On Distant Shores

by Sarah Sundin

  It would definitely be more fascinating than Larry White’s inventory of supplies. Georgie smoothed her uniform skirt.

  Tom gathered Mellie’s other hand into his grip. “I met you through a thin paper bridge of letters. That bridge grew stronger when we met in person, and our love made it into a work of art that inspires my soul.”

  Mellie’s eyelashes fluttered, and she lowered her chin. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “I’m not done yet.”

  Georgie’s heart squeezed. Thomas MacGilliver Jr. wasn’t talking about bridges. She had a hunch she was about to observe one of the most important events in Mellie Blake’s life.

  “One more thing I like about bridges.” Tom’s voice thickened. “Their permanence.”

  Louise let out a soft gasp.

  Tom got out of his chair and went down on one knee.

  “Oh, Tom.” Mellie wouldn’t raise her chin, and tears glistened on her cheeks.

  Georgie’s eyes filled with joy for her friend and bittersweet wistfulness for her own happy ending.

  “Look at me, sweetheart.” Tom nudged up Mellie’s chin.

  “I—I need a handkerchief.”

  Kay laughed and handed her one. “Stop blubbering. This is the happiest moment of your life.”

  “I kno-o-ow.” Mellie dabbed at her eyes, sniffled, and looked into Tom’s beaming face.

  “The love between us is strong,” Tom said. “It’s been tested. It’s proven solid. Would you do me the honor of making our love officially permanent? Would you please be my wife?”

  “Oh, Tom.” She leaned forward in her chair, threw her arms around his neck, and burrowed her face into his shoulder. “Yes. Oh, Tom, yes, yes, yes.”

  “Thank you.” He closed his eyes, almost as if in pain, and held her tight.

  Georgie’s heart squeezed again, this time out of guilt, out of compassion for him. When Mellie found out Tom’s identity, Georgie had urged her to let him go so she wouldn’t be burdened with an infamous name for life. Tom probably thought no one would ever take on his name, and now sweet Mellie would wear it gladly and proudly. That was love.

  “I have a ring.” Tom’s voice came out scratchy. “You want it?”

  Mellie let out a shaky laugh and pulled back. “Do I want it?”

  “Well, do you?”

  Everyone around the table laughed. Tom took a little box from his trouser pocket and slipped a ring on Mellie’s finger.

  Georgie stood with the others. She hugged the engaged couple, admired Mellie’s ring, and pressed her handkerchief into Mellie’s hand, since Kay’s hankie was no longer dry.

  Hal and Larry stood to the side, talking to each other, and Kay stood alone by the edge of the terrace. Georgie joined her. “So, who’s next, do you think? You and Hal?”

  “Oh, please.” Kay shuddered. “He won’t get one more date out of me. All hands.”

  “Well, it won’t be me and Larry. The man’s as interesting as an Army manual.”

  “Sorry. Thought you liked them quiet and dry.”

  Because of Hutch. “Quiet isn’t always dull.”

  Kay swept her hair off her shoulder. “I suppose not. Appearances can be deceiving.” A breathy tone hinted at sadness.

  Georgie stared at the redhead. What was going on? Gingerly, she threaded her arm through Kay’s. “Do you miss the flyboys?”

  “India,” Kay whispered, her gaze fixed over the moon-dappled ocean. “Can’t believe he’s gone.”

  He? Only one? Who had broken through? “Grant?”

  “Grant?” Kay made a face. “I broke up with him weeks ago. Getting too serious.”

  “Then who—?”

  “No one.” She gave Georgie a firm hard look. “No one at all.”

  That was a whopper of a lie, but Kay Jobson certainly wouldn’t tell the truth tonight. Georgie raised a soft smile. “I won’t pry. But I’ll pray for him and for you.”

  “There is no him.” Her chin high, she turned away, letting Georgie’s hand fall. Then she turned back. “But thanks for the prayers.”

  Somewhere, down on the terrace floor, lay Georgie’s lower jaw. She closed her mouth. Well, well, well. What was happening with Miss Kay?

  A full moon illuminated the beauty of Naples Bay and the deeper beauty of her friends on the terrace. Oh yes. She had definitely made the right decision to stay in Italy.

