In Perfect Time

by Sarah Sundin

  Klein stopped and glared at Roger and Shelby. “It’ll be hard for you to impress Veerman when your guts are splattered all over the jungle.”

  Roger put his hands on his waist and cocked his head. “You know, you’re absolutely right. It would be hard to impress anyone that way.”

  “Not just a jerk, but an idiot.” Klein stormed off to the mess.

  “Not just a jerk, but a coward,” Shell muttered. “Don’t mind him. I’m sure Veerman’s noticing. You’re a lot more reliable now.”

  Reliable enough? Enough to be a teacher?

  He shook his head, and droplets and dreams scattered around him. He grabbed hold of the only dream that mattered, the one he could make come true. A fine dream. With work, he could be reliable enough to be a drummer.

  Pomigliano Airfield

  May 14, 1944

  Six feet from the door to the base church, Kay stopped. “I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can, and you will,” Mellie said.

  On her other side, Georgie squeezed her arm. “We let you off the hook last week, but it’s time.”

  Louise Cox adjusted her cap over her light brown hair. “What’s all the fuss? So it’s been a while since you’ve gone to church. No one will mind.”

  Kay clutched the Bible to her roiling stomach. Louise hadn’t known her very long.

  “Come on.” Mellie gave her a warm smile. “How many times have you talked me into doing something I didn’t want to do? It always turned out well. Now it’s my turn.”

  Kay steeled herself as if going into battle. Because she was. “All right. But if you’re wrong, you’re doing my laundry for a month.”

  “Fair enough. And if you leave before it’s over, you’re doing my laundry.”

  Her feet inched forward. The doorway yawned before her, and the stairs lolled down like a jagged tongue, ready to scoop her inside, where she’d be chewed up and spat out like a bone in the chicken à la king. She didn’t belong.

  No. No, it wasn’t true. She did belong. She did.

  With a deep breath, she mounted the stairs and slipped through the doorway. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Dozens of airmen, nurses, and ground personnel found seats on crates and camp stools.

  “Goosie” Gerber was there, and Evelyn Kerr and Lieutenant Lambert and Alice Olson. Alice’s finely plucked blonde eyebrows arched, then she lifted her little nose and turned away, apparently still miffed that Kay had refused to go dancing last night.

  “Hiya, Kay.” Vern Johnson stepped in front of her. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in church before.”

  Kay had broken up with Vern and all the rest of her boyfriends in the past two weeks. She edged away. “No, you haven’t.”

  “Say, if you’re not doing anything—”

  “I’m not going out with you—or anyone. I already told you.”

  “Ah, Kay—”

  “No.” She shouldered past him and sat on an empty crate between her friends.

  “Goodness gracious.” Georgie patted Kay’s arm. “You don’t have to spurn all the menfolk. Mellie and I have boyfriends.”

  “No, I need to. I dated for the wrong reasons and I need to stop.”

  Mellie chuckled. “First you date half the men in the MTO, then you break up with them all at once. You don’t do anything in half measure, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.” Kay gazed, light-headed, at the raw wooden walls and makeshift pulpit and rickety piano. She hadn’t been in church since she was fifteen. The last time, she’d sat at the back of the tent counting the offering, her usual job since she wasn’t good enough to be onstage with the rest of the family.

  That night she’d pocketed the entire offering so she could escape. Every penny. On top of the cash she’d been skimming for months. Why not? She was irredeemably bad.

  Kay bolted to her feet. “I have to go.”

  Mellie touched her arm. “Laundry, Kay.”

  She looked down at her friend’s benign smile. For heaven’s sake, why had she made a deal? “Fine.” She plunked down on the crate.

  “That’s better. Good girl.” Georgie spoke in the same cooing voice she used on her horse.

  It was oddly comforting.

  Kay worked her finger between the pages of the Bible and felt the fine paper dimpled by Roger Cooper’s handwriting. What would he think to see her in church?

  Mail took forever. Had he even received her letters? After she turned her life over to God, she’d told him about everything, including the incident with Hal. What would he think of her?

