Letters From Home (15 page)

16

October 1944
Dutch New Guinea

B
etty death-gripped the base of her cushioned seat with her left hand. Her right fist clenched the jeep’s small exterior handlebar. Humidity and fear streamed sweat into every fiber of her herringbone twill coveralls.

On rusty clay, slick as oil beneath the tires, they slid around another hairpin curve. Betty dared a side glance over the long, ragged drop-off. The absence of a guardrail punished her with an unobstructed view. The sight of the rocks below, a bed of daggers, shot a squeak from her throat. She lurched toward the motor pool driver, burrowed her helmeted head behind his shoulder. Eyes squeezed tight, she held her breath, as if that alone could spare her life.

Just as her chest began to burn, she heard the private. “It’s safe to look now.”

She exhaled, then squinted a peek. Confirming the vehicle wasn’t sailing off the cliff, she shifted her weight upright, though she didn’t slacken her grasp on the seat. Identical walls of jungle closed in on both sides of the mountain road. Steam rose from enormous ferns and tangled vines. The sun scalded pungency out of their ancient pores, a damp rotting smell worsened by the jeep’s exhaust fumes. And all around, massive roots of banyan trees serpentined above-ground, exemplifying the island’s backward existence.

“ ‘Bout halfway there,” the private announced, his chinstrap unfastened, swinging like a pendulum. His tone and permanent grin reflected the cheerful leisure of a drive through the countryside—despite cockatoos screaming warnings above. “So where you from?”

She strained for the answer. Her mind was still rattled after the enemy hits her C-47 had barely dodged en route to Humboldt Bay. “Near Chicago,” she recalled at last.

“Chicago?” He slapped his knee. “I’m from Indiana. We’re practically neighbors. In fact, my pop’s been trucking me up to Cubs games every birthday since I was six.”

Betty briefly wondered how many games that totaled. With his lean frame and round boyish face, the golden-tanned kid didn’t look a day past sixteen. No wonder the guys at the airstrip called him “Junior.”

“You a fan?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

“Don’t tell me you root for the ‘Black Sox,’ doll. You just might break my heart.”

Sports statistics made about as much sense to her as chemistry equations. She shrugged, tried for a knowledgeable response. “I’d say they have the nicest uniforms.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, well. If you got a fondness for uniforms, you’ve come to the right place.”

An insect the size of a muskmelon buzzed near Betty’s cheek. She frantically batted it away before a bump in the road launched her like a rumble seat several inches into the air. Her grip reclaimed the handle as her field shoe braced against the opening of the jeep.

“Watch your toes there,” Junior warned. “They got forty-foot pythons round here that would love to chow on those.”

Betty jerked her foot inside. “Did you say
forty?”

He nodded. “Must be something in the water. Bats, rats, lizards, even grasshoppers. Everything here seems to grow twice as big as back home. Well, except for in Texas maybe.”

Edging out a reciprocated smile, Betty cut to another subject. “Is it usually this hot?”

“Ah, no,” he assured her.

Thank heavens.

“Should get even hotter,” he said, “once we hit the peak of summer next month.”

Her scalp beaded within the oven of her helmet, releasing another rivulet down her chest. She had a sudden flashback of the sweaty old marching drills at basic. If not for her CO allowing her to slack off due to shin splints, Betty might never have survived.

“Hang on to your hat.” Junior cranked the wheels around a sharp bend. Once straightened out, he ground the gears and reduced speed. Dark-colored natives strolled toward them down the center of the road. Many wore GI shirts dyed brilliant yellow and purple. A handful toted large curved knives waist high. Barefoot and dusty, the men trailed women balancing bundles on their heads.

“They’re Melanesians,” Junior explained. “They live in the nipa huts, built on stilts back there over the water.”

Relief fluttered inside her, realizing these unfamiliar beings wouldn’t be residing next door to her civilized barracks.

The pedestrians moved aside as the jeep neared. They waved and smiled—with red-stained teeth.

Betty pushed out her question before horror could take hold. “Is that blood? In their mouths?”

“Nah. Teeth just get that way from chewing betel nuts.”

“Of course,” she replied lightly, grateful Junior hadn’t laughed at her.

A few more zigs and zags, more distracting idle conversation, and soon they arrived at a compound of tents. An armed soldier waved them through the entrance. Stumps outlined the area that appeared to have been freshly bulldozed smack in the middle of the jungle. Perhaps a shortcut through a camp to reach their destination.

Junior brought the jeep to a halt and swung around to her side. He unhooked the thin, flimsy strap that served as her door.

Why was he extending his hand? Did she need to get out?

Seeds of terror sprouted. “You mean, this is it? This is the hospital?” She couldn’t move, her body paralyzed.

He gave a nod. “Home sweet home.”

This was all wrong. It had to be a mistake, another foul-up like the one days earlier. While disembarking with other WACs in Australia, a country founded by convicts and far from the exotic island she’d been promised, she had gone straight to a handsome officer about the error in her destination. And sure enough, New Guinea was listed in her file. Once her imminent transfer had been confirmed, she even offered silent thanks to her recruiter on Jackson for honoring his word….

Her recruiter.

SergeantWeasel.

And now everything became clear.

Oh, she was going to thank him all right. The minute she got home. First, though, she needed to straighten out this mess. All she had to do was find the hospital commander. A little eyelash batting, an arousing smile, and she would have this “misunderstanding” solved in no time.

