Cerda, Sicily
Hutch rolled down his sleeves as he walked from the enlisted men’s mess tent to pharmacy. Sunset signaled relief from the day’s heat but also the necessity of covering up from malarial mosquitoes.
An orange glow washed over the hospital complex. Today’s move had been accomplished with record speed, and new patients already filled the wards of the 93rd.
Hutch pulled Phyllis’s latest letter from his pants pocket. Since the beach party, he’d read all her letters over again, determined to rekindle the spark of romance, the warmth of love. But the letters made things worse. Her melancholy fed his worry for her, and her concerns about his faithfulness irritated him. What right did she have to make him feel guilty? He had no choice about being overseas and he’d resisted temptation.
He focused hard on her airy script. For now, he’d shove his feelings aside and rely on commitment and prayer to stay faithful. Feelings were deceptive and a lousy basis for decisions. However, once he got home, he’d give the relationship a thorough appraisal. Was Phyllis good for him? Was he good for her? Was marriage God’s will for their lives?
“Oh, Hutchie-kins, my darling!” A falsetto voice warbled behind him. Bergie looped his arm through Hutch’s and batted his blond eyelashes. “How I pine for you, my love. Without you, I am naught but a pool of tears, quivering from the dire ache of loneliness.”
Hutch laughed and shook off his friend. “How dare you read her letters?”
“Seriously? That bad?”
He held up the page. “She quoted the entire lyrics from ‘I Don’t Want to Walk Without You.’”
“Oh boy.” Bergie whistled a snippet of the wistful tune. “At least it proves she needs you.”
“Yep.” His voice came out stiff.
“And it proves you two sorry souls need me to drag you out for nights on the town.”
“Yep again.” But what if Phyllis needed more—someone Bergie-like to lift her moods on a daily basis and provide a little fun? Hutch wasn’t that kind of man.
Bergie slapped him on the back. “You look as glum as your girl. This is my prescription—one dram of quit-worrying, six minims of smile-a-little, and a gallon of prayer.”
Hutch wrangled up a smile. “I can fill that.”
“Good man.” He nodded to Pharmacy and Laboratory. “All set up?”
“Nice and neat.”
Bergie leaned closer. Pale stubble ringed his jaw. “You didn’t hear it from me, but don’t get too cozy.”
“Not planning on it.” The tension in Sicily reminded him of North Africa right before the Husky landings in July. They were going somewhere. Soon.
“I’ve got to get back to the ward. Thank goodness for twelve-hour shifts. Sure beats working till you fall unconscious.”
Hutch waved good-bye. Pharmacy might not get as much respect as medicine, but at least he worked better hours.
He ducked inside the tent. Kazokov rummaged through a crate, and Ralph O’Shea stood behind the lieutenant, red-faced. Ralph gave Hutch a wild-eyed look and mouthed something.
What was wrong? Crates lay around with bottles inside. Boxes sat on top of the counter. Shelves sat partly empty.
What on earth happened? He’d set this place up hours ago. Who had done this? Why?
Blood tingled on its way out of his face. What kind of cruel joke was this? Kaz would think he hadn’t done his job.
The lieutenant straightened up. “I’m glad you’re back, Sergeant.”
The last thing Hutch needed was a black mark on his military record. “Honestly, sir. I didn’t leave it like this. I don’t know what happened. It was set up. Perfectly set up. Right, Ralph?”
Kaz chuckled and pulled up the waistband of his khaki trousers. Dysentery had decreased his belly. “You had it set up, all right, but now it will be perfectly set up.”
Hutch gazed around. Complete disorder. Why would anyone do this to him? It would take hours to put things back right. In the meantime, how could he accomplish his regular work? “What do you mean?”
Kaz wore a smug smile. “I’ve been studying this operation. The inefficiency and disorganization appalled me. I’m putting my business education to use and making this streamlined and modern.”
Streamlined? Modern? What on earth? He nudged his feet forward. A bulk bottle of antiparasitic tablets he rarely used was on the center-front shelf on top of the counter—but the scales were down on the bottom shelf. “What did you do?”
“I don’t know why you never thought of this. Everything is now alphabetical. Your productivity will soar. You’ll be able to find things much faster.”
“I’ve never had a problem finding things. This was organized like my dad’s pharmacy, like every pharmacy I’ve ever seen.”
Another chuckle. “Is that so? Maybe I can hire out my services.”