  51

  Nettuno

  April 14, 1944

  Hutch’s gaze circled the six other men from pharmacy and lab sitting on crates and camp stools. “You heard the order. We leave the day after tomorrow, and the 11th Evac will take our place.”

  “Eighty-three days at Anzio is enough,” Dom said.

  “But who’s counting?” Ralph grinned, his fair face yellow from Atabrine. The forces at Anzio had started the antimalarial med two weeks earlier.

  Hutch glanced around the tent, finally dug in six feet deep and reinforced with boarding and sandbags by the engineers. “Our equipment stays here, and we’ll take theirs in Casanova back on the Cassino front.”

  Dom nudged Ralph. “Casanova—great place for lovers.”

  “Guess we’ll have to leave you here.”

  Hutch laughed and held up his hands. “Okay, men. I called you together for a reason. As you know, Kaz’s organization is . . . different.”

  “It’s stupid,” one of the lab techs muttered.

  “I’d like to switch it back for the fellows in the 11th,” Hutch said. “They’ll have a hard enough time adjusting to air raids and artillery. They need to be up and running immediately.”

  Ralph leaned forward on his knees. “On the other hand, if we leave it as is, the men from the 11th will raise a stink. Kaz will get in trouble.”

  Hutch gripped his hands together. “That’s the other reason I’d like to switch it back. Kaz acted in good faith that he was helping us. He shouldn’t get in trouble.”

  “But—”

  “But he deserves our respect as a man and as our supervising officer. I’d like to protect his reputation.” Hutch glanced behind him toward the door. “Now, he’s under the weather today, so he won’t know what we did.”

  Ralph grumbled. “Too bad we’ll have to waste time in Casanova setting up Kaz’s way again.”

  “I don’t think so.” Hutch patted his hands on his knees. “That’s the second part of my proposition. I want to run it past all of you. We’ll decide together.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Sergeant Paskun, the lead lab tech, said.

  “Simple. We’re taking over the 11th Evac’s tents and equipment and supplies. In a sense, we’re borrowing from them. We tell Kaz we don’t feel comfortable changing the organization of another hospital. It’s like visiting someone’s house and rearranging the furniture. We wouldn’t want to be rude, would we?”

  Dom’s eyes lit up. “That might work.” Murmurs of agreement swept the circle.

  A sense of accomplishment warmed Hutch’s chest. “If we’re united and make a big enough fuss, I think we’ll prevail. If not, I vote we go en masse to Colonel Currier and state our case. I’d rather not involve him, but—”

  “I agree,” Paskun said.

  “Me too.” Ralph thumped his fist into his open palm. “Let’s do it. Who’s with Hutch?”

  All six hands shot up, and Hutch smiled. If this worked—and he’d prayed plenty about it—then they could practice as they’d been trained, in a safer and more efficient environment. And they could do so while treating Kaz with respect and kindness.

  “Okay.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s put this place back to rights.”

  Casanova, Italy

  April 16, 1944

  Hutch dropped his gear beside his new cot and stretched up to his full height. Felt good to stand straight for once. His back prickled, and he scratched the network of scabs that itched like crazy. Thank goodness Bergie wasn’t there to tell him to stop scratching.

  He headed out to search for the pharmacy and laboratory t
ent. The 11th Evac had a slightly different layout from the 93rd.

  Rolling green hills surrounded the hospital under a partly cloudy sky. No rumbling artillery, no roaring aircraft, no crashing waves. Would his ears ever adjust?

  He’d adjust quickly to not wearing his helmet. His garrison cap felt flimsy, the warm air ruffled his hair, and his head floated light and unburdened.

  So many burdens lifted. The name Casanova needed one extra letter—if it were Casa nuova, it’d mean “new house,” a new start.

  As he walked, he read Dad’s letter again. The Pharmacy Corps had opened six more positions. To reapply, Hutch needed to fill out the short form Dad enclosed. Dad said with Hutch’s high test score and excellent application, he’d get the commission. Within a month he’d be stateside.

