Gift of Faith

by Shanna Hatfield

  There’s a new guy Davey and I have befriended. We call him Klusky because he’s got one of those last names that uses every letter of the alphabet at least once, some twice. Turns out he was a barber before he enlisted. Yesterday, we got all cleaned up and he gave us much-needed haircuts. Felt so good to be clean and not smell like something left to rot in the summer sun.

  Well, I better wrap this up. They’ve promised to take our letters out, so I’m sending this in hopes it reaches you.

  Give those rotten little brothers of mine a hug for me and Ruby, too. Tell the folks I’m thinking of them and tell Gramps not to fret.

  Even in the midst of this wretched place, I can still feel you here with me each night when I look up at the sky and pretend we’re sitting on that big rock back home gazing up at the stars.

  I love you, Bella.

  Yours,

  Marc

  Chapter Three

  October 1942

  Guadalcanal

  Marc shook his pen then rubbed the tip against his leg, trying to get it to work. It seemed the wretched jungle rot would attach itself to anything from the bodies of the Marines on the Guadalcanal to the tent poles.

  He rubbed the fungus off and again pushed the pen against paper, hoping to finish a letter to Amy he’d started two weeks ago. He’d been so busy and exhausted he’d fallen behind in writing to her. Incoming mail had been sporadic, so he’d only received one letter from her, one from his mother, and one from Gramps.

  “Here, use my pen,” Davey said, holding out a pen to him as they sat together in a dugout made from coconut logs.

  “Thanks, Davey,” Marc said, gratefully taking the pen and quickly finishing his letter. He tucked it into an envelope, addressed it, then returned the pen to his friend.

  “Writing to Amy again?” Davey asked as he thumbed through a magazine that was so dog-eared, the edges of the paper had started to crumble.

  “Yep. I don’t want her to forget about me.” Marc grinned at Davey. “You gonna write to Marilyn?”

  “Already did, while Klusky was giving you a trim.” Davey pointed to a small metal box that kept his letters clean and dry. “Figure we can send them out in a day or two. I heard supply planes were due soon.”

  “I sure hope so. I’m so everlastingly sick of rice and coconut milk. I keep thinking about all the delicious things my grandmother makes, like her ravioli and lasagna, and then there’s her braised pork with gnocchi. And Amy’s mom makes the best coffee cake in the world. Amy’s sugar cookies are so soft and buttery, they practically melt right on your tongue.”

  “For gosh sakes, stop talking about food.” Davey scowled at him. “It’s bad enough without you describing all the great stuff you get to eat at home. My ma wasn’t ever a grand cook, but we always had plenty to eat.” Davey grinned. “Dad often says Ma can ruin a good cut of beef faster than he could blink by cooking it until it looks and tastes like shoe leather.”

  Marc chuckled and tucked Amy’s letter into a box where he kept her correspondence. He fingered a photo of her, one he wasn’t even sure she knew had been taken. Marc’s uncle Tony was a well-known photographer in the area. They’d been at a church picnic in the spring, right before Easter, and Tony had taken a bunch of photos. The image of Amy showed her laughing with Ruby. In the photograph, she stood facing his sister, her profile turned to the camera. He loved the way she looked in it, so young and carefree and happy. And she was so beautiful. A classic profile showcased her long neck, slightly determined chin, and smooth skin. Even from the side, the bright brilliance of her smile illuminated her sweet face.

  “She’s a looker,” Davey said, grinning at Marc as he studied the photograph. “I think when this whole horrible war is over, the four of us, if Marilyn will still have me, ought to take a trip to the coast or do something fun together. You ever been to Seaside?”

  “That’s a swell idea and I’m sure Amy would enjoy it, too. We have been to Seaside a few times. It’s a great beach and neat little town,” Marc said, looking at his friend. “I can’t wait for you to meet Amy. She said to thank you for keeping an eye out for me in her last letter.”

  Davey nodded. “Of course. You watch my back and I watch yours.”

  “Speaking of backs, it’s about time to turn in for the night.” Marc tucked Amy’s photo into the box, lifted out the lacy handkerchief that held just the faintest hint of her perfume and sniffed it, then dropped it into the box and shut the lid.

