by Sarah Sundin
Georgie resisted the impulse to help. “You’re doing so well.”
“Signor Ucce like?” She plopped onto a bench at the art table.
“I know he would.” Georgie slid a piece of paper in front of her. “Do you—do you write to him?”
“Si. Today I paint him.”
“He’ll like that.”
Lucia lifted wide eyes and a grin. “Please read me.”
A smile tickled Georgie’s lips. “What do you mean?”
She dug in the frayed pocket of her dress and pulled out a wrinkled letter folded in half. “Please read me. Signor Ucce. I no read well.”
Pain crushed her chest. When he wrote this letter, he certainly didn’t intend for Georgie to read it. Yet how could she resist Lucia’s plea? And how could she avert her eyes from the open window to Hutch’s world?
She flattened the letter on the table.
Dear Lucia,
How are you, little star? I miss you very much, but I know the nuns take good care of you. I hope you are happy and making lots of friends.
The hospital is busy. All the doctors and nurses miss you, but we’re glad you have a roof over your head and a soft bed and lots of good food.
Our hospital is right on the shore. If it’s quiet at night, I can hear the waves from my tent. When I have time off, I like to sit on the sand and watch the funny little birds hop up to the water, then skitter away when a wave comes in.
Someday this would be a nice place for little girls to build sand castles and play in the water. Have you ever been to the shore? I know you’d like it. Did you know there are stars in the ocean too? They’re called starfish, and they walk on little tube feet that tickle your hand if you touch them.
Keep learning to read and write like a good girl so you can write to me all by yourself. I like your letters very much. Please tell me what you’ve learned and all about your new friends.
Now, let’s sing together, my little star: “Twinkle, twinkle . . .”
Georgie’s voice broke, but she pulled herself together for Lucia’s sake and sang with the child.
“Thank you. Thank you.” She tugged on Georgie’s sleeve. “Please write me.”
Heavens, no. He couldn’t receive a letter in her handwriting. “Signorina Carpino—”
“No. She is nice but she is busy always. Please?”
That wouldn’t do. She waved to Vera. “Could you help me please? This is Lucia, and she wants a letter transcribed. I can’t do it. Please don’t make me explain.”
Vera raised one perfect eyebrow, but then smiled at Lucia. “Of course. I’d love to write a letter for you, Lucia.”
“Thank you.” Lucia flipped one black braid over her shoulder. “Dear Signor Ucce.”
“Oo-chay?”
“U-C-C-E.” Georgie’s voice caught, and she turned to show a boy how to rinse the paintbrush before switching colors.
Hutch was at Anzio for certain. Somehow receiving secondhand news deepened the sense of distance, of separation, of loss.
Her eyes stung. The letter showed her everything good and lovable about Hutch. Had she made the wrong decision to break up with him? Had she been too hard on him? What if he needed her comfort and encouragement and cheer?
Her sudden laugh amused the little boy with the paintbrush.
No, the last time she’d seen him, Hutch had rejected every attempt to cheer him. She needed to stop questioning her decisions.
Howling laughter rose from outside, and Georgie glanced out the window. Kay and Louise doubled over laughing. A group of boys kicked the baseball around with fancy moves, and the bat lay on the ground. Mellie played along. Apparently they preferred soccer to baseball.
Georgie smiled and circled the table, saying, “Bella, bella” for each painting.
One boy gazed longingly out the window. He had no feet. He’d never play soccer again.
Georgie swallowed the lump of pity and sat next to him. “Here. Let me show you something fun.” She folded a piece of paper into eighths like a pie, then snipped out little triangles and squares from the edges.
He watched skeptically until Georgie unfolded it. “See. A snowflake.”
Interest flickered in his dark eyes, and Georgie handed him the scissors and a piece of paper. “Your turn.”
For the next hour, she helped with art projects and then assisted with the cleanup.
When it was time to leave, she hugged Lucia. The little girl wouldn’t let go of her waist or her heart. Had it really been only a few weeks since she hoped to form a family with Hutch and Lucia? Now that would never happen, and until Hutch found someone else to marry, he wouldn’t be allowed to adopt and Lucia would stay in this orphanage.