  In the Bible, when the herdsmen of Gerar fought with Isaac, the patriarch gave up his first well. They fought again, and Isaac surrendered his second well. But when the third well gushed forth and he prospered, the herdsmen realized God was on Isaac’s side and begged for a treaty with him. Isaac finally kept a well.

  This second chance at the Corps could be Isaac’s last well, Hutch’s reward for seeing the light, learning his lessons, and surrendering.

  Hutch unfolded the application form, read it through, and ripped it in half.

  Dad wouldn’t be pleased, but this was for the best. Hutch needed to find contentment outside of recognition. He had peace, a renewed passion for his job, and satisfaction in it.

  He’d joined the Army to provide excellent patient care, and that’s what he did at the 93rd. Doing an important job well was plenty for him.

  Hutch ducked into the pharmacy tent and almost stumbled. Level earth. No drop into dugout conditions.

  Lieutenant Kazokov stood in front of the counter, studying the shelves, hands on hips.

  Hutch tensed. Time to implement his plan, with full respect.

  Kaz turned. “Ah, Sergeant. There you are.”

  “Good day, Lieutenant.” Hutch gave him a genuine smile. The man really did try hard, had the best motivation. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

  “Thank you. One more bout of dysentery might do me in.” He frowned at the shelves and ran his hand along a line of bottles, neat and orderly.

  “I’ve been thinking, sir—”

  Kaz held up one hand. “No, I’ve been thinking. You fellows gave it a try. You went along with my modernization. But I’m a man of careful analysis, and I don’t see that the reorganization increased efficiency. That was the purpose in the first place.”

  “I know you had the department’s best interest in mind, sir.”

  Kaz turned his small, dark eyes to Hutch. He was more than a caricature. He was a good man who wanted to make a difference.

  Hutch smiled at him. “Where would our country be without innovators, men willing to take a chance and make changes?”

  The lieutenant set his hand on the counter by the scales. “Did you know when Thomas Edison invented the lightbulb, he tested three thousand filaments before finding one that worked?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If Edison can admit failure, so can I.” He thumped the counter and faced Hutch. “I trust you and Paskun to come up with the best organization for your departments.”

  Hutch couldn’t contain his smile. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “It’s earned.” He headed for lab. “I’ll go tell Paskun.”

  What was better—the unexpected respect or the pharmacy setup, the blessed setup? Bulk items on the bottom shelves, topicals grouped with topicals, injectables with injectables, orals with orals.

  First thing, an inventory. Hutch sifted through the paperwork and found a WDMD Form 16a to order Class 1 Medical Items. He pulled the first bottle off the shelf, acetone, about half full. Fine. Acetic acid, glacial, almost out. Better order some.

  Bergie jogged into the tent, cheeks flushed. “Hiya, Hutchie. Stop scratching.”

  “I’m not . . .” He was. He forced his hand back to the task.

  “How’s pharmacy?”

  “Great.” Acetylsalicylic acid, bulk powder, order one more pound. “Got a fresh, organized start and permission to keep it this way.”

  “Good.” Bergie leaned his elbows on the makeshift counter. “Say, did you decide?”

  “I told you last night I’d stay here. It’s final. Ripped up the application. I wrote to Dad last night, and I’ll mail it as soon as the PX is open.”

  “Are you sure it’s the right decision?” Concern lowered his voice.

  Hutch hefted the bottle of aspirin tablets. “Absolutely certain. This is where God wants me for many reasons.”

  “You also said you were going to write a letter to Georgie. Did you?”

  “Yep.” That was harder than the letter to Dad. He had to express his gratitude without sounding romantic, pathetic, or manipulative.

  “Why don’t you just hand it to her?”

  Hutch spun to face him. “What?”

  Bergie wore a small, satisfied smile. “She’s in Receiving. She and Captain Maxwell didn’t know we switched places with the 11th and that we don’t have patients yet.”

  His heart jumped around untethered in his chest and turned his head toward Receiving.

  “She asked about you, real sweet and concerned, and I told her you were better than ever, happy and peaceful. You should have seen the smile on her face.”

  Hutch wished he could have seen it too.

  “I told her to come over and say hi, but she thinks you don’t want to see her.”

  He didn’t want to see her. And yet he did, more than anything.

