Wings

by Danielle Steel

  “We don't know yet.”

  A little while later, he went out to see what was left of the plane, which had come in on the Lexington too, and Desmond thanked the captain for bringing her home safely, as photographers snapped their picture.

  “I only wish we had found her sooner. She's a great gal. We're all rooting for her. You tell her that as soon as she can hear you.”

  “I will, sir,” Desmond said, as they took another picture of him with the captain. Desmond went back to the hospital after that to wait for news and after another hour or two, they finally let him see her. She looked ravaged by everything she'd been through and she had IV tubes in both arms, one giving her medication and the other glucose. But she never stirred. And he never touched her. He simply stood staring at her, and the nurses couldn't tell what he was thinking.

  Billy Nolan's body was sent back to San Francisco that day, on a flight Desmond had arranged. And funeral services were set for two days later. And in churches everywhere, people were praying for Cassie.

  It was the fourth of December by then, and all over the country, people were talking about Christmas, but all the O'Malleys could think about was Cassie, comatose in Hawaii. They called Honolulu every morning and night for news of Cassie's condition. Pat wanted to fly them there, but his doctor didn't advise it. He was even thinking of calling that miserable husband of hers to lend him a plane, but he had heard he was already in Honolulu. Desmond was milking it for all the publicity he could get out of it. And on December 5, the doctor at the naval hospital called them again. Oona dreaded it now when the phone rang, and at the same time she longed for it. She was desperate for news of Cassie.

  “Mrs. O'Malley?”

  “Yes.” She recognized instantly the scratchy connection of long distance. ‘there's someone here who'd like to talk to you.” She thought it was Desmond, and she didn't want to talk to him, but maybe he had news for them. And then she heard Cassie. Her voice was so weak she could hardly hear her, but it was her. Oona was crying so hard she couldn't even tell Pat what was happening.

  “Mama?” Cassie said softly, and her mother nodded, and then forced herself to speak through her tears as Pat understood and began to cry too.

  “Cassie?… oh, baby… oh, sweetheart… we love you so much… we were so worried about you…”

  “I'm okay,” she said, and ran out of steam almost immediately. The doctor took the phone from her hand, and the nurse explained that Miss O'Malley was very weak, but she was doing much better. And then Cassie insisted on having the phone back again so she could tell her mother she loved her.“… and tell Daddy…” she whispered and he could hear her anyway, as Oona shared the receiver with Pat and he cried openly as he listened,“… I love him too…” She wanted to tell them about Billy, but she didn't have the strength, and the nurse took the phone away then. And a little while later they let her see Desmond. The nurse stayed in the room with them, as Cassie needed to be watched constantly. She was so weak that sometimes she even had trouble breathing.

  Desmond stood beside her bed, and looked down at her unhappily. He didn't know what to say to her, except that he was glad she had survived. It was an awkward moment for them. Everything he should have felt or said was wrong because of their circumstances, but he was relieved that she was alive. And he couldn't help wondering if she'd been careless about the plane. Or had there been some fatal flaw they hadn't known about before she left? Eventually he would need to ask her, but this wasn't the moment.

  “… I'm sorry… about the plane…” she said to him with effort, and he nodded.

  “You'll do it again one day,” he said confidently, but she shook her head. She hadn't even wanted to do it this time in the end. She had done it for him, because she felt she had to. It had always been his idea, his dream, his project. And in the end, she felt she owed it to him. She would never do it again, not for him, not for anyone, and not without Billy. “What happened?” he asked as the nurse looked on disapprovingly. She needed rest desperately, and no one was supposed to upset her, least of all her husband. The nurse had noticed that he hadn't even kissed her. And as he stood there, talking to her, he never touched her or went near her.