She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and forced out the necessary prayer. Lord, please let Hutch find the right woman to be his wife and this child’s mother.
Lucia pulled back and wiped away a tear. “Please write me?”
Georgie’s smile quivered. “I will.”
“Come back?”
“Lord willing, we will.” And with a pile of pretty dresses and neat shirts and warm sweaters. Mama could send her more cloth and yarn and notions.
“Promise?” Pain lurked deep in those big brown eyes.
Georgie knelt beside the bench and took her hands. “Sugar, I won’t make a promise I can’t keep. But I promise to write, and I do want to visit again very, very much.”
Lucia nodded and shut her eyes. She’d lost so much, poor sweet thing—her family, her home, the strength in her legs, and even Hutch.
“You be good for the nuns now, you hear?” She squeezed the girl’s hands.
“Si. Yes. I promise.”
“Good girl.” After she pried herself free, she joined the other nurses outside under a cloudy sky.
Mellie slipped her arm through Georgie’s as they walked down the road to the train station. “Was it hard to see Lucia?”
“She asked me to read a letter from Hutch.”
“Oh dear. Do you want to talk about it?”
She sighed. “I learned he’s at Anzio as I suspected. But he didn’t say anything I wanted to hear, like how he’s really doing.”
Walking on Mellie’s other side, Kay wrinkled her nose. “Are you still pining for him? Don’t. Tall, dark, and handsome does not make up for grouchy.”
She reined in her irritation. “I’m not pining for him.”
“Good. A cute thing like you can find a new man like this.” Kay snapped her fingers. “What about that doctor from the dance? Chadwick, wasn’t it? A looker, and he sure had his eye on you.”
Drips from last night’s rain fell from an umbrella pine, and Georgie dodged them. “He’s not my type.”
“Oh, and he’s at Anzio too, isn’t he? Too bad they won’t let us fly in there. If you’re not interested, I am. I don’t have a physician on my roster.”
A different man every day of the week, with an out-of-character exception for Sundays. “Why so many men?”
“It’s fun.” She shook back her strawberry blonde hair. “You’ve heard about sailors having a different girl in every port? Well, I have a different man in every airport.”
“But why do you need so many?”
Mellie’s fingers dug into Georgie’s arm, but Georgie ignored her. She’d been too caught up in her own life’s drama to focus on Kay as her project. That needed to change.
Kay’s chin elevated. “It’s not a need. It’s just fun, no commitment. The boys know that from the start. Any man gets too serious and he’s gone.”
Mellie’s grip intensified, and Georgie dropped the subject, but only for now.
What was fun about a lack of commitment?
Of course, commitment hadn’t worked that well for Georgie. She’d ended a relationship destined for marriage, and then an even better relationship that seemed destined for an even better marriage.
The ladies entered the railroad depot and stood in line for tickets.
Now Georgie was unattached,
and for the longest time in her life.
As much as she hated the void, she couldn’t fill it yet. Not until she evicted the notion that only Sgt. John Hutchinson belonged there.
93rd Evacuation Hospital, Nettuno
February 18, 1944
Hutch wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stand straight again. He headed for his lunch at the mess doing the “Anzio Shuffle,” hunched in a duckwalk to avoid decapitation by enemy shells. He lived in his helmet, even sleeping with it balanced over his head.
Dozens of personnel at the four American hospitals had been killed or wounded. The US Fifth Army had made noise about evacuating the nurses, but when the women protested, the Army backed down.
They might change their minds this week.
The sound of metal scraping on metal pricked Hutch’s ear. Incoming shell. He raced for the nearest foxhole and leaped in. He landed with a splash, and chilly water soaked his trousers and feet.
He grimaced. The water table on the Anzio beachhead lay only a few feet below ground this time of year, so the hospital couldn’t dig in for protection.
The shell landed to the west and shook the ground, but it missed the hospital.
