The Bungalow (18 page)

I pushed through the brush and finally made my way to the front step of the bungalow. The morning sun shone on its palm walls, streaming light all around it. I reached for the doorknob, praying that it would be open, praying that Westry would be inside. But my hand was met with a sharp click. Locked. Westry wasn’t there. I was too late.

I pulled out the key and let myself in anyway, sitting down in a heap of disappointment on the chair by the desk. The little room immediately comforted me. I could sense his presence, just as he’d said I would. I searched my memories for his exact words, and found them tucked away in my heart: “Next time you worry that I am growing distant, come here. Come to the bungalow, and you will feel my love.” Yes, I could feel his love. It enveloped me.

I lifted the floorboard and my heart warmed when I saw a letter inside.

I wiped away tears, then ran outside to the shore as a squadron of airplanes flew overhead in formation. I blew a kiss out into the sky.

He’d come back. He had to.

The days passed with very little news from the war front. The men who had stayed seemed preoccupied and on edge, perhaps guilty that they weren’t out fighting too, or ashamed that they hadn’t been chosen for such an important mission.

The Allies were closing in on the Japanese in the Pacific, and this was a critical battle to protect New Zealand, Liz had explained. Liz knew more about the war than any of us. She said the Japanese had planned to colonize New Zealand, to rape and kill. And while the allies had taken Guadalcanal, pockets of enemy forces remained scattered throughout the South Pacific. We had to win. If we didn’t, well, no one talked about that, but it weighed heavily on our minds.

Every day more injured men were wheeled off airplanes. Some came in on stretchers, dazed and bloodied, mute, as if what they had seen had robbed them of their voices, their sanity. Others had such severe injuries—severed legs, missing arms, shrapnel in the eyes—that they moaned for morphine, and we gave it to them as quickly as our hands could inject needles into their pain-ravaged skin.

The steady stream of men kept us busy in the infirmary, making us wonder if the battle was going according to plan. Nurse Hildebrand, who directed us with such emotionless precision, seemed almost mechanical. “Liz!” she shouted. “Go to the storeroom and get a fresh supply of bandages. Can’t you see that we’re almost out? Stella! Come here and help me get this one prepped for surgery. Kitty! The man over in bed nine needs morphine. Quickly now.”

She operated with the force of a drill sergeant, and rightly so. This was the most intense work any of us had ever done. And in it, emotions ran high. As each man was wheeled into the infirmary, the women crowded around to check for a familiar face.

And on one morning in early April, we heard a commotion at the entrance, where a man shouted, “I need a nurse here, fast!”

I saw a pilot standing in the entryway holding a bloodied soldier in his arms. “There wasn’t time to wait for a stretcher so I brought him in myself,” he said. “He bled out on the plane. I’m not sure what you can do for him, but work fast. He’s a good guy.”

I wheeled a stretcher to the entrance and helped the pilot lay the man on top. Though blood covered his face and neck, I recognized him in an instant.
Dear God, it’s Will. Stella’s Will.
“I’ll take him from here,” I said. “Thank you, lieutenant.”

“There are more coming,” he said gravely. “Just heard on the radio. It’s bad out there. Lots of men down.”

My heart filled with terror as I took Will over to the operating room, where Dr. Wheeler was washing his hands. “Doc!” I yelled. “This one needs you now.”

I motioned for Mary across the room.

“It’s Will,” I whispered once she was near. I pointed to the operating room. “He’s badly hurt. Where’s Stella?”

She gestured toward the far corner of the infirmary, where Stella was working with Nurse Hildebrand on a leg splint. The soldier moaned as they adjusted his knee, moving it into place. “We have to tell her.”

“No,” I said. “We need her. We need every able-bodied nurse on this island right now. The lieutenant said more are coming. Maybe Lou. Maybe Westry. We need to keep working. We can’t stop to grieve.”

She nodded solemnly. “I’ll do my best to keep her away.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep an eye on him. If anything changes, I’ll bring her over.”

An hour later twenty-three more men came, and then nine more, and then another eleven. Three died. More were stabilized and sent on homeward-bound planes for care we couldn’t administer.

“What a bloody mess,” Liz said, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. The intensity was getting to her, and to all of us.

“Are you OK?” I asked, patting her back. “I can speak to Nurse Hildebrand and see about you getting some leave.”

“No,” she said, straightening her white uniform. “No, I can do this. I have to.”