  But Cassie was trying desperately to answer his question.“… first smoke, then fire in the number-two engine…” she explained painfully,”… then… fire… in the number… one… too far from land… too much gas… brought it down where I could… tiny island… hit the beach… after we got out… tremendous explosion…”

  He nodded, wishing he knew what had caused the fire in the number two. But she couldn't tell him. The nurse told him then that she had exerted herself enough, and had to rest. He could come back later. He was very correct with everyone, and very well bred and polite, but he was as cold as ice, and he had never said a single kind word to Cassie. It was hard to believe he was her husband. Cassie wondered then as she watched him go, if it would have been easier for him if she had died. Now he'd have to face the world when she divorced him.

  Cassie sat up in bed the next day, and called her parents again. She was still very weak, but she was feeling a lot better. She had contracted a tropical disease of some kind, but mostly she had suffered from dehydration, malnutrition, and exposure, and it would take time to get back to normal. She was so weak, she couldn't even sit up without assistance. That afternoon Desmond showed up with a few photographers, but the nurse refused to let him bring them in to Cassie. He threatened to report her to her superiors, and she said it made absolutely no difference to her. The doctor had said no visitors except immediate family, and that was all she would allow to see Mrs. Williams.

  He was furious and he left almost immediately, and Cassie burst into laughter. ‘thank you, Lieutenant Clarke. You stick to your guns.”

  “I don't think you want to see the press.” Cassie still looked very thin and pale and very disheveled. They gave her a bath that afternoon, and she washed her hair, and she almost felt human again by that night. But fortunately, Desmond never came back to see her. He had been very proper with her, but it was obvious that his only interest in her recovery was what he could tell the papers. He had even told them about the lei the crew of the Lexington had left for her before setting sail that morning. Her survival had already been announced in newspapers around the world, and in Hornchurch, Nick had cried when his commander told him.

  On Saturday, Desmond tried to get the press in to Cassie's room again, and once again, the indomitable Lieutenant Clarke managed to thwart him. It was becoming a game, and Cassie loved it.

  “He seems awfully intent on letting the press in to see you,” Lieutenant Clarke said cautiously, wondering what Cassie saw in him, but she didn't dare ask her. Other than his good looks and expensive clothes, he seemed to have a heart of stone. The only thing he warmed to was the press, and certainly not Cassie. But that wasn't news to Cassie. She was only amused that her nurse was so good at annoying him. She didn't want to see anyone yet. Except her parents. And they had decided to wait for her to come home, now that she was doing better.

  Lieutenant Clarke walked her down the hall for the first time that afternoon, and the doctor said he thought Desmond could fly her home by the end of the week. She needed to build her strength up a little bit, and they wanted to be sure the fever didn't return. But so far it hadn't all day, and she felt a great deal better.

  A few men recognized her in the hospital as she walked down the hall awkwardly, she was still so weak, and they shook her hand and congratulated her on her survival. She was a heroine just for being alive, and she wished more than ever that Billy was alive now. She had sent a telegram to his father in San Francisco, expressing her grief to him.

  “We were all praying for you, Cassie,” people told her in the halls, and she thanked them warmly. Letters and telegrams were pouring in too. President and Mrs. Roosevelt had even called her at the hospital. But it didn't seem fair to Cass that Billy hadn't made it, and she had. She felt terribly guilty and unhappy about it, and
she cried whenever anyone mentioned him. She was still emotionally worn out by everything that had happened.

  She was pensive as she sat in her room most of the time and the nurses didn't want to disturb her. They could see that she was still troubled, and exhausted by her ordeal. They knew only that her co-pilot had died, but they knew no other details. And Cassie wasn't talking about it to anyone. She did a lot of thinking, and some sleeping. And she found herself thinking of Nick, and wondering where he was. She had never had the opportunity to tell him how right he'd been about Desmond. But maybe it didn't matter anymore. They had their own lives to lead. He wanted his own life, and she needed time just to recover from all that had happened. But when she felt better she wanted to look up Jackie Cochran, and talk to her about the planes she had ferried to England.

