With Every Letter (16 page)

After he secured the dog’s leash, Tom hopped out of the jeep to find Weiser. Like everyone at Thélepte, his squad had started work at one o’clock in the morning. The order to evacuate had come at midnight, and no time could be wasted.

Tom scanned the work crews—ground crewmen and headquarters personnel from the fighter groups, members of the Twelfth Air Service Command, as well as the 908th Engineers. All worked at a frantic pace.

Where was his squad leader?

Tom weaved among the crates and burlap sacks and rushing
men, from one end of the supply dump to the other. No sign of Weiser’s squad. He jogged down dirt steps to a dugout, where an officer tacked a map of Stalingrad to the door. The Germans might be momentarily victorious in Tunisia, but they’d just suffered a horrendous defeat to the Soviets in Stalingrad.

“Anyone in there?” Tom asked the officer.

“Just rats and booby traps.”

“Looking for someone?” Martin Quincy stood at the top of the steps. “Like Weiser?”

“Yeah.” Uneasiness crept up Tom’s spine. “You seen him?”

“His squad truck took on half a load of supplies. Then Weiser and his men climbed in, and off they went.” Quincy knifed a hand in the air to the west. “Won’t be hard to find them. The snakes left a yellow trail from their slimy yellow bellies.”

“Oh no.” The engineers were supposed to be the last troops out.

Quincy cocked his head. “Whatcha gonna do? Give ’em lollipops?”

Tom didn’t know what he’d do. He stomped up the steps and headed for his jeep.

“You won’t do a thing,” Quincy yelled after him.

Tom walked hard, swung his arms hard, stretched his fingers out hard. He had to do something. Weiser let down everyone at Thélepte. What kind of men abandoned their duty? What kind of officer let them get away with it?

A useless officer like Tom, that’s who. He climbed into the jeep, untied Sesame’s leash from the steering wheel, and drove away to find Moskovitz. He glanced at the little dog. “What can I do, boy?”

Smiles and bribes and competition weren’t enough. The military had rules. Discipline needed to be doled out, and that was Tom’s responsibility as an officer. As a man.

If he didn’t learn how to discipline, his men would continue to let down the battalion and the Allied cause. But what tools remained?

Mom’s tools worked on the playground, in the classroom, and on the job site when he wasn’t in charge. But they failed him now. They weren’t a man’s tools. His father never passed on a man’s knowledge, never equipped him to function in a man’s world.

He raised his head and let out a growling roar. He thumped his hand on the steering wheel. “Lord, how can I lead men when I can’t be a man myself?”

At the west end of the airfield, Tom pulled up to the rendezvous site by the road to Youks-les-Bains. He’d leave the jeep while he checked on Moskovitz, who was supposed to be blowing up planes. Best not to get the vehicle or the dog too close.

“Stay here, Sesame.” Tom jogged toward the runway and checked his watch—1105. “Please, Lord. Please let Moskovitz be doing his job.”

A ball of flame erupted and shook the earth. Black smoke roiled up into a flaming column. One of the planes. Seventeen to go. They planned to douse them with the sixty thousand gallons of aviation fuel they couldn’t evacuate and take the planes out of German hands as well.

Efficient. Smart. But Tom hated to have a hand in destruction.

His ankle turned on a rock, but he kept running. His father loved to blow things up. That was his job—demolishing old buildings and bridges. He loved the explosions, loved seeing everything crumble into a pile of rubble, loved taking down the work of years in seconds.

“He destroyed everything, Lord. How can I forgive that?”

Another explosion, closer, and Tom stumbled. He had to
forgive. God commanded it. As Annie said, he didn’t have to understand or excuse his father, but he did have to forgive. What right did Tom have to hold back his forgiveness?

“I don’t, Lord. Help me forgive Dad.”

Dozens of men lined up at the tankers, filled gas cans, and ran them out to the aircraft. Urgency filled the air, as pungent as the gas fumes.

