shortage. All hospitals were affected. And I compounded aspirin from scratch as soon as we settled in.”

  “What? One part asp, two parts rin? Must be difficult.” Chadwick laughed and glanced at his fellow doctor.

  Bergie smiled and tightened his bootlaces.

  Another spark. Alarm this time. But he put on a pleasant smile. “It is. It’s tricky. The instructions aren’t in the Army manual, but I learned it in school.”

  Now Bergie smiled at Hutch. “Say, that’s good. I’ll put that in the letter.”

  “Thanks.” He stepped closer. “See, that’s why we need the Corps. The pharmacies in most mobile hospitals are run by technicians with three months of training. Back home it’s illegal for anyone but a pharmacist to fill a script. Don’t our patients deserve the same level of care they’d get at home?”

  “Puh-reach it, Brother John! When do you need the letter?”

  “By the end of the month. The earlie
r, the better.”

  “Will do. Say, Chad, ready for supper?”

  “If you can call it that.” He set down his journal and lifted his nose at Hutch. “You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”

  A jab in his stomach. “Yes, sir.” He stepped out of the tent into the dimming daylight and plodded through the mud toward the administration tent Kaz shared with three other staff officers.

  What was wrong with Bergie? He’d jumped on Kaz for condescending to Hutch, but he let Chadwick get away with it?

  Hutch pulled a metal pillbox from his trouser pocket, flipped it open, and chewed a sodium bicarbonate tablet to neutralize the acid in his stomach.

  Only one more letter, but this would be the most difficult. And the most necessary. Ivor Griffith served as both the dean of Hutch’s alma mater and the president of the American Pharmaceutical Association, so his letter would shine with authority. Mr. Hancock from Liberty Bell Drugs would trumpet Hutch’s skill, Currier’s letter would carry weight, and Bergie’s would lend authenticity. But the Army would look most closely at the letter from his current CO, supposedly the most familiar with his work habits.

  Hutch stepped inside the administration tent. Kaz sat at a field desk, typing away. The typewriter belonged in pharmacy and lab for labels and reports, but Kaz kept it in his office so he wouldn’t have to share one with the other officers. The way the man churned out reports, sharing probably wasn’t an option.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant Kazokov, sir.”

  His shoulders sagged. “You need to type labels again?”

  “No, sir. I have a favor to ask.”

  “What do you need?”

  Hutch stood straight and tall. “I’m sure you’ve heard me mention my interest in joining the new Pharmacy Corps. I received my application and I need letters of recommendation.”

  “You want one from me?” One thin dark eyebrow hitched up.

  He swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. Colonel Currier and Captain Bergstrom have already agreed, but I need a letter from my immediate commanding officer.”

  “Need? Or want?”

  “Um, need, sir.”

  “No, you want it.” He stood and clasped his hands behind his lower back. “There’s a difference between needs and wants, Sergeant.”

  “I know that, sir. But—”

  He held up his hand to block Hutch’s argument. “I’m a busy man with important work, and unless this is official Army business, your personal favor will go to the bottom of my pile.”

  “Yes, sir.” He chewed on his lips. He needed to try a different angle. “I would appreciate the help, sir. Only one short letter, but it will carry a lot of weight in the Army. They’ll be impressed with your concern for the men under your command. And think, if I join the Corps, I can spread your ideas for modernization.” He’d spread them as ideas of what not to do, but Kaz didn’t need to know that.

  Kaz cocked his head and pushed out his lower lip in thought. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome. You may return to duty.”

  “Thank you, sir. O’Shea’s working the night shift. I’m off now.”

  “I know the schedule. I set it.”

  A sigh leached past his fake smile. “I’m thankful for it, sir. Good night.”

  Hutch marched outside into the twilight.

  Begging to use a typewriter. Working in an alphabetized environment. Giving respect when he received none in return. He’d better be accepted into the Corps.

  21

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  October 6, 1943

  “Georgie, it’s beautiful,” Mellie said from the backseat of Daddy’s Chrysler. “I see why you love it so much.”

  Kay Jobson murmured her agreement.

  Georgie leaned against the car window and drank in home. The rolling green hills outside Charlottesville, the Blue Ridge Mountains to the east, and dots of fall color as the leaves started to turn. Crisp white rail fences divided properties, and horses cavorted in the pastures. Best of all, the large white house that had been in the Taylor family for a hundred years. “Home.”

  Daddy guided the car onto the gravel driveway. “It’s where you belong, sweetie pie.”

  “I know.” Her goal. Her greatest longing. Fulfilled. Why didn’t it warm her to the core?

  The front door of the house swung open, and Mama dashed onto the porch, waving with one hand and wrestling off her apron with the other.

  Daddy threw the gearshift into neutral. “Go to her, Georgie. Introduce your friends. I’ll bring in your bags.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.” She flung open the car door and ran up the porch steps and into Mama’s arms.

