by Sarah Sundin
In Georgie’s design, the mortar sat deep in the belly of the bear, weighing it down. Did Hutch do the same thing? Carry the weight of his profession in his belly? The burden, the disrespect, the bitterness all chewed away the lining of his stomach.
He fingered the embroidered North Star, the knot of dark blue thread firm and unmovable as Polaris itself. “Lord, I didn’t waver from my goal, and it was a good goal. I did it for you, for the patients, for my profession.”
Yet his labor was in vain.
Or was it? He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. His work did help establish the Corps. If he’d done it for noble reasons, for the patients, for his profession, he wouldn’t mind if he weren’t included.
But he minded. He minded deeply. Because he’d done it for himself.
He groaned. His goal started well, got tangled up with pride, and swallowed him with disabling and alienating bitterness.
A stab of pain, and he clenched the handkerchief. Why? Why had he pursued his goal so doggedly? So others would respect him, look up to him, treat him like he was worthy? Did it even matter what others thought of him? Or only what God thought?
And what did God think of Technical Sergeant John Hutchinson?
Hutch’s eyes slipped shut. The Lord loved him as a sergeant. The Lord would still love him if he were a private or if he were the commanding general of the entire Allied Armed Forces. God’s love didn’t depend on rank, or how hard a man worked, or whether a man succeeded.
God loved him for the sole reason that Hutch was his child.
With his elbows on his knees, Hutch rested his forehead in his hands, and the handkerchief dangled before him in the growing darkness.
Since the North Star shone above Ursa Major, the bear had to raise his heavy head to see it. Hadn’t Hutch once told Georgie to focus on the Lord and not to waver?
“Lord, I’ve been a fool. I made my goal my guiding star instead of you. I lost all light in my life because I took my eyes off your Light. Please forgive me.”
He clutched the handkerchief from the woman he loved, who had once loved him. He’d lost her. The Army wasn’t to blame, only him.
“Lord, help me. Help me accept my lot in life and find contentment. I’m alone. No one respects me. I have nothing—except you. And you—you’re all I need. I remember.”
He opened his eyes. One by one the stars blinked on, and a verse came to mind: “Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men.”
Hutch sat up straighter. Something remained in his life after all.
48
The Mediterranean
March 23, 1944
Georgie lay on the floor of the raft while the two litters rested across the top of the raft on either side of her. How could she sleep in a damp uniform in the chill night air with a full bladder, knowing the only thing that separated her from the ocean depths was a piece of rubberized canvas? Knowing her friends would be terrified for her when the flight didn’t arrive in Palermo? Knowing her family might receive a telegram in the next few days?
But why worry? Worry accomplished nothing but robbing her of sleep.
She rolled over and sighed.
“Can’t sleep?” Lt. Peter Cameron peeked over the side of his litter.
“Afraid not.” She spoke in a low voice.
“I hate to be a bother, but the pain’s coming back.”
Georgie pushed herself to sitting. Six weeks earlier, the poor man had been injured by a shell at Anzio, causing severe abdominal and chest wounds. He’d come through multiple surgeries and had a good prognosis—if he survived the ordeal at sea. “Would you like something for the pain?”
“Yes, please. I don’t want to waste the MS—save it for the others. I can take p.o. now. Do you have codeine?”
She blinked at his dark figure. “MS? P.o.?”
He chuckled. “Yes, I know the secret code. I’m a pharmacist.”
Georgie’s heart leaped, then settled back to its sad and painful place. “Did you—you didn’t serve in a hospital then.”
“No. Took a commission in the artillery. I wanted to be an officer, and in the Army the rating of pharmacist is enlisted.”
“I know.” Ignoring her heavy heart, she found the flashlight and rummaged through her musette bag for the bottle of codeine. “You made the right decision.”
“I thought so until my gun emplacement took a hit from one of those Nazi railroad guns.”
She shuddered. Word of giant German artillery guns pointed at the trapped souls at Anzio had spread throughout Italy. “I still think you chose right. I know . . . someone. A pharmacist. He chose to serve as an enlisted man. He wanted to join the Pharmacy Corps.”