Hutch surveyed the damage, the heat of anger blurring his vision. “I don’t think so, sir. We group medications and chemicals by type—tablets, injectables, liquids. We alphabetize within each category.”
“Willy-nilly. No logic at all.”
“No, sir. There’s logic.” He tightened his throat so he wouldn’t raise his voice and get accused of talking back to an officer. “We put the items we use most frequently up where we can reach them and lesser-used items down below.”
“Don’t fuss. It takes time to undo bad habits. You’ll see the merit of better organization.”
Better? Tall bottles lay on their sides on the narrow top shelf. A drop of liquid fell from one and sizzled on the metal counter. Hutch gasped and yanked the bottle off the shelf. “Sir, this is glacial acetic acid.”
Kaz peered at the label. “Acetic acid, glacial. It belongs with the As.”
“No, sir. It must be upright. It was dripping. This is a dangerous acid.”
The lieutenant sniffed. “Fine. Put it under G for glacial. But screw on the lid more carefully this time.”
Behind Kaz, Ralph mimed pouring something over Kaz’s head.
Hutch glanced away so the tech’s rightful mockery wouldn’t stoke his fire. “I will, sir.”
Kaz set a bottle on a bottom shelf—sodium hydroxide. In the same compartment as sulfuric acid.
“Um, sir. You can’t put sodium hydroxide on that shelf.”
The lieutenant’s little dark eyes snapped at Hutch. “It’s an S.”
“Yes, sir, but it’s a base. It’s next to a strong acid.”
“So?”
“So it’s a volatile combination.” Like Hutch and Kaz.
“They’re in bottles.” He shook his head as if the pharmacist were a bit dim.
Hutch swallowed hard. Hot saliva burned down his throat and into his stomach. “Yes, sir. But as you know, each shelf also serves as a packing crate. When it’s time to move, we just add sawdust and slide the lid on.”
“I know that.”
He nodded slowly so anger wouldn’t pollute his words. “Every single move we’ve made, we’ve had damage. If those two bottles broke in the same crate, we could have a dangerous situation.”
Kaz crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “One thing I’ve learned about you, Hutchinson, is you’re a pessimist, a downright worrywart.”
His hands clenched, damp with sweat. “No, sir. I’m practical. And knowledgeable.”
“Knowledgeable? You’re not calling me stupid, are you?”
“No, sir!” He stretched out his fingers and rubbed his palms down his trouser legs. If he didn’t calm down, he’d get reprimanded and lose his chance at the Pharmacy Corps. “Not at all, sir. You know business, and you know it well. But I know chemistry and pharmaceuticals, and this is an accident waiting to happen.”
“Ridiculous.” He spun back to the crate, pulled out two pasteboard boxes of capsule shells, and put them under C, rather than right under the counter where they belonged. “This is a solid plan. I’m modernizing this operation.”
His hands coiled in on themselves again. “Sir, a pharmacist is always—always—in charge of his own pharmacy.”
Kaz thrust a finger in Hutch’s face. “Not in the Army. I’m in charge here, and you’ll do as I say. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant?”
In the Army, he couldn’t even argue like a man without being charged with insubordination.
“Yes, sir.” The words charred his tongue.
Kaz pointed to the crates. “Put everything in proper order. If you don’t know where something belongs, ask. You do know your alphabet, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” What else could he say?
And what else could he do? Go whining to Colonel Currier? He’d get in even worse trouble for going over the head of his commanding officer. Maybe he could ask Kaz to put the order in writing to protect himself if something went wrong. Why not ask to be demoted to private? That’s what would happen.
He set the second bottle of sodium hydroxide beside the sulfuric acid. He closed his mind to the potential chemical reaction. Sure, they neutralized each other, but after an exothermic reaction producing heat and gas.
Ralph placed the diodoquin under D in prime center territory. They rarely dispensed the antiprotozoal tablets. The tech slid a furtive glance to Hutch as if the pharmacist might explode.
He couldn’t afford to explode. He had to keep his stopper in tight.
Hutch blew off a heated breath. Soon he’d be an officer and he wouldn’t have to put up with this nonsense ever again. But when? Dad’s last letter referred to bureaucratic delays.
How much longer would he have to wait?
Pain jabbed below his ribs, and he winced. If he couldn’t be in charge in his own pharmacy, what good was he?