In Perfect Time

by Sarah Sundin

  She started at the bottom litter on the right, checked the patient’s medical tag against the flight manifest, inquired how he was doing, looked for signs of bleeding or infection, and recorded his temperature, pulse, and respiration. After she gave him an aspirin, she repeated the process for the soldier in the middle litter.

  Grant Klein talked about flying too much, but something he once said stuck in her brain. After the pilot got the aircraft in straight and level flight, he could use the automatic pilot system to keep it there.

  Thank goodness Kay had her own automatic pilot, the skills she’d learned in almost a decade of nursing. Today she needed it.

  Today she’d read Job 8:5–6, the words of Bildad: “If thou wouldest seek unto God betimes, and make thy supplication to the Almighty; If thou wert pure and upright; surely now he would awake for thee, and make the habitation of thy righteousness prosperous.”

  Father slapped the pulpit when he read that verse, and he read it at every single tent meeting. The concept in those verses was the key to his success.

  Just like Job, Father had lost everything. He’d lost four sons and his wife and his farm and his health. But he’d made himself pure and upright. The Lord rewarded him with a prosperous ministry, good health, a beautiful young wife, and three daughters, whom he’d named after Job’s daughters—Jemima and Kezia and Kerenhappuch.

  Kay stuck her foot in the stirrup under the bottom litter and hitched herself up to care for the man on top.

  Her given name hissed in her ear. Kezia. Kuh-zzzzye-uh.

  She drew up morphine into a syringe.

  “What’s that?”

  “Morphine for your pain.” She felt the inside of his elbow and found a good vein.

  “I’m not in pain.”

  Kay looked into his pale blue eyes. Had she actually looked at him yet? “It’s been four hours since your last dose. Better to give you another dose now than wait until the pain in your wound flares again.”

  Blond eyebrows tented. “I’m not wounded. I’m just sick is all. Can’t shake this pneumonia.”

  Pneumonia? Bile chewed its way up her throat. She grabbed the medical tag—Pvt. Gerald Carson. The flight manifest—she was on Sgt. Joe Lazio.

  Oh no.

  Her cheeks tingled, and she glanced around the plane. When? Where had she gotten mixed up? When had she crossed to the left side of the plane? She didn’t remember. The flight manifest showed data for seven patients, but she was taking care of the man in the sixth position.

  She’d given morphine and sulfanilamide and aspirin. How many patients received the wrong drugs?

  “I—I’m sorry, Private. You’re right. You don’t get morphine, but you need your sulfa.” She opened the bottle and shook out tablets, far too many, and they sprinkled to the floor. With a shaky hand, she funneled the extras into the bottle and pressed one tablet into Carson’s hand.

  Kay lowered herself to the floor and picked up the wasted pills from among the dirt clods.

  Her stomach turned over. She never made mistakes like this. Now she’d have to track down where she’d gone wrong, correct what errors she could, apologize for the errors she couldn’t correct, and confess to both the physician and to Lieutenant Lambert.

  What kind of chief nurse candidate made a grave mistake like this?

  What kind of chief nurse candidate allowed herself to function on automatic pilot?

  Grant had said the automatic pilot was no good in stormy weather or turbulence. How dare she rely on it in the middle of her own turbulence?

  Bile bulged in her mouth and threatened to make an even bigger fool of her. She swallowed it back down, swallowed her shame.

  But the truth couldn’t be swallowed.

  For the first time since she’d run away from home, she’d lost control.

  Lalmai, Lower Bengal, India

  April 6, 1944

  Five thousand miles in five days.

  Roger felt it in his back and arms and head. The stops in Libya and Egypt and Iran and India blurred together, and his chewing gum had turned stiff. One last landing, in far eastern India, close to the Burmese border. He gazed out the cockpit window to the steamy green jungle, the clearing for the airstrip, and the descending line of his squadron’s C-47s. “Looking forward to a good night’s sleep.”

  “Me too.” Mike Elroy wiped his forehead. “And a day off, I hope.”

  “We’d better get one. Gotta adjust to heat and humidity.” Roger wore his khaki shirt unbuttoned to the waist and his trousers rolled up to the knees, but sweat soaked his clothing.

