With Every Letter (7 page)

Another shot rang out. His men shouted and scrambled out of the truck. Tom hurdled a low stone wall in front of a house and flattened himself behind it. Half his men joined him. The others hunched behind the truck.

Tom scanned the rooftops and windows across the road. He didn’t want his boys hurt.

A muzzle flash from a rooftop, and another shot rocked the truck.

Tom’s stomach tightened. He had a great line of sight on the sniper. But how could he shoot a man? Then he’d be a killer. How could he live with himself?

He braced his carbine on the wall and leveled it several feet below the French army cap across the way.

Another bullet skittered across the rocky road.

“There he is!” Weiser yelled. “Get him, boys.”

A barrage peppered the rooftop, a French rifle dropped to the ground, and Tom sighed from relief and from grief. He didn’t fire a shot, but the man died anyway.

A shadow fell over him, a human-shaped purple shadow. Tom held his breath, flipped onto his back, and pointed his carbine at the shadow.

An elderly gentleman leaned over him, his skin a deep olive. He wore a long, curly white beard, a brilliant green turban around his head, long grayish robes, and a curious expression. Not fearful. Just curious.

Tom eased his weapon down, pointed to the American flag patch on his left shoulder, and lifted a shaky smile.
“Bon jour.”

“Bon jour.”
The man grinned and patted his lips with two fingers as if smoking a cigarette.

“You want a cigarette? Cig-a-rette?” Tom said, as if slow speech would cross the language barrier. Keeping his eyes on the native Algerian, he fumbled open the pocket where he’d stuffed his ration and pulled out the pack of four smokes that came with each meal.

The man grabbed the pack, grinned broadly, and hurried back to the house. “
Vive l’Amérique! Vive l’Amérique!
”

A nervous laugh escaped Tom’s lips, and his men joined him. “Hey, fellows, why didn’t General Eisenhower think of that? We should have dropped cigs instead of paratroopers.”

To his left, Rinaldi elbowed him. “Say, Gill, that was a real Lucky Strike.”

Tom chuckled. “They do like Camels around here.”

“Come on,” the truck driver called out. “Let’s load ’er up.”

Still laughing, Tom got up and climbed back in the truck. But his hands shook.

Within an hour, they reached the airfield at Tafaroui, on a flat expanse of dirt with rocky hills in the distance.

Tom hopped out of the truck. “Okay, boys, camp under that palm tree over there while I find out what’s going on.”

He waved at Sergeant Fong in the truck behind and motioned for him to follow. First he had to find someone in charge.

A captain approached, wearing the golden tank insignia of the armored forces on his lapels. Tom’s lapels bore the Engineers’ two-turreted castle.

He saluted. “Lieutenant MacGilliver with the 908th Engineers.”

The captain returned the salute. “Your captain’s looking for you. Your battalion got split up.”

“Like everyone else today. Airfield’s secure?”

“Yep. No thanks to the Army Air Forces. Most of the C-47s got lost on the way from England. They got the signal mixed up, decided to land at the field instead of dropping the troops. The French fired at the planes. They’re scattered all over. A lot of them landed on the Sebkra d’Oran, that dry lake west of here.”

“Too bad.” Only about a dozen cargo planes parked on the field.

“Of course, they tipped off the Frenchies that we were invading, so they gave our tanks a good stiff fight. We blasted them out, took three hundred prisoners.” He pointed across the airfield. “There’s your captain.”

“Thanks.” Tom headed over to Captain Newman. Footsteps thumped behind him, and he turned around. “Hey there, Larry. Having a fun day?”

“More fun than a day at Playland.” Larry fell in step beside Tom. “Any snipers fire at you?”

“One. The boys took care of him. You guys?”

“A fellow in an orange grove. I don’t understand. I’d think the French would welcome our help throwing the Nazis off their backs.”

“Guess not.” He stepped onto pavement. From what he could see, Tafaroui had a paved runway and taxiway but no paved hardstands for the planes to park on. One good rainstorm and they’d be yanking planes out of the mud.

A whistle overhead, and Tom and Larry flung themselves to the pavement. An artillery shell whammed into the ground a couple hundred feet to their left, throwing up a fountain of dirt.

Tom got up, brushed gravel from his cheek, and straightened his helmet. “Looks like we’ve got friends on that hill over there.”