On his right, a pudgy man in pajamas shivered. “I was under the opinion that the appropriate treatment for trench foot was to keep the feet dry and elevated.”
“It is.” Hutch smiled. “Here. Put them up on my knees.”
The man swung dripping feet up over Hutch’s knees. “This is the most undignified situation in which I have ever found myself.”
“Undignified?” A young man with an arm in a sling cussed. “Plain dangerous. It’s safer at the front. I swear I’ll go AWOL and return to my unit.”
Dozens of patients had done just that.
Two loud whines overhead, and the men hunkered close to the earthen wall. Hutch braced himself, but the shells landed far away.
The trench foot patient readjusted his muddy helmet. “Trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea, with the Nazis, as always, playing the role of the devil.”
“Yep.” The Germans were on the move again. Last he’d heard they’d broken the final defensive line and were within six miles of the shore. The Allied forces could all be in POW camps by the end of the week. At least today’s overcast blunted the rumors about German paratroopers dropping onto the beachhead.
Some hoped for a Dunkirk-type miraculous evacuation, but most realized the only plan was to fight to the end.
“I feel like I’m fighting Pop’s war.” The younger man propped up his bandaged arm with his healthy hand. “It’s like World War I trench warfare.”
Hutch leaned his head against the sandy wall. “Bombarded without stop. Can’t go forward. Can’t go back. A microcosm of my life.”
“Microcosm?” The trench foot patient sat up a bit higher. “A fellow man of education?”
“Bachelor’s in pharmacy. Not that it does a fat lot of good around here.” He pointed to the stripes on his sleeve.
“I understand.” He held out a wet hand. “Robert Prescott, Ph.D. in European history and private first class in the infantry. No demand for professorial types in Uncle Sam’s Army.”
Hutch shook with his equally wet hand. “Watching history being made.”
“And I’m unable to record it. I’m not even allowed to keep a journal.”
“What a waste.”
“In many ways. I could be writing scholarly books—very well. Instead I’m shooting a rifle—very poorly. But we all have our dreams on hold for the duration, don’t we?”
Hutch studied Robert’s round earnest face. He had to admit the truth. He wasn’t alone in disappointment and frustration. “Yeah, we do.”
“Know what you mean, pal,” the man with the sling said. “You’re looking at Dick Engelhard, the man meant to be the star of the US Olympic swim team in 1940.”
Hutch gave him a wry smile. “Games were cancelled in ’40.”
“Yeah, and prospects don’t look too good for ’44.”
A shell whizzed overhead and thumped to ground in the distance.
“I’d say not.” Robert glared toward enemy lines.
Dick’s light eyes took on a faraway look. “And in ’48, even if this blasted war is actually over, I’ll be past my prime. Life’s passing me by.”
Hutch sighed. “Me too. My fiancée couldn’t wait and married another man. The Army won’t—” He was tired of explaining it. “Back at home, I’d have a bustling drugstore and be a pillar of the community. Here it’s nothing but hassle and disrespect.”
Dick grumbled in affirmation. “Nothing you can do about it. Just got to do your best.”
“‘Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men,’” Robert said.
Hutch stared at him. His mind tingled—from the cold or from the memory of a truth forgotten? “What was that?”
“It’s in Colossians, chapter 3.” Robert wiggled his wet toes. “The apostle Paul addressed that to servants.”
Servants? Hutch sagged against the wall. Servants had to do what they were told without question. They had no control over their lives. They didn’t even have the luxury of dreams and goals. Who was he to complain?
He’d lost sight of the importance of doing his best without complaining. Not for the sake of man. Not for respect. For the Lord.
The truth tasted as sour as the acid in his stomach. He’d thought disrespect was eating him up from the inside, but disrespect came from outside. Bitterness came from inside. Bitterness was chewing a hole in his stomach, in his soul, destroying his relationships with Georgie, Bergie, even the Lord.
He pressed his hand over his abdomen. Lord, help me find my way out of this mess.
