Journal Entry, August 31, 1944 (Battle Creek, Michigan):
In an effort to drive the Germans from France, Allied forces launched a surprise attack on the 6th of June, 1944. The attacks took place on land, in the air, and at sea, and included every branch of the Armed Services.
On that day, Francis was aboard the Navy destroyer USS Corry. While the facts of that day are still coming to light, what we have come to understand is that the plane that was supposed to lay smoke for the Corry—in order to conceal her from the enemy—got shot down, and left her fully exposed.
The Corry came under immediate fire by the German gunners and many aboard were injured or killed. Francis was among the injured: he was shot in the leg, just above the knee. Upon rescue, he was taken to a field hospital where he was later flown to a Navy hospital in England. Unfortunately, they were not able to save his leg.
Francis spent the next two months in the hospital there. When he had recovered well enough, he was sent to the Percy Jones Army Hospital here in Battle Creek for rehabilitation.
When I enter the hospital, it is as though someone has sucked all the air from my lungs. On the way to my brother’s room, I pass dozens of injured men, some worse off than others. Although I know he is not here, I search for Mac’s face among the injured men.
In a strange way, I long to see him here. At least I’d know he was safe. That he would be alright. At least as alright as any of these men can be after what they experienced over there.
“Hello, Francis,” I say when I arrive at my brother’s bedside.
Francis is slow to turn his head toward me. When he does, the suffering he’s endured is so deeply etched into his face that it takes my breath away. Our matching hazel eyes meet and hold. Slowly, he opens his arms into a half circle. I fall into them and cling to him as we both cry.
When we are both cried out, I kiss his wet cheek, sit down in the chair next to his bed and take his hand in both of mine. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see anyone in my life.”
“Same here,” Francis says. “How are things in Corpus Christi?”
Corpus Christi Naval Air Station is located on the Gulf of Mexico. Opened in March of 1942, it’s one of the two main bases used for the final phase of Naval aviator training. Pensacola is the other.
How do I know this? Because that’s where I’m stationed. When I first heard the news, I crumpled onto the hard wooden bench of the train station in St. Louis and cried.
“Oh, cheer up old friend.” Glad slipped her arm around my shoulders. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I have it on good authority that they only serve the enlisted folks pineapple and papaya in Hawaii anyway. Besides, whatever would I do without you?”
“Well,” I sniffed after wiping my nose with my kerchief, “I am allergic to pineapple.”
“See there, then this is for the best. Come on, let’s go and see what this Southern hospitality is all about.”
Once I got over the disappointment of not being sent to Hawaii, I decided I liked it just fine there. The base has everything we could ever need, including swimming pools, a post office, and a library.
“Things are fine,” I say to Francis. I spend the next two hours regaling my brother with stories of my time so far in the Navy.
“Rumor has it you girls throw some pretty big parties on your time off,” Francis says with an almost imperceptible smile.
“Do we ever,” I say, unable to contain my laughter. “It’s nine days of duty and three days of liberty. By the end of those three days, I look forward to going back on duty just to get some rest. But don’t worry, Francis, I’m probably the only one there who doesn’t drink. Someone has to keep things under control.”
“A real goody-two-shoes, huh?” My brother’s smile widens.
“Yes. One of the guys even accused me of practicing to become a nun. If only he knew!”
My brother’s laughter fills the room. I think it’s probably the first time he’s laughed in a long time. But too quickly, his eyes grow serious again. “How’s Mac?” he asks.
Downtown Corpus is right on a bay, fronted with a stepped concrete sea wall. It’s a great place to sit, watch the boats and enjoy a moment or two of peace. When things get too crazy or I just want to be alone with my thoughts, I sit, watch the birds and wonder where Mac is at that precise moment. I imagine him laughing with his shipmates, drinking a cold beer and swindling the other men out of their fortunes over a game of poker. I imagine him safe. Sometimes I save one of his letters and read it there. It somehow makes me feel closer to him.
In his letters, Mac writes about places like the Marshall Islands, Truk, and New Guinea as though they are places he’s vacationed at. Later, when I hear about the missions that took place there, I send up a belated prayer of gratitude that he survived. I know Mac loves what he does; I can feel it in the blank white spaces between the words he writes. I just pray that he loves me more so he doesn’t go doing something foolhardy just to show what he can do.
I assure my brother that Mac is fine. I tell him about the time I put in a request to be transferred to Hawaii. “They were seeking volunteers, but the lieutenant denied my request.”
Francis lifts an eyebrow. “Why? Did a lot of women apply?”
I shake my head as the anger I still feel at being denied bubbles to the surface again. “Actually, I was the only one who wanted to go.”
My brother’s other eyebrow lifts. “Then why?”
“That’s what I wanted to know, so when I learned that my transfer request had been rejected, I paid a visit to Lieutenant Neil Croft...”
* * *
My hand trembles as I reach for the knob on the door to his office. He does not look up as I tread across the sprawling rug in the center of his office and sit in the chair across from his desk.
“Good morning, sir,” I say as politely as I can muster. My voice quavers slightly, but when his cold, steely eyes meet mine, I quickly fill with anger again.
“What can I do for you, Hansen?” He is apparently consumed by one of his darker moods.
“Um, well, I want to inquire about my request to transfer to Hawaii, sir. May I ask why you denied my request?”
Lieutenant Croft leans heavily back in his chair and scrubs a hand across his neatly shaven chin. “Simple,” he says. “I don’t think we can afford to lose you here.” He leans forward in his chair. “I don’t want to lose you, Virginia. I’ve grown rather fond of you.”
* * *
“And there it was, the truth behind the denial of my request,” I say to Francis. “After that incident, I avoided the lieutenant like the plague.”
“I think I remember Mac talking about him. Was Croft stationed at Pensacola before the war?”
I nod.
“Bastard,” Francis says. “Did you tell Mac?”
I shook my head.
“Just as well,” he says.
I nod my agreement.
When it’s time to leave, Francis seems in better spirits. I spend most of my time home visiting with him. By the time I am to return to Corpus, he is getting around remarkably well on the crutches they’ve given him, but I think it will take longer for him to adjust mentally to having only one leg.