  Cassie called her parents again that night and she told them she'd be home soon, probably in another week, and she'd be home with them for Christmas. She had no reason to be in L.A. anymore, she didn't want to fly for Desmond, and she was sure he'd agree that she had fulfilled her contract to the best of her ability. It was all over.

  Her parents told her on the phone that they had just gotten a telegram from Nick in England, telling them how thrilled he was that she had survived. But he had sent nothing to her, probably because of Desmond.

  “Does it say when he's coming home?” she asked casually, and her father laughed.

  “You're too sly for your own good, Cassie O'Malley.”

  “He's probably married by now anyway,” she said lightly, but she hoped not.

  “No sane woman would have him.”

  “I hope not.” She laughed. She was in much better spirits. And after a brief chat, she went to bed early. She had no idea what Desmond was doing in Honolulu. He never even came to see her. She supposed he was wining and dining the press, lining up interviews for her when she felt better. But he was in for a shock. She was going to do one final press conference for him, to tell them all what they wanted to know. And then she was going home and folding up the road show. It had cost too much. Billy, and almost her own life. She didn't know what she wanted to do now. But whatever it was, it was going to be on a more human scale than what Desmond had pushed her to in the last year. She had made a lot of money, but she had lost a dear friend, and almost her own life. This time the risks had come at too high a price. And she needed time to recover.

  Lieutenant Clarke came in at seven o'clock the next morning, and woke her up when she pulled back the curtains and raised the shades. It was a beautiful day, and Cassie was anxious to get up and walk around. She even wanted to shower and dress, but Lieutenant Clarke didn't want her to overdo it.

  She had breakfast at seven-fifteen, poached eggs and three strips of bacon. It was a far cry from their island diet of bananas and berries. She never wanted to see either one again, for as long as she lived. And as she finished her breakfast, she glanced over the morning paper.

  She saw quickly that Desmond had been at it again. He had granted an interview to the Honolulu Star Bulletin and told them all about her condition. He didn't say too much however about what had happened to her on the little island; she suspected that he didn't want to steal any thunder from a major press conference with her. He thought of everything. Except her well-being. It was all business and publicity, airplanes and profit. Nick couldn't have been more accurate in his perceptions and predictions.

  She was still reading the paper when she heard the first plane overhead. She thought it was an exercise by the Navy pilots. The hospital was fairly close to the airfield. But then as she listened, she heard an explosion in the distance. And then more of them. Curious, she got up and walked to the window. And then she saw them, wave after wave of bombers. They were being attacked, she realized instantly, with astonishment. It was seven fifty-five on December 7.

  The sky was black with planes and they seemed to drone on endlessly, as they flew over the harbor, and systematically bombed every ship they saw beneath them. They strafed the airport simultaneously, and destroyed whatever they found there.

  Lieutenant Clarke came running in, and Cassie explained to her quickly what she was seeing. Without thinking, she ran to the closet, and found the clothes that Desmond had brought her. There wasn't much. But there was a skirt and a blouse and a pair of shoes, and she hurriedly took off her robe and nightgown and got dressed for the first time since she'd been there.

  In the hospital, people were crowding into the hallways, and dashing around aimlessly. Nurses and orderlies were trying to keep patients calm, and almost instinctively Cassie joined them. They were under attack for an hour, and by then the Arizona was in flames, along with a number of smaller ships, and large parts of the harbor. Reports were coming in rapidly, many of them inaccurate. And the radio was explaining that they had been bombed by the Japanese, and it was only moments later when ambulances began bringing in the wounded. There were terrifying bums, and men covered in oil, others with head injuries, some with machine gun wounds, and many with traumatic shock. Nurses were running everywhere, and patients like Cassie were giving up their beds for the men who were being brought in from the harbor.

  Cassie worked alongside Lieutenant Clarke tearing bandages, and clean pieces of doth. She helped to hold wounded men in her arms, lifting them onto beds. She did anything she could to help, but before they could deal with half of the wounded men, the Japanese attacked again. And this time they got the Nevada.