  A warm wave swept through her. She’d read enough of his notes to know his heart. He wouldn’t look down on her, and he’d be glad she’d made her decision.

  Giggles erupted across the aisle from nurses in one of the other flights. Frannie Teague smirked at Kay and spoke to Mary Newlin. “Looks like she found someplace new to find men.”

  Kay slammed her eyes shut. Mellie said Kay was changed, a whole new person, but no one else believed it.

  Shame slunk into her heart and bowed her head. She fought it the only way she knew how. God, you said I’m a new person. You said it yourself. Mellie showed me the verse. Help me believe it. And if you wouldn’t mind, make those girls believe it too.

  That new feeling oozed through her, slowed her respirations, and relaxed her muscles. Peace. It felt even better than watching a man fall in love.

  Was it her imagination, or did it even still the voices around her?

  Mellie nudged her.

  Kay looked up. No, the voices stilled because the chaplain approached the pulpit. Would he recognize her? Use her as an example of how not to behave? Banish her from the building?

  She leaned slightly to her right, centering her head behind the man in front of her.

  The chaplain greeted everyone and announced a prayer. Kay even remembered to bow her head and close her eyes.

  After he prayed for the troops of the US Fifth Army and British Eighth Army surging forward in their spring offensive in the Cassino area, the chaplain lifted his head. “Please open your hymnals to number 229, ‘Amazing Love.’ ”

  Kay gritted her teeth. She knew this moment was coming. Her friends promised her she didn’t have to sing, but silence could draw as much attention as off-key singing.

  Everyone stood, and Georgie held the hymnal so that Kay was supposed to take the other side. She did, but with as few fingers as possible.

  Dizziness rolled in her head and brought out an overwhelming urge to run. When had she turned into such a coward? Danger didn’t faze her, but a hymn did? No, she could handle this.

  The chaplain sat at the piano and waved his hand to get them started. Kay drilled her gaze into the hymnal. She’d just focus on the words.

  And can it be that I should gain

  An interest in the Savior’s blood?

  Died He for me, who caused His pain—

  For me, who Him to death pursued?

  Amazing love! How can it be,

  That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?

  Long my imprisoned spirit lay,

  Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;

  Thine eye diffused a quickening ray—

  I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;

  My chains fell off, my heart was free,

  I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.

  No condemnation now I dread;

  Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;

  Alive in Him, my living Head,

  And clothed in righteousness divine,

  Bold I approach th’eternal throne,

  And claim the crown, through Christ my own.

  The words wrapped around her and drew her in. How did this fellow know how she felt? How did he know what she needed to hear? She wanted to rip out the page and take it with her, but defacing a hymnal would undo her salvation, wouldn’t it?

  The music soared, lifting her from the inside. Mellie’s birdlike soprano and Georgie’s buttery alto flanked her—just like Jemima and Keren, but with
out the cruel jests. Now Kay was white too, she was redeemed, she was good.

  If she was a new creature, then maybe . . . just maybe.

  The chaplain directed them to number 41, “This Is My Father’s World.”

  Kay listened to the first verse and built up her courage, turning the crank over and over until she opened her mouth.

  Her voice creaked.

  She cleared her throat and tried another line. Ouch. So sour.

  Mellie’s head turned slightly toward her, turned back.

  Kay hadn’t changed, and her cheeks heated with the shameful truth.

  She was only partly redeemed.

  14

  Dinjan, India

  May 16, 1944

  The mule didn’t budge.

  Two native workers tugged on the rope attached to the harness, to no effect.

  Roger didn’t blame the creature. They’d awakened the mule in the middle of the night and were coaxing it up a plank into the plane’s dimly lit cabin. He wouldn’t have cooperated either.

  Regardless, the troops in besieged Imphal required mules for transportation over rugged jungle trails. He slapped the mule on the rump. “Git on there.”

  A whinny ended in a hee-haw, and the mule skittered up the ramp, shoving the workers aside.