“Swell. Let’s send them a present.”

“Too bad I’m out of cigarettes.”

Captain Newman stood by a C-47 cargo plane with Lt. Martin Quincy. While Tom was built like a baseball player, Quincy had a linebacker’s physique, complete with a face that looked like it had taken too many tackles.

Newman smiled at Tom. “Glad you decided to join us. How’s your platoon? Any news from Lieutenant Reed’s platoon?”

“Platoon intact. No word on Reed. Our equipment here?”

“Unloading at Arzeu. Quincy has his platoon and squad tool sets.”

Tom avoided Quincy’s gaze. “Lehman’s squad lost their set on the beach, but we’ve got the rest.” More like they decided it was too heavy to carry and they ditched it.

Quincy snorted. “Lehman needs a good whipping.”

Newman’s face had a pinched look. “We need those tools.”

“I know, sir. Maybe someone will find the kit and send it to us.”

Quincy fluttered his hands by his shoulders. “Maybe the tool fairy will put it under your pillow at night.”

Tom laughed as if the joke didn’t have a mean, sarcastic edge. “Maybe she’ll bring a pillow too while she’s at it.”

“We’ll have to make do.” Newman crossed his arms over his field jacket. “Here’s the story—Quincy and his men did a quick survey. The runway’s got some shell damage, not too much. The buildings are intact, but we need to do a thorough sweep for mines and sabotage. I’ll put Quincy to work on the runway, and Gill, your men will check out the buildings.”

“Yes, sir.” He and Larry returned to where the platoon lounged under a palm tree. “Okay, boys, airfield’s secure and we’ve got a job.”

Rinaldi rolled onto his back. “Ah, Gill. We’ve been at it since midnight. We need a rest.”

“You got one. Come on, this is why we’re here.”

“I’m finishing this orange first.” Butler held up a glossy beauty. “I need my nutrients. I’m a growing boy.”

The men didn’t budge. They chatted and joked and tried to steal Butler’s orange.

Tom fingered the strap for his musette bag, the small haversack that held his necessities. He glanced behind him, where Quincy’s men lined up. With a single barked command, Quincy’s platoon was ready for action.

Tom’s smile felt stiff and useless. He needed to get his men to work, but how?

Rinaldi grabbed Butler’s orange, held it to his cheek, and danced around, singing “Tangerine.”

“Hey, fellows,” Tom called out. “First squad to finish their job—I’ll buy them oranges.”

Thirty-nine heads swiveled to him. Thirty-nine pairs of eyes lit up. Thirty-nine men got to their feet.

Tom outlined their tasks, divided up the buildings, and
reminded them to watch for booby traps. A squadron of Spitfires was scheduled to arrive from Gibraltar late in the afternoon, and the base needed to be ready.

The squads headed for the buildings, and Tom smiled at Larry. “Now I just have to find thirteen oranges.”

“Hank and Bob and I will take care of that.” The platoon’s jeep and truck drivers had nothing to do until the vehicles arrived.

“Thanks, Larry. I appreciate it.” Tom pulled some crisp new francs from his wallet.

“I hope it’ll always be this easy to bribe the men.”

“Yeah.” A frown threatened Tom’s face. He wouldn’t always be able to bribe them. Then what? How could he convince them to do a job they didn’t want to do?

7

Bowman Field
November 16, 1942

“Voila!” Kay Jobson struck a model’s pose, gesturing to the litter bracket she and Alice Olson had assembled in the C-47.

Mellie joined the other nurses in applause. Assembling the aluminum brackets required many steps and plenty of practice. Since the planes carried cargo and troops to the front, litter supports had to be assembled after they landed and unloaded. C-47 crewmen grumbled about how the 218 pounds of equipment reduced the amount of cargo they could transport. There had to be a better way.

“Excuse me, ladies. I’m looking for Lieutenant Blake,” a corporal called through the open cargo door.

“That’s me.”

“Lieutenant Lambert and Captain Maxwell want to speak with you, ma’am.”

“Right now?” She couldn’t afford to miss the drill.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Alice and Vera exchanged a knowing look.

“I’m coming.” Mellie eased her way down the ladder, straightened her skirt, and followed the corporal to the headquarters buildings. If only they’d issue trousers to the women.