  Although one officer had told him not to wear the medallion Amy had given him on his dog tags chain, Marc kept it there anyway. No one else seemed to care and he liked having it close to his heart, almost like having her there.

  He settled back into the dugout, stretched out his long legs and released a sigh before he lifted the little metal disc and held it between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the scene then up at the sky that swiftly darkened as night approached.

  Of all the people he’d left behind at home, Amy was the one he missed the most, yearned for with every beat of his heart. He glanced up at the sky then closed his eyes, picturing her, pretending she was beside him, holding his hand.

  Even if he couldn’t be with her, he took comfort in the knowledge she was looking up at the moon thinking of him, praying for him, loving him. He had complete faith in Amy, in her love for him, and knew no matter how long it took for him to get back to her, she’d be waiting for him to walk through the bakery door.

  All they had to do was win this war so they could all return home to those they loved and protected.

  “Night, Davey,” Marc said, releasing another long breath.

  “Night, Rawls.”

  A few hours later, Marc startled awake at the sound of an air-raid alarm going off. Almost daily, the Japanese dropped bombardments on them. At night, they targeted the airfield and sent shell after shell toward dugouts and shelters. Typically, the shelling lasted only a few minutes and proved to be a nuisance more than harmful.

  But tonight, something felt different.

  Marc sat up and glanced over at Davey. His friend waited, tense and ready, although neither of them were sure for what.

  A whistle preceded the impact of a huge shell the size of a workhorse that smashed into a nearby shelter.

  Screams mingled with shouts of warning as gunfire assailed them from the beach. When another two-ton shell exploded near them, Marc shoved Davey down into their dugout and covered his head with his arm. The explosion hit with such force, it made him feel like even the fillings in his teeth had been jolted.

  For more than an hour shells fell, bullets whizzed around them, and explosions knocked over trees, collapsed dugouts, and sucked the air right out of their lungs.

  When silence finally settled over them, men emerged from dugouts dazed and shaken.

  Marc pressed a hand to his left ear, trying to stop the bleeding as he helped Davey to his feet. Davey shook so violently he could hardly stand upright and he seemed completely disoriented. As they made their way out of the rubble, Marc noticed some men had been buried alive in what they all thought were safe shelters.

  Although many of the men were disoriented, Marc worked with several other men to round up crews to dig out those who survived the blasts.

  Hours later, a medic swabbed the blood from his ear and treated the cuts on his face he hadn’t even been aware of until the medic began to disinfect them.

  It took three days before some of the men lost their haunted, helpless, hollow looks. Then they were fighting mad and ready to do damage to the Japanese. Finally, the Army had sent troops to help reinforce the Marines on the island.

  Despite how much he hated going into battle, Marc hoped they could drive the enemy off the island soon. It had been a win for the Allied forces when they’d secured the airfield, but the battle to keep it from the Japanese wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot.

  When the men had recovered sufficiently to function with some degree or normality, Marc, Davey, and several others were sent
on a patrol through the jungle. Shots zinged around them as they walked along a rough-hewn path from the jungle. Quickly dropping behind vegetation for cover, they returned fire. They didn’t lose anyone even though a few were injured, but they took out three dozen Japanese in the fight.

  A few days later, it became clear the Japanese intended to do their best to drive them off the island with a coordinated land, sea, and air assault.

  Marc led a squad of men to the battle line they established behind a row of barbed wire hidden amongst jungle brush. Prepared to hold their ground, they waited, tense and silent. Suddenly, the Japanese appeared, blasting them with shots. One moment he was firing at the approaching enemy, the next, Marc watched as a shell headed straight for them.

  “Run!” he yelled to the Marines near him. “Run, Davey! Run!” he shouted to his friend, reaching to give the man a shove toward safety as the shell exploded and sent Marc flying through the air. His body landed with a thud yards away and it took him a moment to draw air into his lungs. When he did, the acrid scent of powder stung his nostrils while his leg burned like it was on fire. A glance down at his chest made him wince at the blood that seemed to be flowing everywhere. He looked around, taking in the sight of wounded men all around him. His gaze fastened on Davey a dozen feet away, face down in the mud, unmoving. Marc crawled over to him.