  “Tie him up nice and tight.” Roger shone a flashlight at his Form F, every box filled in with military precision. He wanted to scribble on it, just to mar the perfection.

  Grant Klein said Roger only did this to impress Veerman, and he was right. Roger had volunteered for the mule-hauling mission, and Grant hadn’t, the nincompoop. More concerned with his reputation than with the men in Imphal.

  “All loaded, boss.” Pettas leaned out the cargo door.

  “Great.” Roger climbed the ramp. The C-47 already smelled like a barn. Never thought his mucking experience on the farm would be used as a pilot.

  Four of the beasts were tied up to poles along the sides of the plane, and a canvas tarp covered the floor. Roger patted each animal on his way to the cockpit. “Thank you for flying with us this evening. Our stewardess will see to your needs during the flight. If you want anything, just bray.”

  “I ain’t no stewardess.”

  Roger shone his flashlight just below Whitaker’s big lumpy face. “But you’re pretty enough to be one.”

  A fine compliment like that, and Whitaker only cussed in response.

  Up in the cockpit, Roger and Elroy ran through the preflight checks. Roger didn’t like night flights, but round-the-clock missions brought more supplies to Imphal, and at least the Japanese didn’t fly at night. Maybe the mules would sleep.

  When they had clearance, they started engines, performed their final checks, and dimmed the cockpit lights to reduce glare off the windshield.

  Roger taxied into position, his landing lights illuminating the runway. He and Elroy ran up the engines, and the plane jiggled and swayed more than usual. The passengers must not have liked the noise. “Say, Whitaker,” he called on the interphone. “Sing them a lullaby, would you?”

  “Shut up, Coop.”

  He grinned. Grant Klein would write up the sergeant for insubordination, but not Roger.

  Bert Marino and Bill Shelby took off first. Roger preferred flying in formation, especially at night. The extra navigational help came in handy, even though they all could fly to Imphal blindfolded by now.

  When word came from the control tower, Roger released the brakes, raced down the runway, and lifted off.

  As soon as they raised landing gear, the plane tilted to the right.

  “What on earth?” Roger turned the wheel to the left to compensate. His pulse thumped against his earphones. Maneuvers were stupid at such a low altitude.

  She flew heavy in the tail now, making his climb steeper than he liked. He eased the controls forward.

  “What’s going on?” Elroy said.

  A sense of foreboding filled his stomach, as deep and dark and stinky as the manure would be when they landed. “The mules.”

  “Think they broke loose?”

  The plane jerked left, and Roger pulled right. “Must have. Whitaker, go check the mules. Something’s wrong.”

  Whitaker swore. “Got one up in the radio room. Thought you made sure they were tied up, Pettas.”

  “Me? That’s your job.”

  Roger’s eyes drifted shut, but he forced them open. No, it was his responsibility. Whitaker, as the aerial engineer, needed to secure all cargo, but Roger needed to make sure his crewmen performed their duties. “Tie ’em up, Whit.”

  The plane nosed lower, slipped to the right, and Roger struggled with the controls.

  “Elroy,” Pettas called from the radio room. “Whitaker wants the cabin lights on.”

  “Sure.” He flipped a switch on the overhead panel.

  Light glared off the windshield and blinded Roger.

  “Sorry.” Elroy flipped it off, flipped another. “Sorry about that, Coop.”

  “It’s all right.” He blinked away the stars in his eyes and focused outside.

  The C-47 lurched. Old swear words formed in Roger’s throat, but he swallowed them down and leveled the plane.

  “Coop,” Pettas said. “Command set. Shelby.”

  Elroy turned the dial on the overhead panel.

  “Cooper to Shelby. Over.”

  “Shelby to Cooper. What’s going on? Your plane’s bucking like—”

  “Like a mule?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “They got loose. Whitaker’s taking care of it.”

  “Didn’t he—didn’t you—never mind.”

  Roger let out a deep sigh. “No, I didn’t.” He didn’t check. All his little boxes might be filled in, but that didn’t make him a good pilot.

