Shoulder to shoulder with soldiers, Red Cross girls, medics, and army nurses on the rolling deck of the hospital ship, Cora took a deep breath to steady herself. Her heart beat in her ears, adding to the cacophony of noise that enveloped her.
Officers shouted orders. Equipment clanged. Hatches slammed. Planes roared overhead. The periodic rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire in the distance sliced the air. The ship pitched in the choppy seas. It was no secret that Eisenhower had hoped for better weather for the invasion. Had yesterday’s assault gone better or worse than planned?
The crowd thinned as more and more of them went over the rail and down the rope ladder to the waiting boats that would take them to shore. Cora’s hands slicked at the thought of dangling on the side of the ship sixty feet above the water. They hadn’t lost anyone into the cold, frothing ocean, but there was always a first time. She shivered. Get ahold of yourself, girl. You’re here now. It’s what you wanted.
She straightened her spine, and the ship swayed. Off-balance, she bumped the medic at her side and tromped on his foot. Her face heated. “Sorry.”
“No problem, girlie. Sardines have more room that we do.” He stuck out his hand. “Mitch Gaynor from Iowa. Come here often?” He winked and laughed as if he’d cracked the funniest joke in the world.
“Cora Strealer from New Hampshire.” Her heart skipped a beat. The man was from Iowa. Like Van. She sighed and tugged at her baggy fatigues. What would he think about her stunt?
About halfway across the Channel, she’d risked emerging from closets and bathrooms. No one had questioned her presence, and she blended in with the other women. Claiming she’d lost her bag, she secured an olive drab uniform and boots. The pants and jacket were decidedly more comfortable than the ill-fitting Red Cross skirt and blouse. The boots were too big and had already rubbed blisters on both heels.
Mitch jabbed her with his elbow and pointed to the distant beach. Littered with vehicles, cannons, corpses, and crates, the sandy stretch of land was nothing like the resorts along the lake at home. Her stomach roiled, and she swallowed against the bile that burned her throat. She squeezed her eyes closed.
“Hey, you okay?” Mitch’s voice came close to her ear.
She jumped, and her eyes flew open. “Uh, yeah. A bit overwhelmed, that’s all. This day will be etched on my memory for the rest of my life.”
“Amen, sister. I’ve survived a bunch of campaigns, but none this big. There must be a half million boys here. Who of us will remain by the end of this little party?”
“They’re so young, aren’t they? Barely out of high school, most of them.”
“You say that as if you are a wizened, old woman.” He rubbed his jaw and made a show of studying her face. “You can’t be a day over twenty-five.”
A guffaw burst from her lips, and she covered her mouth. “I’ve already crested thirty, my friend, and then some. But thanks for the compliment.”
“All right, ladies and gents. We’re ready for the next wave. Step lively, so we can get this tub filled and on its way.”
Cora licked her lips that had suddenly gone dry. She pressed her hand against her middle. “This is me. See you on the other side?”
“You can be sure of it. I’ll watch your six.”
She inched forward, pressed in from all sides. One by one, her fellow passengers crawled over the rail then disappeared from sight.
“You’re up, sister. Grip the railing, sling your leg over the side, and put your foot on the rung. The rope will give a little, but don’t panic. Move one hand from the ship to the rung, then the next. At that point you can make your way down the side. Just like a monkey at the zoo.”
Her body trembled. “Except the monkey isn’t smart enough to know he can get hurt.”
“You’ll be fine. At this point, there are so many people in the transport, they’ll break your fall.”
“Reassuring, sailor.”
He shrugged and swept his arm toward the rail. “M’lady. Your chariot awaits.”
With a grip on the rail, she followed the young man’s directions and was soon clinging to the knotted ladder. The hemp scraped her palms as she descended. Encouragement floated up from below. She could do this.
The ship rolled toward her, and she swung away from the side. Seconds later, the ship leaned the other direction, and she slammed into the hull with a bang. Her grip loosened, and she flailed her arm, grabbing at the moving cable. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Fingers searching…reaching, then coiling around the rope. Thank You, Father.
Her vision swirled as dizziness threatened to overtake her. Breathe in. Breathe out. Her vision cleared, and she extended her leg, her boot finding a foothold. Cheers erupted, and she grimaced. More like a sloth than a monkey, she made her way to the bottom of the ladder, finally landing in the boat, its engine vibrating the crowded watercraft.
Heart banging in her chest, she took her place next to some nurses. The redheaded gal from Maine, who she met at breakfast, squeezed her arm. “You did great.”
Cora rolled her eyes. “Nice of you to say, but I’m trying not to think about how I’m going to get back on board.”
“One thing at a time.” She smiled. “Haven’t you scaled trees back home in New Hampshire?”
“Not if I could help it.” Cora laughed. “I left that to my youngest sister. She’s fearless.”
“You are too. Don’t forget that.”
Twenty minutes later, the boat was filled to capacity, and one of the men steered it toward shore. Dipping and weaving, the craft bucked and jerked, fighting the waves. Men and women moaned.
“This is worse than the ship,” a voice complained. “How about if I swim to the beach?”
Someone coughed then threw up over the side. The wind wafted the acrid smell toward Cora, who gasped and pinched her nose. Breathing through her mouth wasn’t much better.
Murmuring rose, and someone else was sick.
“This was not in the brochure.”
Laughter relieved the tension, and Cora smiled. She recognized Mitch’s voice. No wonder he was a medic. Able to put people at ease in the worst situations. Much like she’d seen Van do.
Van. Where was he?