  “It’s okay, Davey. It’s okay. Hang on. I got ya, buddy. I’ve got ya,” Marc muttered while forcing himself to his feet.

  In spite of his own injuries, he hefted Davey over one shoulder and headed to where the medics were already working to treat wounds. On the way, he helped two more wounded comrades up, half-carrying one who appeared too shell-shocked to get out of the line of fire. After he handed the men off, he made two more trips, carrying back wounded men, assisting others to their feet, before a wave of dizziness left him unable to go on.

  “Help them,” he said, feeling his legs give way before blackness settled over him, pulling him into a place where there was no pain or war.

  Chapter Four

  October 1942

  Pendleton, Oregon

  Autumn.

  The bakery smelled like autumn wrapped in a cozy layer of golden Indian summer sunshine, and finished with a dash of cinnamon.

  Amy grinned at her imaginative considerations as she drizzled a light layer of frosting over a pan of warm cinnamon rolls. A kettle of mulled cider simmered on the stove, blending with the delicious aromas of yeasty bread, tangy apples, and a subtle hint of pumpkin from the muffins her mother pulled from the oven.

  Since rationing went into effect, they’d had to learn to make what sugar they could get stretch. Instead of slathering sweet rolls in a thick layer of frosting, now it was sparingly applied. They adjusted recipes to cut back on sugar, or substitute honey, since they’d found a supplier in Walla Walla willing to sell them honey at a discount because they purchased it in bulk.

  The bakery her parents had opened twenty-some years ago would continue to prosper, even if they were short on basic supplies. Not a one of them would complain about it, though. Not when rationing meant the soldiers got what they needed. Or at least Amy prayed they did.

  Marc was never far from her thoughts. As she frosted another pan of cinnamon rolls and started a batch of molasses cookies, she pondered where he was, hoping he was well, then doing her best not to fret about him.

  The last letter she’d received from him had been written in July. He’d said he was on a ship, headed into battle and encouraged her not to worry if she didn’t hear from him for a while.

  A while would have been a few weeks. But months? No. She was plenty worried.

  She wished Marc hadn’t been so adamant about joining the Marines. There was no doubt in her mind he had somehow landed himself in the middle of the fighting taking place in the South Pacific.

  She wished he’d been like Reece and enlisted in the Army. With Marc’s ability to speak Italian, she was sure he would have been sent to Europe where he could have served as an interpreter. Then again, with the way Helen feared for Reece’s safety, there wasn’t any safe place for a soldier. Except home.

  Even if she didn’t like it, she knew Marc thought with his training as a police officer he could be an asset in a combat zone. With the Marines, he was sure his experience would prove to be beneficial. They’d all been proud when he’d written home he’d been promoted to Corporal. Rogan and Rory bragged about their big brother to anyone who’d listen.

  Amy couldn’t help but smile as she thought about those two little imps. They thought Marc capable of wondrous feats of super-human endeavors. The vast age difference between the brothers probably helped solidify Marc’s standing as a hero to his twin siblings. Brett and Sarah Rawlings had Marc and Ruby when they were quite young, the two babies arriving just a year apart. Quite unexpectedly, they’d welcomed the twins when Ruby was fourteen and Marc fifteen. As it was, it was a good thing there was a large age gap. It sometimes took all four of the adult Rawlings family members to ride herd on the two active boys.

  Just yesterday, Amy had gone to the post office to mail a letter to Marc and came across the boys on her way home, playing a game of cowboys and Indians with Grady Hill and Ryatt Danvers. Rory and Rogan were in the process of teaching Grady how to scalp the “enemy” with a pocket-knife. Fortunately, she stopped them before they’d done any damage to Ryatt’s hair or head.

  She gave all four of them a stern lecture then sent them home with warnings not to attempt another scalping. Even as Rory and Rogan promised they wouldn’t do that particular thing again, she could see the wheels in their little heads spinning, plotting their next adventure.