  Nettuno, Italy

  May 26, 1944

  So this was the infamous Anzio beachhead.

  Kay twisted in her seat to see out the C-47’s cabin window. Below her lay a turquoise harbor studded with ships and a wide toast-colored plain circled by jagged hills.

  Three days before, the American and British troops had finally broken out of the beachhead. Yesterday, the Allies driving north from the Cassino front had linked with the forces at Anzio. Today, for the first time, four months after the landings, air evacuation planes were sent to Nettuno, just south of Anzio.

  Kay had never been this close to a combat zone. Near the base of the Alban Hills, puffs of smoke arose and P-40 fighter planes zipped around.

  Now she could do some actual nursing. She was tired of babysitting convalescing patients between Naples and North Africa.

  The plane made its final turn for the landing, and Kay settled back in the folding seat along the side of the fuselage across from Sergeant Dabrowski. Stacks of crates filled the rest of the plane, rations mostly, from the labels she could read.

  A rough landing rattled her bones. The airstrip at Nettuno had been declared secure, but no one said anything about declaring it smooth.

  After the C-47 stopped and the engines died, Kay and Dabrowski stepped outside into a clear and warm day. A row of khaki hospital ward tents stood near the landing strip, and a medic pointed them to the second tent.

  Four US field and evacuation hospitals had been stationed at Nettuno during the siege of the beachhead, enduring near-daily shelling and bombing. Georgie’s boyfriend, Hutch, served as a pharmacist in one of the hospitals, which had recently rotated back to the Cassino front. Georgie said his tales were horrific. Dozens of patients and hospital personnel had been killed.

  Now the Allies had the advantage. Kay could almost smell it in the sea breeze.

  She ducked inside the tent and inhaled the peculiar odor of a mobile hospital—canvas and antiseptic and mustiness.

  An officer approached and extended his hand. “You must be one of the flight nurses. I’m Capt. Jim Kirby, the physician in charge.”

  Jim Kirby was a fine-looking man, tall, midthirties, no wedding band, wavy dark hair, and appreciative gra
y-blue eyes. Very appreciative.

  “Lieutenant Jobson.” Kay gave his hand a cursory shake and surveyed the patients on their cots. “Who do we have today?”

  “Um . . . well . . . let’s start over here.” He sounded confused, a bit wounded, and he led the way to the first cot on the left.

  How could she be so rude? But how else could she avoid such a handsome temptation? A month before she’d have added him to her lineup. For heaven’s sake, she would have swept her lineup clean to make room for him.

  Captain Kirby introduced the first patient, Pvt. Corwin Bailey, who had received multiple gunshot wounds in his abdomen and thighs on the first day of the assault. He’d barely survived surgery.

  Kay asked questions and took notes on the flight manifest, reserving her warmth for the patient, which made her cool tone to the doctor stand out starkly.

  They proceeded to the next patient, Cpl. Wayne Anderson, who had extensive burns to his hands and arms from an explosion in his tank. Captain Kirby relayed his condition in a clipped manner.

  Kay’s face heated as she made her notes. What was wrong with her? The other nurses managed to talk to men professionally without flirting.

  She patted the corporal’s shoulder. “We’ll take good care of you. It’s a short flight to Naples, and then you’ll stay in a nice new hospital complex, where you’ll receive top-notch care.”

  He looked at her through pain-watered eyes without a hint of romantic interest.

  That was the key, wasn’t it? A happy medium lay between flirtation and rudeness. She could relate to good-looking unattached males the same way she related to patients and married men—a dialed-down smile, no dazzle in the eyes, no leaning close, no touching.

  As the physician reported on the remaining patients, Kay relaxed her voice and manner, but Jim Kirby didn’t reciprocate. What a shame. When they first met, she could easily have made him swoon. A lingering gaze, a flip of her hair, and he’d have crawled into the palm of her hand.

  Except now Kay sat in the Lord’s hand and she liked it there.

  “That’s all.” The doctor slipped the last patient’s records into a large manila envelope.

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate all the information.” She raised one of her professional smiles.