Why did Lambert and Maxwell insist on meeting her now, when she was about to learn something useful? With such haphazard training, would they ever be ready to do some good? The wounded deserved air evacuation. The Marines continued to take heavy casualties on Guadalcanal. In North Africa the French had capitulated after three days of battle, and now the Army could drive east and fight the Germans, who were pouring into Tunisia.

Had the engineer gone to North Africa? His battalion was stationed in England, and he said he’d head to combat soon. In her reply she’d nicknamed him Ernest. He seemed like an earnest man, and she liked the allusion to the play
The Importance of Being Earnest
, with its mistaken identities and name mix-ups.

She’d added Ernest to her daily prayers.

The corporal held the door open for Mellie.

“Thank you.” She went down the hallway to the chief nurse’s office.

“Please have a seat, Philomela.” Lieutenant Lambert pointed to a chair across from her desk. Captain Maxwell stood by the window.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The chief fingered a pen on her desk. “As you know, we’re on shaky ground. On Wednesday we activated three squadrons, but on Thursday General Arnold declared there would be no light air evacuation. So today I have to make some decisions.”

“Oh dear.” The commanding general of the Army Air Forces had restricted them? Would he allow any air evacuation at all?

Lieutenant Lambert raised her head, a hesitant look in her brown eyes. “They doubt us. They believe women are prone to cattiness and gossip and can’t be trusted with important matters. Many men would love to see us fail.”

“I understand, ma’am.” But why was she only talking to Mellie?

“Each squadron must run as a team. In the field, we’ll need to rely on each other. If you girls don’t get along, the brass will see it as a sign of feminine weakness and undependability.”

Mellie’s lips tingled.

Lieutenant Lambert frowned at her pen. “I don’t know how to say this, Philomela. You’ve been here two weeks. Your flight of six nurses is the least cohesive here at Bowman. And every time I look, you’re alone.”

A band of pain constricted around Mellie’s chest. “I tend to keep to myself.”

Captain Maxwell crossed his arms and huffed. “That’s the problem.”

Lambert tapped her pen on the desk. “I indulged in a phone call to Edna Newman at Walter Reed. Now, she wanted me to know what a competent and caring nurse you are. The patients sing your praises. But the girls—well, she said you didn’t have a single friend there.”

Mellie blinked hard. “It’s never interfered with my work, ma’am.”

The chief grimaced. “I understand, but this isn’t a ward. We have to work together, and we can’t let one person drag us down. This is too important for the future of nursing, for all the wounded men who need our care. We cannot fail.”

“I won’t drag you down. I’ll make an excellent flight nurse.”

“I’m sure you would—if you could work independently. When I looked at your application, I was impressed by your time in the wilderness. You have skills that would be useful to us in the field, but only if you share them. This must be a team effort or we’ll fail. You need to get along with the other nurses.”

Captain Maxwell paced to the other side of the room.
“No room for hermits here. Plenty of other nurses—friendly, pretty girls—would love to take your place.”

Mellie gripped her hands together hard in her lap. She mustn’t succumb to tears. “I want to be a flight nurse. More than anything. What do I need to do?”

Lieutenant Lambert shot the surgeon a quick glance, then back to Mellie. “You need to show improvement. You need to make some effort. I’ll give you one more week, but no longer.”

Mellie had failed to make a friend in twenty-three years of life, and now she had one week. Impossible. “One week?”

The chief leaned over the desk, her eyes filled with compassion. “I do want you to succeed, Philomela.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” She tried to smile but couldn’t.

The chief dismissed her, and Mellie escaped out into the hallway. Her vision blurred over, and she couldn’t see where she was going. She leaned against the wall, out of sight of the office.

What now? Competent and caring wasn’t enough? She had to have friends too?

She’d found a job she was passionate about, a job that used all her skills for great good, where she knew she could succeed and excel. Suddenly a wall loomed before her, a wall she couldn’t climb.

All her life, always rejected. In the Philippines, the girls didn’t like her because she was too American, and in America, the girls didn’t like her because she dressed funny and wore her hair funny and her smile split her face in half—like a monkey, they said.

Mellie’s eyes stung and she swiped tears away. Ernest knew how to make friends. Perhaps she could ask him for advice. Yes, she’d write another letter and ask him.

But it would be too late. She had a week, only a week. A sob gurgled in her throat.