  On the downwind leg of the landing pattern, the C-47 drew opposite to the runway. Altitude and airspeed looked good. “Landing gear down.”

  Elroy moved the handle to the left of his seat. “Down.”

  After the green light flashed on the instrument panel, Roger secured the landing gear latch on the floor. He eased up the propeller controls to 2250 rpm, adjusted the throttles for descent, and scoped out the airstrip. A dirt surface. No more being spoiled with asphalt or even the temporary surfaces rigged by the engineers.

  The 64th Troop Carrier Group was in for a rugged time.

  Sweat slithered down his breastbone. Could he handle it? Or would he fail and endanger the lives of his crew, passengers, and bystanders on the ground? Would he let Veerman down and ruin his best chance at a big-time band?

  His breath huffed out, loud enough to make Elroy look his way.

  Roger put the bird into a ninety-degree turn toward the end of the runway. “Hotter than a blast furnace.”

  “Yep. Three-quarter flaps.” The copilot readjusted the lever.

  “Second power reduction.” He pushed down the throttles, aiming for 120 miles per hour.

  Elroy might be greener than the jungle below, but he probably cared more about crew and passenger safety than about impressing Veerman. Although Roger’s body ached for sleep, his soul craved time with God.

  He winced. His Bible.

  Would Kay actually read it? If not, his sacrifice was in vain. And if she did read it? If she read the book of Job as he’d suggested?

  He puffed out another breath. He’d only read the book once or twice and found it tough. Lou had started Roger off with the book of Romans and had been there to field questions. Roger had started Kay off with Job and bolted to another continent. What was he thinking?

  “One twenty,” Elroy said.

  Roger turned for the approach. “Third power reduction.”

  “Full flaps.”

  The runway spread straight in front of him, and Roger kept up the play of ailerons, elevators, rudder, and throttles to make a good landing. Dozens of C-47s were parked around the airstrip, and trucks and people milled around.

  “Fifty feet. Airspeed ninety.”

  Perfect. Roger tilted up the nose for the roundout, and the plane floated down onto two wheels.

  The rough runway jiggled the plane and blurred the controls.

  When the plane slowed down enough, she settled back onto her tail wheel. Not a bad landing. He and Elroy pulled the control columns toward their chests, and Roger tipped his toes forward on the pedals to apply brakes.

  Outside, a ground crewman waved them to the side, and Roger followed his instructions and parked his plane. He and Elroy went through the shutdown and parking checklists, and silence rushed into the void left by the two engines.

  Roger unfolded himself from his seat and found his clipboard with Forms 1 and F. He led Elroy through the radioman’s compartment and the main cabin, filled with four giant auxiliary tanks that fueled the long voyage. He grabbed his barracks bag and hopped out the cargo door. Whitaker and Pettas waited outside.

  The air smelled different—exotic. Instead of tents and tile-roofed buildings, Lalmai Airstrip had palm trees and thatch-roofed structures with lots of big open windows and doors.

  Made sense. Even full sun and a breeze didn’t dry him off. Had to be a hundred degrees, and humidity pressed on him like a wet wool blanket.


  “Just like Florida.” Elroy slung his bag over his thin shoulders. “Feel right at home.”

  “I think I’m gonna die.” Whitaker flapped his unbuttoned shirt.

  “Swell!” Pettas hefted up Whitaker’s bag in addition to his own. “Dibs on your stuff.”

  In a flash, Whitaker flung his Oregon lumberjack frame at Pettas, knocking the smaller man to the dirt.

  Pettas lay laughing on the ground. “Who’d want your ratty old stuff anyhow?”

  With a grin, Whitaker gave his pal a light kick. “Yeah. Don’t forget that.”

  Elroy nudged Roger. “If the heat doesn’t kill them, they’ll kill each other.”

  Roger managed a laugh, but more sweat trickled down his chest. He just prayed he wouldn’t kill them all.

  7

  Naples

  April 8, 1944

  Kay escaped to the edge of the terrace at the Orange Club.

  How much happiness could a gal take? Tom MacGilliver had just proposed to Mellie Blake, who gave her tearful, joyful consent. Kay did everything she was supposed to—smile, joke, loan her handkerchief, and prod her shy friend to action.