I glanced over at Kitty, where she worked feverishly with another nurse on a man who had just been brought in. I could see by the bandages they were reaching for that it was a head injury. A serious one. Kitty’s fingers moved fast, dabbing the man’s forehead with alcohol. He winced. She wrapped a bandage around his head, but she swayed a little as she did. Something was wrong. Then Kitty’s legs buckled, just as they had on the tarmac that first day on the island. She fell to the floor, but this time, nothing blunted her fall.

I ran to her side, fanning her face. “Kitty, Kitty! Wake up. You fainted.”

Liz handed me a vial of smelling salts. I held them to Kitty’s nose, and a moment later, her eyes opened.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Look at me. There are men here who are really in trouble, and I can’t even manage to stand.”

“You need to rest,” I said. “I’ll help you back to the room. Nurse Hildebrand will understand.”

“Yes,” she said. “But I won’t let you walk me. You’re needed here. I can go myself.”

“All right,” I conceded. “But be careful.”

Kitty made her way outside, and I turned back to the rows of men waiting for medicine, for a bandage, for surgery, or just to die.

“We have to tell her,” Mary said over my shoulder. “Doc says he may not make it.”

I nodded. “Will you come with me?”

We walked over to Stella, who was searching a cabinet. “You’d think they’d restock this damn thing,” she said, standing up. “Have you seen any iodine in this godforsaken place?”

“Stella,” Mary said, “I need you to sit down.”

“Sit down?” she shook her head suspiciously. “Now, why would I do that?”

“Will,” I said, helping her into a chair. “He’s been hurt. Badly hurt.”

Stella gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “No, no,” she said. “No, I don’t believe it.” She looked at me, then at Mary. “Where is he?”

Mary pointed to the operating room. “Dr. Wheeler is with him now, but they don’t know if he’s going to pull through.”

Stella ran across the room, and we followed close behind.

“Will!” she cried. “Will, it’s me.” She knelt down by the gurney, draping her arm lightly over his chest. “It’s me, Stella.”

Will didn’t move. His breathing was shallow. “Doc, you’re going to save him, right? You have to save him.”

Just then Will’s eyes opened. They fluttered and closed again.

“Will!” Stella cried. “Will, come back to me.”

He opened his eyes again, and then his mouth, and said weakly, “I’m here, Stell. I’m here.”

Dr. Wheeler took off his glasses. “By golly,” he said. “He’s conscious. This boy may make it after all.”

Stella, oblivious to the tears streaming down her face, clutched Will’s hand in hers. “You’re going to pull through. Oh, Will!” She nestled her face in the crook of his neck.

Mary and I dried our eyes. Will had a chance. Thank God for that. But what about Lou and Westry? What about the other men? Would they have the same good fortune? Would we?

We worked until the shift change at eleven p.m. But even then, many of us, including me, didn’t want to leave.
What if Westry comes through the doors of the infirmary? What if I miss him?
Still, Nurse Hildebrand forbid us to stay. “You’re too tired, and you’re getting sloppy,” she said.

She was right. Liz had forgotten to give meds to a patient, and I had reported incorrect information to Dr. Wheeler about a sergeant’s injuries. It was the head wound in bed nineteen, not the leg injury in seven, that needed his attention. Nineteen. Seven. Twenty-three. Four. The beds, the numbers, the men—they all blurred together, and when I closed my eyes, all I could see was a deep red shade of blood.

As I opened the door to the barracks, I realized I hadn’t thought of Kitty at all since she had left.
Is she OK?
I rushed up the stairs to the room, where I found her in bed, sleeping.

“Kitty,” I whispered, “how are you feeling, honey?”

She rolled over and looked at me. “I’m all right,” she said. “But how are the men? How are things down there?”

“It’s crazy,” I replied. “Will came in, badly hurt. But we think he’s going to be all right.”

“Good. And Westry? Any word?”

“Nothing yet,” I said, feeling tears form in my eyes again.

“Mail came. I put a letter for you on your bed.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Night, Kitty.”

I picked up the envelope and stood by the window so I could read the return address in the moonlight without disturbing Kitty.
It’s from Gerard.

I wept as I tucked the letter back into the envelope, then reached for my stationery set, light blue, embossed with my initials, AEC. Anne Elizabeth Calloway. I had intended to write many letters home, to Mother, to Papa, to Maxine, and especially to Gerard, but the little letter set hadn’t gotten much use, and I was ashamed that I hadn’t taken more time to write Gerard. I sat down to compose a letter, even if I didn’t know what I’d say.

I paused, considering the lie. A white lie.