Sunday, March 4
Bari, Italy
It was her day off, but on her way home from church, Genevieve felt she should stop by the hospital. Bari was miles from the frontline, but it didn’t seem that way today. The normally quiet ward looked like an overwhelmed field hospital on the edge of a combat zone.
“Genevieve!” Vittoria shouted from halfway across the room. “Can you help Dr. Bolliger?”
Genevieve nodded and ran across the hall to scrub, then rushed into the operating room to join Nathan and Dorothy.
“Genevieve, you’re an angel,” Nathan said. “You couldn’t have picked a better day to stop in.”
“What happened?”
“The Luftwaffe isn’t as dead as we thought. It’s just been waiting to protect targets in Germany—and that’s where the mission was today. Dorothy, prepare anesthesia for the next patient. Genevieve, I want you to wrap.”
“Yes, sir.” Genevieve bandaged the end of the leg Nathan had just amputated while Dorothy prepared a syringe.
Three more patients lay in line, the nearest one with burns along the left half of his face and shoulders and a bloody bandage across his stomach. The poor man was just conscious enough to feel pain until Dorothy injected him with sodium pentothal. Nathan removed the dressing from the patient’s abdomen, dug out a piece of shrapnel, and began repairing the man’s intestines.
“Dorothy, get morphine for the next two patients and make sure Vittoria has room for this one in the burn ward.” Nathan spoke without taking his eyes off his work. He had an amazing ability to focus on his current task while preparing for the next one. He was a perfect field doctor.
“Yes, sir,” Dorothy said.
Nathan glanced at Genevieve. “They ran into flack and fighters. We’ve got fifteen burn victims, plus everyone who was shot up.”
The next patient didn’t have burns—one of the few—but an explosion had left his hand dangling from his wrist by a tendon, and his knee looked bad too. The hand was a lost cause, so Nathan clipped it off and stitched the remaining skin together. Genevieve disinfected the stub and bandaged it while Nathan tried to save the man’s leg.
As Genevieve wrapped the stub in sterile gauze, she glanced at the airman’s face. He was unconscious, and that was a blessing. For now, he was out of pain. But he would wake to life without a hand and possibly without a leg. He had light brown hair, and he seemed familiar, but it took her a few seconds to realize it was the ball-turret gunner from the Lucky Lucille, Sergeant Rick Shelton. Genevieve had often wondered if it was easier to treat patients who were strangers or patients who were friends. At that instant, she realized it was harder to treat friends.
Genevieve didn’t let it affect her work. She couldn’t; there was too much to do. She had to carry on, and she did, through Nathan’s surgery on Rick’s knee, through the next patient who had shrapnel in his ankle.
When the surgeries were completed, Genevieve went to assist Vittoria, cleaning and bandaging burns. The night staff came in early to help, but no one went home when evening fell. Some of the airmen had died before the planes landed, but not one of the patients who made it to the hospital died there.
* * *
After three hours of sleep, Genevieve arrived back at the hospital for the morning shift. Sergeant Shelton was her first patient. He sat in bed, staring out the window with a depressed look on his face.
“Rick?”
He met her eyes and smiled his recognition, but his smile seemed empty. She changed the bandages on the end of his arm, checking for signs of infection.
“I kind of hoped I’d run into you again. But not like this,” he said.
Genevieve was quiet for a few seconds, concentrating on the new bandages. “Looks like the Lucky Lucille brought you back again.”
“Hmm, but she’ll never fly again. Busted up beyond repair.” Rick stared at the stub on the end of his arm. “Just like me.”
Dealing with amputation was difficult. It was hard enough for Genevieve, and she knew it was exponentially harder for the amputee, but it was her job to help. “Dr. Bolliger managed to save your leg, so you’ll walk again.”
“How long will it take?”
“That depends a lot on you.” Genevieve knew the averages but thought his mental condition would be a greater factor in how long it took him to recover and adjust. “Two weeks ago, I would have labeled you an optimist. If you can find that optimism again, I think you’ll do well.”
He stared out the window as Genevieve changed the bandages on his leg. “Rick?” Genevieve asked when she was done. He looked at her again. “I know it’s hard. But you can do it.”
He put on a brave face. “Have you found any Fascist spies lately?”
“No, not recently.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he said. “Heard anything from your missing boyfriend?”
“No,” Genevieve whispered.
“But you haven’t given up?”
Genevieve wanted to cry because there was still no word of Peter, but she knew tears wouldn’t help anyone. “No. It takes more than a Nazi prison . . . or loss of limb . . . to keep those tough American farm boys down. He’ll make it,” she said, and she almost believed it. “And so will you.”
Rick smiled. He was facing an enormous challenge, but there was strength in his smile. Genevieve felt sure Rick was going to be all right in the end.