38
Pomigliano Airfield, Italy
December 25, 1943
A low rumble beneath Georgie vibrated through her backside and feet. That meant the tail landing gear was up.
She opened her eyes and released her breath. Although she’d made progress, takeoffs and landings still bothered her.
When the plane leveled off, she stood. Succumbing to temptation, she glanced out the window. The dark bulk of Vesuvius rose to the south, puffing smoke. Scuttlebutt pointed to an eruption brewing. Almost two thousand years earlier, Vesuvius had killed every living creature in Pompeii. And Pomigliano Airfield lay not much farther north of Vesuvius than Pompeii lay to the south. That fact did nothing to settle her nerves.
Nervous or not, she had a special job.
“Merry Christmas, gentlemen.” She headed down the aisle of the C-47 with her musette bag, ducking Hutch’s darling ornaments, which she had strung between the litter racks. On her way, she handed out tiny packages tied in gauze. “We have a little present for each of you. Wait until I pass them out, then you can open them all at once.”
“Sealed with a kiss?” Private Hodges winked the one blue eye peeking from under a wad of bandages.
She waved him off. “I wouldn’t want to make my boyfriend sad on Christmas.”
Yet she’d done exactly that. She passed out the rest of the packages while uneasiness writhed in her stomach. Why did she go to that stupid dance? Chadwick had acted like a gentleman, if a pompous gentleman, and Bergie would certainly tell Hutch all had been innocent, but she’d longed to be in Hutch’s arms and ached from the sadness in his eyes.
The dance confirmed the gulf between them, and she hated it.
At the front of the plane, she threw a bright smile in place. These men had been wounded in battle or suffered from illness far from home. This could be their worst Christmas ever, but she was determined to give them pleasant memories. “All right, gentlemen. Open your presents.”
The men untied the gauze, and Georgie and Sergeant Ramirez helped those with casts or bandages on their hands.
“Fudge!” someone cried.
“Hey, watch your language. A lady’s present.”
Georgie laughed. “A square of fudge for each of you. I don’t want to ruin your carefully designed hospital diets too much.”
“Ruin to your heart’s content, ma’am.” An ambulatory patient on the right side of the plane popped his piece in his mouth. “Heaven.”
“Mm-hmm.” The man next to him nodded. “A morsel of joy.”
The nurses would be so pleased. Last night they’d worked hard over their little Coleman stoves, making batch after batch for their flights—and for themselves too.
“Speaking of joy . . .” Georgie waved her hand like a choir director. “‘Joy to the world!’”
The men joined in the singing, only a few at first, since most had their mouths full, but then in unison. Sergeant Ramirez had a strong bass voice, and he dipped into the harmony. Soon a chorus overpowered the engine noises and resonated through the plane.
Rose would be pleased. She loved Christmas caroling. If only she could be here.
Georgie blinked back tears, took requests, and caroled her way through her duties.
A sense of fulfillment nudged grief aside. This was why she’d returned overseas. Her lifelong gift to lighten people’s hearts and her new nursing skills combined to ease the pain of the hurting.
If only she could make Hutch feel better.
Her voice faltered, but she dove into “White Christmas.”
She’d had a long talk with Mellie last night. Hutch wouldn’t be content until he became an officer. But was that right? Didn’t the Lord want him to be content where he was, regardless of his circumstances? After all, what if he never got a commission?
She shuddered and launched into “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.” After all this time, all this work, what would he do if he lost his dream?
The C-47 jostled and dropped a few feet.
Georgie let out an embarrassing cry and grabbed onto the litter support rack.
“Just some turbulence.” Sergeant Ramirez took hold of her elbow. He wasn’t much taller than Georgie, but he was built like a tank. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
She smiled, although her pulse hammered. “Just startled me, that’s all.”
“Yeah.” He returned her smile, but with concern in his eyes. Everyone knew of her disastrous performance in the plane crash.
Georgie set her hands on her hips and assumed an expression of mock outrage. “Turbulence on Christmas Day? What kind of outfit is this? We ought to be ashamed of ourselves. Fine way to treat our holiday guests.”
Ramirez chuckled and headed to the rear of the plane.
Her mock outrage floated away, replaced with anger at herself. She’d been through turbulence before, plenty of times. Why did she let it affect her?
She took Private Hodges’s pulse and recorded it in the flight manifest.
She still had a long way to go.
Pozzuoli, Italy
January 11, 1944
Hutch glanced at the clock and drummed his fingers on his completed examination. Half an hour remained, but he’d already gone over the test twice and knew he’d done well. Numbers were his lifelong friends.
Asking Colonel Currier for the three-day pass had been a smart choice, but he barely made it. The 93rd had closed at Piana di Caiazzo on January 5 in preparation for an upcoming amphibious operation, somewhere higher up the Italian boot. They were staging in the Naples area, a clear sign God wanted him in the Pharmacy Corps.
Hutch arrived in Caivano outside of Naples on Sunday, and the test was in nearby Pozzuoli on Monday and Tuesday. Since he already had approval for a third day, tomorrow he’d see Pompeii with Georgie and her friends, acting as their tour guide to justify the fraternization.
This might be the last time he saw her for a long while. Since July, Georgie had followed him from shore to shore, but would she follow him to the next beach?
Only one other applicant sat in the tiny room, Lt. Pete Cameron from San Francisco. Pete nibbled on his pencil, then scratched down an answer. Nice fellow, Pete. He’d attended Officer Candidate School and now served as an artillery officer in the US 3rd Infantry Division, which was preparing to ship out in the same convoy as the 93rd Evac.
Since he already had a commission, Pete didn’t need this as badly as Hutch did.
Pete closed his exam book, puffed out a breath, and stood.
Hutch got up too and turned in his test. He smiled at Pete. “How’d it go?”
He ran his hand over close-cropped curly blond hair. “Don’t know. I’m rusty. Haven’t practiced in two years, thanks to Uncle Sam. Maybe I should have done what you did.”
“If you did, you’d have to ‘yes, sir’ all day long to men who have the same education as you do and call you ‘boy.’”
Pete shook his head. “Pharmacists get a raw deal in this Army, don’t they?”
“Glad we finally have our own Corps. I’ve been waiting for this.”
The officer administering the exam tucked the tests in a manila folder and stood. “You and nine hundred others.”
Hutch frowned. “What do you mean, sir?”
“They’ve received nine hundred applications for the Pharmacy Corps, I’m told.”
Pete let out a low whistle. “Lousy odds.”
“Look at the bright side.” Hutch tapped his foot. “Nine hundred men have the same vision. That’ll make the Army take notice. Think what we could do. Nine hundred officers could staff every fixed and mobile hospital, both stateside and overseas.”
Half a smile from Pete. “But only seventy-two of us get a shot at it now.”
“Twelve.” The officer headed for the door.
Hutch’s gut clenched. “Twelve?”
He held open the door. “They’re only commissioning twelve officers at this time.”
“But—but Congress approved seventy-two.”
“The Army decided a gradual implementation would be best. Twelve now, more later.”
Pete whistled again and headed out. “I just wasted two days of my life.”
Two days? Hutch had wasted over three years. He couldn’t move.
“Sergeant?” The officer waved him to the door.
“Yes, sir.” His voice splintered on his wooden tongue, and he forced his feet to move.
Twelve positions? Nine hundred applicants? For the first time in his life, numbers betrayed him.