  Suddenly there were thousands of men, injured and half dead, bleeding from everywhere, streaming into the hospital, or taken to the hospital ship Solace.

  Rebecca Clarice only looked up at her once with concern and admiration as Cassie worked tirelessly, helping the wounded. She was quite a girl. No wonder the country loved her.

  “Are you all right?” the nurse asked her briskly, after Cassie had brought a particularly nasty bum case into a treatment room. The man was screaming and there was flesh hanging everywhere, and even some left on Cassie.

  “I'm fine,” she said coolly. She remembered her brother and pulling him from the burning plane. She still had a scar on her arm from where the flames on his body had burned her. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “You're doing just what you need to,” Lieutenant Clarke said firmly. “Don't stop unless you feel ill, and if you do, tell me.”

  “I won't,” Cassie said, willing herself not to be sick as she helped the injured men, and a number of women. Civilians began coming into the hospital too. There were casualties everywhere, and after a while there was nowhere to put them. The second bombing lasted till just after ten o'clock, and then they were gone, leaving not only the island in shock, but the entire nation.

  Cassie worked feverishly all afternoon, doing what she could, and she felt weak in the knees when she finally sat down at four o'clock. She hadn't stopped, and she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Lieutenant Clarke brought her a cup of tea, and together they checked the lobby for more injured. The last ones had been transferred to the Solace just an hour before. The hospital simply couldn't hold another body.

  There was nothing left for her to do for the moment, except offer comfort where she could, and as she was doing that, Desmond arrived with a lone photographer beside him. All the others had gone to the harbor to see the damage there, but he had promised the young reporter a picture of Cassie O'Malley if he came with him. He strode across the lobby to her, as Lieutenant Clarke settled a young pregnant woman in a chair. She had come to inquire about her husband, and Lieutenant Clarke had just promised to find him.

  ‘There she is”— Desmond pointed to her dramatically—” darling, are you all right?” he asked, looking at her tenderly, as the photographer snapped a picture of her in her skirt and blouse that were covered with other people's blood, and all she could do was look at Desmond in disgust, and the photographer along with him.

  “Oh, for chrissake, Desmond,” she railed at him in contempt, “stuff it. Why don't you go do something useful instead of showin
g off for the press all the time? And you,” she wagged a finger at the camera, and the man behind it was too startled to say anything, “why don't you go help someone, instead of standing around taking pictures of me? We've been bombed, you idiot. Get off your lazy ass, and drop your camera.” And with that she wheeled out of the lobby with Lieutenant Clarke, and she left the two men with their mouths open behind her. She had won Rebecca Clarke's heart forever that day. She knew that as long as she lived, she would never forget the tireless redhead, helping wounded men, treating bums. She had given up her private room to four of them, and had wheeled the cots in herself and made them with whatever sheets she could find, or steal, from other beds if she had to.

  The director of the hospital thanked her himself that afternoon. And they found her a folding cot that she set up in a closet to get some sleep. They had sicker people to take care of now, people who needed them more, and she felt guilty taking any of their attention. She stayed on to help the next day, and they were told, not surprisingly, that the President had declared war on Japan on Monday. There was a cheer in the hospital when it was announced. And on Tuesday, she checked into the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, and called her parents. She had already called them once before to tell them she was all right, but now she wanted to let them know she was going to try and get home as soon as possible.

  The hotel promised to try and get a cabin for her on the Mariposa, which was leaving on Christmas Eve. It was the first ship she could get, and the only thing she wanted to be sure of was that Desmond wasn't on it.

  She had no sympathy for him at all, she thought he had behaved abominably. The only thing he was interested in was milking her story one more time. It was disgusting.

  He came to see her that afternoon, and told her that the Pentagon had promised him a seat on a military flight to San Francisco in a few days, and he could arrange one for her too, since she was practically a national hero now, but she was adamant that she didn't want to go anywhere with him.