  “Oh, baby. My baby.” Mama’s voice swam with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about Rose, sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Thank you.” Georgie breathed in the scent of lavender soap, accented by ham and the faint dusty smell of flour.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone. She’s so much a part of this place, of your life.”

  “I know.” Georgie squeezed Mama’s just-plump-enough middle. How could home be home without Rose banging open the front door and begging Mama to make rhubarb pie?

  “Let me take a look at you.” She grasped Georgie’s shoulders and raised a flimsy smile. She wore her barely graying curls rolled at the hairline and gathered in a little bun at the nape of her neck. Fashionable but mature. A lady, as always.

  “Look at my baby.” She clucked her tongue. “So beautiful. I’m glad you didn’t have to wear those hideous trousers. I can’t believe they make you wear those things.”

  If only Mama knew how hard the flight nurses campaigned for the right to wear trousers.

  Mama put on her best company smile. “Please introduce me to your lovely friends.”

  “May I introduce Mellie Blake and Kay Jobson? Mellie and Kay, this is my mother, Olivia Taylor.”

  “Mrs. Taylor, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mellie shook her hand.

  Kay did likewise. “Thank you for having us.”

  “It’s our pleasure.” Mama ushered them into the house. “Where are you from, ladies?”

  Mellie smiled. “California mostly, but I spent half my life on botanical excursions with my father in the Philippines and East Indies.”

  “Oh my!” Mama pressed her hand to her chest. “And you, Kay?”

  Kay’s gaze darted around the entryway with its dark wood, white trim, and framed etchings of horses on the walls. “Me? From everywhere and nowhere.”

  “Oh? What do you mean by that?”

  “We . . . moved around a lot. Oklahoma, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri, wherever.”

  “Isn’t that interesting?” Mama’s smile fluttered. She stood in the home she’d lived in since her wedding day, in the county where she’d been born, in the state she’d never left.

  Georgie chewed on the inside of her cheek. She hoped Kay wouldn’t embarrass her this week, but she could hardly abandon the poor thing. She headed up the staircase. “Let me show you to your rooms.”

  Mama waved them along. “Mr. Taylor will bring in your things. Supper will be ready in an hour. Y’all lie down and take a rest now.” She headed through the door to the kitchen, releasing the scent of baked ham and apple pie.

  “Real beds?” Mellie followed Georgie upstairs. “That sounds heavenly. How long has it been, girls?”

  “Forever,” Kay said. “If I lie down on a real mattress, I may not get up until 1944.”

  “Here are your rooms.” Georgie smiled at the cross-stitch samplers on each bedroom door—Winifred, Alberta, and Georgiana—lined up in birth order down the hallway. “Kay, you’ll take Freddie’s room. Mellie, you’re in Bertie’s room. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”

  Kay gazed around. “I’ve never had a room to myself. What on earth will I do?”

  “You’ll sleep.” Georgie smiled at her and showed her where the towels and extra blankets were stored, then showed Mel
lie her room. “Don’t worry about missing supper. Mama makes a ruckus with the bell.”

  Georgie took a deep breath and entered her own room. Late afternoon sun slanted through the windows and cast a golden glow over the warm woods and the pale pink bedspread. She sat on her bed under the ruffled canopy. How many times had she and Rose huddled on this bed and played games and told tales and laughed together?

  Pink ruffles blurred in her damp vision, and she stood. She yanked out bobby pins and set her garrison cap on the dresser.

  Daddy’s footsteps clomped down the hallway, and he set Georgie’s gear inside her door. “Your mama said you’re to lie down for a spell. You’ve had a long trip.”

  “Actually, I’m not tired. I’ll go help in the kitchen.”

  “No, you won’t, young lady.” He smiled with warmth in his blue eyes. “That was a direct order from the general herself.”

  Georgie fiddled with the hem of her waist-length jacket. All her life she’d done what Mama and Daddy said. Except when she joined the flight nursing program. They knew she couldn’t handle it. They knew what was best for her.

  But she did not want to lie down. “Thanks, but I’d like to help with supper.”

  “Are you going to deal with the general? Because I’m not doing KP for you, missy.”

  She raised her sharpest salute. “I’ll take the punishment. You are relieved of your responsibility, soldier.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said in a mock dark tone.

  Georgie patted his arm and went down to the kitchen, where Mama stood at the counter, her wooden spoon thumping in her big glass mixing bowl.

  She gasped. “You’re supposed to be resting, baby.”

  “I’m not tired. May I help?”

  Mama pointed her batter-coated spoon toward the door. “You can help by taking a rest. The ham’s in the oven, the peas are shelled, I’m mixing the biscuits, and the pie’s out to cool. Made from Ward’s apple harvest. He’ll be here for supper, of course.”

  “Good.” The sooner she saw Ward, the better. She’d hoped her encounter with Phyllis would empty her mind of John Hutchinson, but it had the opposite effect. In a few weeks, he’d receive that letter and mourn, and she wouldn’t be there to comfort him as he’d comforted her. Now she needed to fill her eyes and her mind with the man she’d marry.