Girding herself, she accepted Junior’s hand and carefully stepped down into the mud. While he unloaded her backpack and footlocker from the rear of the vehicle, she removed her helmet. She went to work on her bound hair, smoothing and tucking strands into a style that didn’t suggest she had come through a hurricane.

A drawn-out whistle caught her ear. She turned to find Junior shaking his head in wonder.

“I tell ya, who needs sulfa? The boys laid up here get one look at you, they’ll be feeling like a million bucks lickety-split.”

Confidence stretched her lips into a smile.

“Well,” he sighed. “I’d best be getting to the base. Got supply runs to make.” He pointed to her luggage piled on a stump. “Need a hand with those?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine.” She wouldn’t be staying long. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Pleasure was all mine.” He grinned, then stopped mid-turn. “Say, uh, Betty. Assuming we manage to crush the Japs in time to get home by spring, any chance you’d do me the honor of, oh, coming to senior prom with me?”

She giggled, lowered her chin. “Wouldn’t you want to take a girl your own age?”

“Heck, no. Not when I could bring Betty Grable herself.”

The comparison was flattering, specifically in light of her present appearance. “How about I give it some thought?”

“Hey, that’s better than a no.” Beaming, Junior hopped into the jeep and sped off.

Once he vanished from sight, she shed a deep breath. Duck soup—not a thing to it. A little persuasive conversation with the hospital commander and he’d help rid her of this nightmare in nothing flat.

She maneuvered through the carpet of red sludge collecting on her shoes. Outside the nearest tent, she undid a top button of her shirt and widened her collar. Nothing indecent, just casual and friendly. Pressing her lips together, she salvaged what was left of her lipstick, among the few cosmetics permitted under nonsensical Army rules.

She pulled aside the net screen covering the tent entry and stepped inside.

“Hey, angel, which cloud did
you
fall off of?” a bedded soldier called out in a raucous voice.

“Boy oh boy, a real American gal,” said a second one. “That or I’m dreaming with my eyes open.”

At the far end of the tent stood a ward man shaking out sheets. Betty made her way toward him, through the center of the lined-up cots, three dozen at a glance. Nearly every spot was filled with a bandaged patient, some wounded worse than others. She trained her eyes on the dirt floor, hiding her shock at seeing the obvious absence of limbs. A few guys paused their checkers game to toss her a catcall. The stewing reek of blood and antiseptic and male sweat attacked her senses.

“Excuse me, Corporal,” she said.

The man faced her. Cheeks drawn, he had a strange yellow tint to his skin. “Can I help you?”

“There’s …been an error in my assignment. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.”

“You wind up at the wrong hospital?”

“Wrong island, actually.”

“Say it ain’t so,” hollered a patient nearby. “We ain’t all as ugly as Elroy over here.”

“Ah, pipe down, ya rebel meathead,” retorted another.

Betty’s gaze remained on the ward man.

“Have you seen the first sergeant yet?” He was referring to the chain of command she had every intention of bypassing for efficiency.

She discreetly crossed her fingers, immunity for minor fibs, and nodded. “I was told to speak to the commander.”

“You’re a WAC?”

She nodded again.

“Then it’s Kitzafenny you’re looking for. Should still be in the pharmacy, three tents thataway.” He gestured to her left.

“Thank you.”

“Good luck to ya.”

Heading out, she heard him mumble, “You’re gonna need it.”

She huffed to herself and marched on with vengeful determination. He’d never had the pleasure of seeing her charm in action.

As she approached the third tent over, a gruff voice boomed from inside. Betty slowed her pace. A tall, broad-shouldered woman stomped out, followed by a private.

“I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am,” he said.

The lady rounded on him. Her fists indented the hips of her ill-fitted men’s khaki trousers. Their pleats were as plentiful as the lines in her face, her skin lemony beneath her short mud-colored hair. “Well, I’ll tell you what you
can
do. You march on up to MacArthur’s bungalow and you tell him he’d better scrounge me up some decent uniforms. My gals are getting dermatitis left and right. And I don’t want to hear any more cockamamie excuses about the supply chain in the Pacific being mucked up for everyone. Not
everyone
was shipped here with Arctics and earmuffs. My girls are being roasted alive in their winter ODs, while you boys are ironing your half dozen khakis. You got that?”

A tense pause. “Yes, ma’am.” The futility in his tone indicated he could already predict how the “brass” would respond. Prior to hustling away, he saluted her. The motion marked her as an officer, though her uniform lacked insignia.

Her hard brown eyes snapped to Betty.
“Yes?”

Betty straightened and shot her hand up in a salute, which the woman returned and released.

“Ma’am, I’m trying to find …” Cripes, what was the hospital commander’s rank? Had she missed it? With little choice, she finished her sentence with “Commander Kitzafenny.”

“That’s
Captain
Kitzafenny,” the gal corrected. “And you found her.”

In that split second between confusion and embarrassment, Betty realized her blunder. She’d failed to clarify, and had been directed to her
company
commander. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t mean to bother you—” She stopped there. No sense in placing herself on the military chopping block for attempting to bend the rules.

“Let me guess,” the captain said. “You’re the transfer from Sydney. The one with hospital experience.”

Suddenly terrified of being caught in a lie, Betty felt perspiration pour beneath her twill. “Well, sort of, ma’am. It was a nursing home that I worked at.”