“Yeah? I took the exam with a fellow . . . what was his name?”
Her chest tightened. “John Hutchinson?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Funny we know the same guy. Too bad though.”
“Too bad?” Terror seized her. Had he been hurt at Anzio? Killed? “What do you mean?”
“We didn’t get into the Corps. Our exams arrived after they’d already knighted the chosen twelve.”
Georgie gripped the bottle of codeine. “Oh no. Poor Hutch. He—he really wanted that.”
“I could tell.”
He wanted it a bit too much. Georgie frowned, screwed off the lid, and handed a tablet to Lieutenant Cameron. “Do you want some water to wash it down?”
“No, I’m fine. We’d best save the water.”
“True.” She didn’t want to think about what would happen if Air-Sea Rescue failed to find them.
She also didn’t want to think about Hutch. How did he handle the news about the Corps?
The old longing to reach out to him returned. If only she could listen and hold him and comfort him.
But that wouldn’t help. She couldn’t kiss away his bitterness any more than he could kiss away her fears. They each had to turn to God alone.
Georgie curled up with her head resting on the side of the raft, and she closed her eyes. Her friends couldn’t get her through this ordeal. Neither could her family or the love of a good man. Only the Lord.
Nettuno
Last night’s humbling brought Hutch his best sleep in months. If today’s humbling went as well, he hoped to wean himself off sodium bicarbonate in the near future.
In the early morning light, he pushed back the tent flap and hopped down two feet into Pharmacy. They’d been able to dig a bit deeper. Ralph was still there, thank goodness, waiting for Hutch and Dom to relieve him.
“Good morning.” Hutch joined Ralph at the back counter. “How was the night shift?”
“Fine.” Short and stiff.
Hutch missed the old joking and camaraderie, and it was his fault. From the crates that formed the front counter, Hutch removed two empty ones and set them upside down.
Dom entered the pharmacy.
“Good. You’re both here.” He pointed to the crates. “Please sit down. I have something to say.”
Dom and Ralph exchanged a look, then sat. Ralph sighed. “What did we do now?”
“Nothing.” Guilt made him wince. “Look, I know I’ve been difficult to be around lately.”
Another look between the techs said he’d been very difficult.
Hutch sank his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath. “I apologize. I treated you with the same disrespect I hated, and I’m sorry.”
Ralph arched one red eyebrow. “All right . . .”
They needed more. Of course they did. He tapped his foot on the ground. “Goals are good, but I let my goal take over my life. I became so . . . obsessed with getting respect that I forgot to treat others with respect.”
“I’ll say,” Ralph muttered.
“I’m sorry.” He stared at his tapping toe, forced it to be still, then glanced up at his techs. “All work done well is good work. And you guys are the best. You’re smart and hardworking. You deserve my respect and you have it, even if I’ve failed to show it. That’ll change from now
on.”
“Okay.” Dom raised his chin and narrowed his eyes at Hutch as if checking for sincerity.
“Even if the Army doesn’t agree, my work has value, and your work has even more value.” Hutch pointed his thumb to his chest. “Because you’ve had to put up with me.”
Ralph cracked a smile. “They ought to give us medals.”
Hutch laughed, as rusty as an old bike chain. Had he laughed, even once, since he and Georgie broke up?
“All right, Ralph, get out of here. Catch some sack time.” Hutch motioned him to the door then went to the back counter. “Let’s get to work, Dom.”
As he launched into the morning routine, Georgie’s sweet face remained in his mind. She’d played an important role in his life, even if it was shorter than the lifetime he’d hoped for.
Georgie would be pleased with his change of heart. Should he write and tell her? What if she thought he was trying to manipulate her affections? Trying to earn back her love?
No, he’d lost that forever, and deservedly so.
The Mediterranean
Georgie’s bladder woke her up. Around the circle of rafts, soft voices indicated the men were stirring.