  “What are you waiting for? Get over there. They won’t stay long since we don’t have patients.”

  Hutch’s feet felt as if he’d poured the hospital’s entire supply of numbing procaine into his boots. But he had to go. It was part of his humbling.

  He had the letter as an excuse. Even better, she’d see his face when he delivered it. She’d see his sincerity and understand he wasn’t trying to win her back.

  With great effort he popped his knee forward and moved his foot. He patted his chest to make sure he had the letter in his field jacket, gave Bergie a croaky “thanks,” and headed out.

  He strode down the path to Receiving, dodged men and equipment, and wet his mouth and lips.

  What would he say? He hadn’t planned to see her, just to mail the letter. But the thought of saying good-bye in a more gentlemanly manner than at Pompeii—that quickened his pace.

  Hutch burst into Receiving. Empty, except for four medics rearranging the cots. Where were they? Had they already left?

  The other receiving tent. Hutch charged out and into the tent next door. A nurse and a medic rummaged through the medical chest.

  His hands splayed out, groping for what he’d lost. “Excuse me, ma’am. Have you seen Captain Maxwell and Lieutenant Taylor from the air evac squadron?”

  “Sure.” She pointed to the other entrance to the tent, the front entrance. “They left a minute ago.”

  Oh no. He dashed through the tent. Please, Lord, let them still be here.

  He shoved aside the tent flap, got it tangled around his arm, and shook himself free. Straight across the main road, a jeep backed out. He’d recognize that curly head anywhere.

  Hutch ran to the jeep. “Lieutenant Taylor!”

  Georgie whipped around, mouth and eyes wide.

  He stopped a few feet from the jeep and saluted Captain Maxwell. “Excuse me, Captain. Please pardon the interruption. I have something for the lieutenant.”

  A frown puckered his forehead. “All right, Sergeant. Proceed.”

  Hutch turned to Georgie, and his entire chest caved in on him. She looked stunned. Pale. Beautiful. With all his heart, all his soul, he still loved her.

  Captain Maxwell cleared his throat. “Yes, Sergeant?”

  Hutch’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Georgie. In that split second, she
composed her face into hospitable, polite distance. He’d lost her forever, thrown away her love in exchange for wallowing in bitterness. The stupidest mistake of his life.

  But he wanted her to know she’d made the right decision in breaking up with him. “I have a letter for you.”

  “You do?” The delicious way she turned two syllables into four. How he’d missed it.

  “Yeah.” He pulled out the letters, made sure he had the right one, and held it out to her.

  She reached for it and hesitated, her fingers curling. When he poked the letter closer, she nodded and took it. If only he could have grasped her hand and pulled her up into his arms and held her forever.

  But she would have slapped his face and rightly so.

  Hutch stepped back but fixed his warmest gaze on her. “I wanted to thank you. For everything you’ve done.”

  Her lips parted. Her eyes had never been bluer.

  He pulled himself tall and gave her half a smile and a full salute. “Good-bye, Lieutenant, Captain.”

  “Good—good-bye.” Georgie fumbled through the salute.

  “Good day, Sergeant.” The captain shifted the jeep into first gear, and the vehicle churned down the road.

  Georgie didn’t look back, but Hutch held the salute until she disappeared from his sight.

  From his life.

  52

  “What was that about?” Captain Maxwell turned the jeep onto the road south toward Naples.

  Georgie fingered the letter and recovered her breath. “That’s—Sergeant Hutchinson. He’s the pharmacist. He was thanking me. I used to bring him supplies—oranges and things. For compounding medicines.”

  Maxwell grunted. “He had more than gratitude on his mind. Don’t let him get the wrong idea. He’s an enlisted man.”

  “I know that, sir.” She turned to watch the scenery and to hide her expression. She hadn’t been prepared to see Hutch, for the rush of emotion, the intensity of his eyes, the richness of his voice—it overwhelmed her. How could he communicate so much with a simple gaze? Remorse, peace, and the heartbreaking message that all was over between them.

  Was it only the longing of her imagination or did she sense he still loved her regardless? If only she’d had more time. If only she could have formed words and questions. If only she could go back.