  Amy had known Marc her whole life and she didn’t recall him being as full of tomfoolery as the twins. Then again, she’d heard stories about how Brett Rawlings and his twin brother had been holy terrors around town in their childhood years. Maybe Marc took after his quiet, sweet mother, Sarah, rather than the Rawlings side of the family.

  From his grandmother Caterina, Marc had inherited thick, dark hair, heavy eyelashes, and a sensuous mouth. However, his rugged good looks, square jaw, broad shoulders, and towering height came from Kade. So did his green eyes. Although Kade and Brett both had bright green eyes, Marc’s were almost translucent, like a sheet of ice glazing soft moss ringed in holly.

  His unusual eye color was one of the first things she’d noticed about him when they’d been youngsters in school. However, Marc had been two years younger than her and she hadn’t paid him much mind back in those days. After high school, he’d gone away to Portland for police officer training and returned all grown up. In fact, he was so handsome, Amy had seen girls stop in the middle of the street, staring open-mouthed as he walked by.

  About a year ago, he’d come into the bakery, wanting a cup of spiced cider. She’d been so nervous when she served him, she nearly spilled the hot liquid all over his lap, but he’d been wonderful about the whole thing, putting her at ease. It wasn’t until after Christmas though, that he’d stopped in again. Shortly after that, Kade had called both her and Marc to stand as witnesses when Amy’s best friend, Delaney, married Klayne Campbell, a soldier who’d immediately shipped out. Delaney wanted to keep the ceremony a secret, which was why she hadn’t asked Amy to be there in the first place. Amy thought it odd, though, that Kade made it a point to ensure she was there. A part of her wondered if Kade was trying to do a little matchmaking for his grandson. Of all the people the judge could have pulled into his office to serve as witnesses, he’d ordered Marc to come in off a patrol to be there.

  It was right after the ceremony that Marc asked her on a date and they’d been together since that first delightful evening, at least they had been until he left back in May.

  Amy knew it would be hard to be separated from him, but she’d had no idea how incredibly difficult it would be until Marc was actually gone. There were days her heart ached so badly with missing him, she could hardly stand it.

  Those were the days
she pasted on a bright smile and worked twice as hard, wanting to stay so busy she wouldn’t have time to consider all the reasons she hadn’t heard from Marc in almost three months.

  Poor Delaney had gone months and months with no word from Klayne. Then she’d found out she was expecting, which made everything so much worse. One afternoon, out of the blue, Klayne had arrived home, still recovering from the extensive injuries he sustained as one of the Doolittle Raiders who dropped bombs on Tokyo back in April.

  Although Delaney seemed so angry at him at first, now that their baby, Hope, arrived two weeks ago, the couple appeared to be quite happy and finding their footing once again.

  Amy had gone out to see Delaney twice. The baby was adorable and precious. Holding the tiny little bundle of joy helped her forget her concerns about Marc, at least for a few minutes.

  “Is something burning?” her dad asked as he strode into the kitchen, drawing her from her reflections.

  “Cookies!” Amy spun around, yanked open the oven door, snagged a pot holder, and tugged out two pans of cookies. They weren’t yet burned, but nearly so. They couldn’t afford to waste ingredients while she was wool-gathering.

  “It’s a good thing you came in when you did,” she said, smiling at her dad as she quickly scooped the cookies off the baking sheets onto racks to cool.

  “Maybe I better taste one to see if they are up to bakery standards,” Jeff Madsen said with a grin that was so like his daughter’s.

  “You probably better have a cup of cider to go with it, Dad.” Amy handed him two cookies then poured a cup of cider.

  He bit into a cookie and nodded in approval. “A little crispy, but perfect with the cider.” He took another bite then glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s your mother?”

  Amy had been so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t even noticed her mother had left the room. “I’m not sure. She was just here a minute ago. Maybe she ran upstairs for something,” Amy said, glancing at the steps that led to the apartment where they lived above the bakery. It had been fun as a child to grow up above a place that always smelled so delicious. As a teen, she hated living above their store, hated the early hours her family kept and the never-ending work of running a bakery. Often, she wished for a rambling house with a big yard, two dogs, and plenty of room to run.