44
Pomigliano Airfield
March 6, 1944
Rain pelted the tent, and Georgie’s needle flew through the fabric. Between her scraps and what she’d purchased in Naples, she had enough for a dozen dresses and a dozen shirts for the orphans, a good start.
Kay Jobson slouched on her cot and frowned at her knitting needles. “If I wanted to ‘knit my bit,’ I’d have stayed on the home front.”
“It’s for a good cause.” Mellie pinned a little sleeve onto a bodice. “We might as well keep busy since we can’t fly in this weather.”
“Remember Pearl Harbor . . . Purl Harder!” Kay held her knitting needle to her forehead in a salute.
Georgie smiled. “That’s the spirit.”
“I’m being sarcastic.”
“So am I.” She seemed to be the only nurse who welcomed the rain. On February 24, an evac flight had crashed in Sicily. Two nurses from their sister squadron, the 807th, had been killed.
Her insides jumbled up like the yarn in Kay’s lap. All her memories of Rose’s death had come back in a rush. She hated how her old fears wormed back into her soul, how she took comfort in the hominess of sewing. How she wavered.
Letters from home didn’t help. Her sister Freddie had been placed on bed rest for her pregnancy, and now Bertie and Mama joined the call for Georgie to come home and help, and Daddy insisted she patch things up with Ward out of mercy for the poor, inconsolable man.
The tent flap opened, and Lieutenant Lambert stepped inside, rain dripping from her coat. “Gracious. When will this let up?”
“Take off your coat and sit a spell.” Georgie held out a shirt. “You can sew on buttons.”
“Giving orders to your chief, are you?” Lambert smiled and tossed her coat onto the crate by the entrance. She took the shirt, needle and thread, and a handful of buttons. “I do like this project, Georgie.”
“I do too.” She tied off a knot and snipped the thread. She liked it far better than braving the skies.
“I have news for the three of you.” Lambert squinted at the needle and poked the thread through. “At the end of March, six replacement nurses will arrive from Bowman. We’d like to rotate some of the original gals stateside. By then, even accounting for your furlough, you’ll hav
e served a full twelve months overseas. The Army Air Force thinks that’s enough, and you should have a chance to go home.”
Georgie’s heart seized. Home.
“Nonsense.” Mellie held up the little dress for inspection. “The men on the front lines don’t get to go home after twelve months.”
“No, but the airmen have limited tours.” Lambert pulled the needle through a button. “You ladies face most of the dangers our airmen do.”
“I’d rather stay if it’s possible.” Mellie laid the dress in her lap and leaned closer to the chief. “I love this work. Besides, the nurses at Anzio—they don’t have a chance to go home.”
“No, they don’t.” Lambert gave Mellie a warm look. “I’d love to keep you.”
“I want to stay.” Kay took a stitch. “After all this flying, ward nursing would be dull.”
“Wonderful,” the chief said. “Vera’s staying too, and Alice is thinking about it.”
Georgie’s needle weaved along the seam line like an ocean wave. Would it be wrong to go home if it were her decision? Her family needed her, Ward needed her, and Hutch didn’t want her. She’d handled crises with grace and quick thinking, and she’d made decisions leaning on the Lord. Perhaps her purpose overseas had been accomplished.
“What about you, Georgie?” Lambert gave her a careful look. “You’ve done so well since your return, but I’m offering the chance to all the original girls.”
All that remained. She swallowed hard. Several were gone due to illness, pregnancy, transfer—or death.
“When do I have to decide?” Her voice came out shakier than she liked.
“Not until the replacements arrive. I’ll make a list of the girls who are interested, but I’ll leave a spot on top for you because of all you’ve been through.”
Her needle stilled. “I’ll pray about it.”
But already her answer seemed clear.
93rd Evacuation Hospital, Nettuno
March 12, 1944
Ralph O’Shea stepped down into Pharmacy. They’d managed to dig down one whole foot and stack sandbags around the sides of the tent for a smidgen of protection from air raids. “Sick of this rain.” He shook water off his mackinaw.