While trying to sleep, she’d thought up the most ladylike solution to her predicament. After she took off her shoes, socks, and jacket, she sat on the side of the raft, held onto a handle, and lowered herself into the ocean on the outside of the circle. Her eyes slipped shut in blessed relief, but her cheeks warmed. What would Mama say?
Nonsense. If Mama were stranded at sea with fifteen men, she would do the same thing.
The only part she hadn’t thought out well was getting back into the raft. That took some effort. Finally she swung one sodden leg over the edge and hauled herself, panting, inside.
Now she had to sit shivering in sopping wet trousers, but the sun would eventually dry her off.
Georgie took her bearings. She couldn’t see land in any direction, but Vesuvius still glowed to the north.
“Listen up, boys. Here’s the story.” Roger Cooper pointed to the radioman’s raft. “Pettas is transmitting our coordinates over and over. Air-Sea Rescue should be here before long.”
“Thank goodness,” Georgie said, and the men erupted in cheers.
Roger held up his hands. “Don’t get too excited. I don’t know when. In the meantime, we’ll follow standard procedures. The crew will pass out your morning food and water ration, and we’ll maneuver the rafts so Lieutenant Taylor and Sergeant Ramirez can take care of you. After that, we’ll rig shelters so the sun won’t spoil your creamy complexions.”
Georgie decided the best cure for anxiety was a combination of prayer, keeping busy, and being cheerful for others. As the sun rose, the circle of rafts warped into a variety of shapes so she could administer medications, take vital signs, check casts, and change bandages. Her cheer seemed to alleviate the men’s anxiety too, and she didn’t touch her supply of phenobarbital.
By nine in the morning, her flight manifest looked as full and neat as if they’d made a routine flight. All patients cared for, assessed, medicated, and at ease.
“Do you hear that?” Private Stowe pointed to the north. “Sounds like a plane.”
Georgie strained to listen over the men’s chatter. Perhaps it was true that blind people had better hearing.
“Hey, you hear something?” another patient called. “Shut up, you numbskulls, so we can listen.”
The men quieted, but all Georgie could hear was the lick of waves against the raft and her own pulse, oscillating between joy that they would be rescued and fear that the enemy had found them.
The Luftwaffe rarely ventured this far south, but what if today was the exception? The rafts wouldn’t stand up to bullets, and the sicker patients wouldn’t survive long in the water.
A deep breath and a quick prayer, and Georgie sat tall again. After all she’d been through, it’d be ridiculous to fall apart now.
“I see it!” Shelby pointed north.
Georgie squinted and made out a long dark silhouette. She’d studied aircraft recognition at Bowman Field, but all the lessons about wing structure and tail configuration ran into a blur.
She bit her lip. A fairly large two-engine plane similar to the C-47, but not exactly like it.
The men engaged in a spirited discussion about the identity, the worst being a German Junkers bomber, the best a British Vickers-Armstrongs Warwick Air-Sea Rescue plane.
The plane headed straight to their position.
“Please, Lord,” Georgie whispered. “Let it be ours.”
Roger Cooper whooped and waved his flight jacket over his head. “It’s a Warwick ASR. God bless the RAF.”
Sure enough, Georgie spotted the red, white, and blue RAF roundel, and she cheered along with the men.
The Warwick waggled its wings at the survivors and entered a circular flight pattern over their position. It would stay there until the British rescue boats arrived.
Georgie laughed and cheered until tears ran down her face. All her patients would survive. With God’s help, she’d gotten herself and ten patients through the worst crisis she could have imagined.
She grinned and hugged herself. Silly baby Georgie no longer existed.
49
Nettuno
March 29, 1944
Why had he never used the telescope before? Despite the spill onto the sand, the adjustments were smooth and the magnification clear. Orion stood high over Anzio Bay, his arm cocked, his bow bent, his belt in place, the hunter ready to fell his prey.
“Aim at the Luftwaffe, why don’t you?” Hutch smiled, pleased to be able to joke again.