  The full moon laid a trail of sparkles along Naples Bay. Sure, Kay could sparkle. She’d done it all evening, flirting with Lt. Hal Heathcock, the newest addition to her lineup of boyfriends, which had been depleted with the departure of the entire 64th Troop Carrier Group.

  She’d met Hal here at the Orange Club. Two minutes after Roger Cooper’s rejection.

  A glance behind her confirmed Hal still chatted with Lt. Larry White, Georgie Taylor’s blind date for the evening. Tall and blond, with lively blue eyes, Hal seemed like the perfect means to regain control in her life, but she’d been mistaken.

  Tom and Mellie stood by their table, laughing with Louise Cox and Rudy Scaglione, Tom’s friend from his Engineer Aviation Battalion.

  Georgie Taylor approached Kay, brown curls bouncing. “So, who’s next, do you think? You and Hal?” Her Southern accent lilted even more than usual.

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

  “Well, it won’t be me and Larry.” Georgie scrunched up her cute little nose. “The man’s as interesting as an Army manual.”

  Kay frowned. Had she ever seen Georgie’s previous boyfriend smile? Granted, she’d only met Hutch once, and apparently it had been a horrendous day for the man. “Sorry. Thought you liked them quiet and dry.”

  “Quiet isn’t always dull.” A wistful note lowered her voice.

  Kay brushed her hair off her shoulder. Perhaps she’d misjudged Hutch, just as she’d misjudged Roger. She’d labeled Roger a fuddy-duddy, and he’d turned out to be energetic and compassionate. “I suppose not. Appearances can be deceiving.”

  Georgie looped her arm through Kay’s. “Do you miss the flyboys?”

  “India.” Kay gazed east where the moon rose. “Can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “Grant?”

  Kay’s heart seized. What had she said? Why was she losing control like this? She made a face for Georgie’s benefit. “Grant? I broke up with him weeks ago. Getting too serious.”

  “Then who—”

  “No one. No one at all.” She kept her voice as firm as the truth that Roger wasn’t interested.

  Georgie smiled, her eyes soft. “I won’t pry. But I’ll pray for him and for you.”

  “There is no him.” Kay marched away from Georgie and from the other truth—Roger interested her far too much.

  Guilt tightened the muscles between her shoulder blades. Georgie hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, she’d offered to pray. With all her questions about God, wasn’t that what Kay needed most? She turned back to her friend. “But thanks for the prayers.”

  Georgie looked more stunned than if Kay had broken out singing a hymn.

  Kay crossed the terrace to congratulate Tom and Mellie. Louise and Rudy had departed, back to the dance floor, most likely.

  Tom faced Mellie, the moon silhouetting the couple from behind. He cupped her chin in his hand, spoke to her, and gave her a gentle kiss.

  Kay’s steps halted. The moonlight must have addled her brain, because everything inside her felt as mushy as pudding. She didn’t even like pudding.

  What would it be like to have a love like that? Tender and sweet, tempered by the fire of a history together, forged to last a lifetime.

  Kay huffed. For heaven’s sake, she’d lost all control.

  The more she read the Bible, the more she fell apart. Instead of gaining favor with Lieutenant Lambert, she was losing it. Although no one had been harmed the other day when Kay made her error and Lambert appreciated her honesty in confessing, the chief couldn’t hide her disappointment.

  “Ciao, bella.” Hal wrapped his arm around her upper back and nuzzled in her hair. “Off to greet the happy couple?”

  “Yes.” She stepped forward to do so and to dislodge Hal.

  The leech stayed with her, arm glued across her back.

  “Congratulations, you two.” Kay hugged Mellie. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thank you.” Mellie pulled back, her dark eyes shining.

  Kay shook Tom’s hand. “When’s the big day?”

  “We were just talking about that.” He gave Mellie an adoring gaze, his arm respectfully around her waist. “We’d like to get married this fall, maybe Christmastime, the Lord and Uncle Sam willing.”

  “Uncle Sam. Good luck convincing him.” Hal chuckled and slid his hand further forward under Kay’s arm.