The boat continued to lumber toward the beach. Pressed against the side, she scanned the activity. Men scrambled across the dunes then dove behind whatever they could find that provided protection from the occasional crack of gunfire. Smoke and dust hung above the landing site.
“Okay, folks. This is as close as we get.” A man with captain’s bars pointed to a cadre of small boats bobbing near the beach. “Your job is to wade ashore, pick up casualties, and get them onto those craft which will ferry them to us. You’re familiar with triage protocols. Send us the worst cases first. Be careful. Our boys haven’t cleared out all the machine-gun nests yet. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”
“Yes, sir,” Cora and her shipmates responded in unison.
Two men at the front dropped the ramp with a splash. Water sloshed over the metal gangway as the passengers scrambled off the boat and into the ocean. Minutes later, Cora was in the churning sea. She kicked her legs, pointing her toes until she found purchase.
The briny air mingled with the smell of gunpowder and fuel. At least the fetid stink of vomit no longer filled her nose. Up to her chin in the water, Cora pushed herself forward. Discarded and lost items bobbed on the surface. She stumbled and submerged, then propelled herself upward. Coughing, she wiped the water from her eyes.
A haze hung over the scene that seemed unreal as if she were watching a newsreel, except in color. The water became shallower as she got closer to shore. Finally, lapping at her ankles, it foamed at her feet.
She bent over, hands on her knees, and took several deep breaths. She’d made it. Pride filled her, then guilt. How many hadn’t survived?
“All right, Strealer. Break time is over.” Mitch clapped her on the back. “How about if you work with me?”
Straightening, she turned and curled her lip in a mock sneer. “What if I’d rather work with someone else?”
He grinned.
She smiled in reply. “Guess that’s not going to happen.”
“No.” He settled his steel helmet on his head. “But good try on your part.” He gestured to the western end of the beach. “Let’s start there, and make our way toward that cluster of boats.”
She nodded and followed him to the far end of the coastline, averting her eyes from the stiff, twisted forms that lay half-buried in the sand. There was nothing she could do for the men, and graves registration would take care of them. She shuddered at the memory of her discovery that each person carried his or her own canvas body bag. A practical, necessary evil.
“Help me,” the plaintive cry of a wounded man came from behind a crate.
“Mitch, over here.” Cora hurried across the sand, her feet stumbling and bumbling over the debris. She ducked behind the crate and gasped. Her stomach roiled. A young man, who looked barely old enough to shave, was propped against the wooden box. Crusted with blood, his uniform was more rusty-brown than green. He pressed his hand against a bleeding wound in his belly.
She pressed her lips together and swayed. What had she been thinking to come here? Her idea to cover the invasion now seemed cavalier and foolish. She’d figured to show up, grab some interviews and descriptions, and write compelling stories. Perhaps the upper echelon was smart in forbidding nonmedical women in a combat zone. The stories would be compelling, all right, but would she have the fortitude to write them?
Mitch yanked on her arm, and she fell onto her knees. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. The first hundred times are the worst. I won’t say you’ll get used to it, but a certain amount of numbness will overtake you.”
“Okay.” Her voice trembled in her ears.
“Stomach wound puts this guy almost at the top of the list.” Mitch opened his medkit and pulled out a container of sulfa and some bandages. He moved the soldier’s hand away from his wound and shook the medicine over the man’s middle. With swift motions that spoke of the countless times he’d performed the action, Mitch bound the youngster’s injury. He patted the man’s shoulder. “Someone will be by to put you on a stretcher and take you to the ship. You’re done for a while, son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Would you like me to pray with you?”
Cora’s eyes shot open. Mitch was a believer. Had God paired her with him on purpose?
“Yes, please.”
Hand still on the man, Mitch bowed his head and murmured a quiet prayer that she couldn’t hear, but his gracious, confident tone bolstered her lagging spirit.
“Amen. God bless you, son.” Mitch stuffed the sulfa container and unused bandages into his kit and climbed to his feet. “Next patient.”
“Right.”
They staggered along the beach, stopping and administering aid to each injured man. Cora lost track of time. At some point, the sun reached its zenith then headed for the horizon. Twice, she and Mitch had wolfed down some C-rations before continuing their mission. Mouth dry, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her hair stuck to the sides of her face, and her uniform was crusty with blood and dried saltwater. Her heels burned with each step as her boots rubbed her blisters raw.
Was this what the attack and aftermath had been like at Pearl? Only worse? Had Brian heard the whistle of bombs and the snap of gunfire before he died? Did he experience terror in his last moments on earth? Or did the ship explode in an instant taking him with no awareness or pain?
Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together. Tending the injured and ill had reopened her own wound of grief. As if she were losing Brian again. Losing the possibility of what they could have had as a married couple if he’d lived.
Van’s face wavered in her mind. Where was he? She had a chance at something and threw it away by running off in a hair-brained scheme to best her news colleagues. Even Myrtle hadn’t been stupid enough to board a ship. Not that Van could keep her from harm, only God could do that, but she’d feel a lot safer by his side.
Dear Father, please keep me safe. Forgive my subterfuge and conniving to go where I shouldn’t. I don’t deserve Your mercy. I know that, but please allow me to survive this day…and the rest of the days while I’m on this beach. Help me help these men. To be a light, as Mitch is, praying and comforting Your children.
A blanket of peace settled on her shoulders, and her muscles sagged. A smile tugged at her lips. Regardless of how God chose to answer her prayer, she was prepared to face the day. If only Van were here to share the experience.