Orion wanted to fight, but Hutch found peace in surrender. Now that he’d resigned himself to his situation, even embraced it, a sense of purpose and satisfaction energized him.
He was an enlisted man, but so were the vast majority of servicemen. He had to deal with a supervising officer who knew nothing of his job, but Kaz deserved respect as a human being, and Hutch gave it to him.
Respect was a man’s lifeblood, and Hutch had no right to deprive anyone of it, even if deprived himself. His peace and his determination to give respect, combined with a bland peptic ulcer diet, had almost completely eliminated sodium bicarbonate from his life.
A cool dark night on the beach, at least an hour before the moonrise, and a first-rate telescope. All he needed was someone to enjoy it with.
His chest felt heavy, but he shook it off. Yes, he would be alone for the rest of the war, and after the war, it’d take a long time to find a woman as good for him as Georgie had been.
Even if he didn’t find the right woman, he’d take care of Lucia. He’d knock himself out finding a couple to adopt her. Maybe his sister Mary and her husband, or his parents, or Bergie and Lillian. He wouldn’t mind being Uncle Ucce if Lucia had a good home.
He peered through the eyepiece at the Great Orion Nebula at the tip of the hunter’s dagger. It turned off as if someone had flipped a giant light switch.
Hutch frowned. That wasn’t normal star twinkling. It lasted longer, as if something had passed in front.
Like a plane. Like a Luftwaffe bomber.
The faintest throbbing sounded to the northwest, too soft to be heard over hospital noises. Why hadn’t the general alarm blasted its warning?
He’d come back for the telescope later. “Red alert! Air raid!”
Hutch sprinted up the beach, shouting at full voice, onto the hospital complex. “Air raid! Red alert!”
An officer lifted a whistle and blew it three times. The alarm was picked up, carried by whistles throughout the hospital, and within seconds the air raid siren blared on the loudspeaker at the 56th Evac next door.
Overhead, the planes circled and fired flares, lighting up the sky. White circles and red crosses glowed from the roof of each tent.
A whistle rose from above.
“Dirty rats! This is a hospital!” Hutch resisted the urge to fling himself next to the sandb
ags lining a ward tent, and he jumped down inside. The nurses and medics were moving patients’ litters under the cots for protection, and Hutch pitched in.
A blast hurt his eardrums, and the concussion wave slammed him in the chest and sent him staggering back. Screams and shouts a short distance away. The 93rd had been hit.
Hutch recovered his footing, shook his ears clear, and shoved a few more patients to relative safety.
Another whistle, keener, closer.
A nurse yelled—Lillian—and fell over a patient on his cot to protect him.
Hutch threw himself over Lillian.
The blast kicked them so hard the cot collapsed. Jabbing, burning. His entire back. He cried out.
Screams all around him. He had to help. He’d only taken some shrapnel.
The lightbulbs winked out, and the only illumination came from fires outside, sending orange-yellow light through gaping holes in the tent.
Hutch lurched to his feet and held out his hand for Lillian. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Thank you. Hutch, is that you?” She peered at him, then wheeled to her patient—shaken but unharmed.
Others hadn’t fared as well. A medic pulled a blanket over one patient, and three men cried out in agony—two medics and a patient.
Hutch’s breath raced. He stepped forward to help.
Another blast—from the ground outside—shot out blue-white chunks.
He crouched low, shielded a patient. Blazing metal flew into the tent, onto the cots, burned holes in the tent.
A patient shrieked and tried to kick off his flaming blanket. Hutch pitched off the blanket and crumpled it up to smother the fire.
“Incendiaries!” a man shouted and called the Germans several choice names. “They’re using fragmentation incendiary bombs. On a hospital.”
More choice names erupted, even from the nurses. Hutch shared their opinion if not their vocabulary. This broke all laws of warfare and decency.
Men wrestled back the burning canvas. Hutch hefted up a sandbag, slashed open by shrapnel, and poured sand on glowing chunks of magnesium. Only smothering put out magnesium fires.
His back protested each movement, warm and wet, with dozens of prickling pains, but his wounds could wait.