  She clamped her arm hard to her side. “An autumn wedding would be nice.” She fought off a wave of sadness. How long before a baby came along and kicked Mellie out of the Army Nurse Corps? The war had better be over by then.

  Hal pried his hand free and draped it over Kay’s shoulder instead, dangling far too low. “You’ll be lucky to stay on the same continent that long.”

  Mellie leaned her head on Tom’s broad shoulder. “If the Lord wants us to get married this fall, he’ll keep us together. If not, we’ll just continue following his lead.”

  “God led us together, no doubt about it.” Tom kissed the top of Mellie’s head. “He kept dropping Mellie in my path, airfield to airfield. I couldn’t get away, and then I didn’t want to.”

  Kay squirmed, partly to urge Hal’s drooping hand higher but mostly from discomfort. Mellie and Georgie talked about following the Lord as if he put up big signposts, and you turned and stopped and started when he ordered. He’d probably direct Kay off the nearest cliff.

  Hal’s hand slipped lower. “Why don’t you hold off on the wedding until you go home and your families can attend?”

  Kay winced. Mellie and Tom had each lost one parent, and Mellie’s father was imprisoned by the Japanese. “Excuse me, Hal. I need to use the powder room. Mellie, would you like to join me?”

  “Sure.”

  Kay led her friend across the terrace and into the dining room, dark and smoky. Why had she let Hal kiss her the night they met? She never did that. A man behaved better when he had to earn his way into her affections.

  At the front of the room, a piano player plunked out “All or Nothing at All.” Her chest squeezed. The night she met Hal, she’d been so enamored by a redheaded drummer, so humiliated when he spurned her, so desperate to put a man—any man—under her thumb.

  She shoved open the door to the ladies’ room. “I am sick and tired of fending off men’s advances.”

  After Mellie set her handbag on the counter, she peered at Kay in the mirror, her dark eyes missing nothing. “I thought you enjoyed it.”

  Kay rummaged in her bag for her compact. Since ninth grade, she’d cultivated the image of the bad girl lining up boys in the dugout, convincing each he could hit a home run in time. No one knew she never let any man past first base. What man with any self-respect would tell his buddies he struck out every time he came to bat?

  “Kay? Are you all right?”

  “I
’m fine.” Where on earth was that stupid compact? She dumped her purse upside down, and cosmetics scattered over the counter. She grabbed her compact and flipped it open. “I’m just tired of men like All-Hands Hal.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Mellie swept Kay’s possessions toward her. “Maybe you’re outgrowing your old ways.”

  Kay paused, her powder puff suspended before her well-powdered nose. Her eyes looked strange in the mirror, wide and unfamiliar and frightened.

  Who would she be? If she gave up her old ways, who would she be?

  Would she be the kind of woman who could be a chief nurse and attract one good man? Or would she fall to pieces?

  Kay slammed her compact shut and snatched her lipstick from the counter. She painted her lips red, painted on a smile. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Oh?” Mellie reapplied her powder, worn off by tears and kisses and handkerchiefs.

  “Yes. I’d like to train to become a chief nurse.”

  “You would?”

  “I would.” Kay’s cheeks burned from the spectacle of her heart splattered on the counter among her possessions. She gathered the cosmetics and tossed them into her shoulder bag. “I love nursing, and I’m good with details, administration, and organization.”

  “I can see that.” Mellie twisted up her lipstick but kept a puzzled gaze on Kay.

  Kay sighed and threw down a bit more of her heart. “You look like Lambert when I told her.”

  “Oh?” Mellie outlined her full lips. Amazing how much she’d changed in a year and a half from the reclusive young woman who didn’t wear lipstick and refused to smile. If anyone would believe people could change, it would be Mellie.

  “She has two objections. She doesn’t think the other nurses respect me because of all the men in my life.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Somehow Mellie communicated agreement without condemnation.

  Kay held up her chin and tugged down the hem of her waist-length uniform jacket. She usually liked how the bloused effect made her look bustier than she was, but not tonight. “I don’t know how to change, and I certainly don’t want to.”

  “All right. What’s her other objection?” Mellie capped her lipstick.