Thank goodness Moskovitz worked hard. He called out orders and hustled his men. A string of petty teenage crimes had landed Moskovitz in Tom’s misfit platoon, but the man rose above his reputation.

“Hiya, Gill.” Moskovitz raised a hand in greeting. “How much longer we got?”

“Not much. You’ve blown up two—”

An explosion pounded Tom’s ears, another, and another. “Five planes?” He shouted over the roar of flames and the pop of snapping metal.

A thunderous explosion. Tom leaned on the tanker for support.

“Six,” Moskovitz said. “Ain’t it fun?”

“Yeah. Fun.” An inferno raged before him, a blaze of orange flame, black smoke, and gusts of heat.

“We may have a humiliating defeat, but at least we get to blow things up.” Moskovitz hefted up a gas can. “Better get back to work.”

“Yeah. Meet at the rendezvous as soon as you can. We’ve got to be out of here by noon.”

“Sure thing, Gill.” Moskovitz trotted off with the gas can toward a P-40 with a shot-up engine and a crumpled tail fin.

Tom stared at an empty gas can at his feet. He had a few minutes before he needed to return to the rendezvous. He should help. But how could he engage in destruction?

He knew the answer. They didn’t have time to cart away
the fuel and planes. If they left them behind, the Germans would use that fuel in their own aircraft to strafe and bomb Allied troops. They’d repair the P-40s and use them to spy.

If Tom and his men didn’t destroy, good men would die.

Tom lifted the gas can, filled it with amber fluid, and screwed on the cap. He ran out to the P-40 and poured the fuel over the nose of the plane, anointing it for its death.

He couldn’t watch the funeral pyre. He ran back to the tanker. The explosion shoved him in the back, and heat curled around him.

Tom set his jaw, filled the can, ran out, and doused another victim. Burning carcasses littered the runway, and nausea swirled in Tom’s stomach.

Nonsense. No one else on the field thought twice about it.

He returned to the tanker, determined to take out as many planes as possible. Why should he be different from the other men?

“Looks good.” Moskovitz made check marks on a clipboard. “We’ve got teams on all the aircraft. Let’s blow this tanker.”

The men tossed the gas cans under the tanker and vacated the area.

Ed Giannini and Felipe Lopez from Moskovitz’s squad set up a pole charge, blocks of TNT strapped to a long pole, which they leaned against the tanker. Lopez spooled out detonating cord to a safe distance, then lit it.

Tom ran with the rest of the men toward relative safety. The tanker blew. Several of the men fell to their knees and got up, embarrassed.

At the rendezvous area along the road to Youks-les-Bains, Captain Newman marched around, pointed at vehicles, and called out orders. The men piled into trucks.

Larry stood by Tom’s jeep with Hank Carter, the driver.

“Hi, Larry. Got a diagram?”

“I’m sorry, Gill.” Larry’s eyes looked darker than usual. Furrows ran like railroad tracks up his forehead. “I tried to catch him, but he’s too fast.”

“The diagram?” How could a diagram be too fast? But Tom followed Larry’s gaze to the jeep. Barracks bags filled the backseat. Where was Sesame?

“I got here when a bunch of planes blew. He took off. I tried to grab the leash, but you know how fast he runs.”

Tom’s face felt cold. The leash. He must have forgotten to tie the leash to the steering wheel. “Where’d he—which way did he go?”

“After you.”

“Oh no.” Tom spun and faced the runway, the burning planes, and the clouds of black smoke. His dog? In there?

“Okay, Gill, ready to go?” Newman strode over. “Let’s head on out.”

“No.” Tom turned to his CO. “I’ve got to—I’ve got to take care of something.”

“We’ve got to get out of here. The Germans are in Fériana.”

“Five minutes.” Tom couldn’t wait for permission. He took off running.

“I’ll come with you, Gill,” Larry called out.

“Thanks.” Tom ran hard. Smoky, dusty air burned his lungs. He had to find Sesame. What would the Germans do? Use him for target practice?

Sesame depended on him, trusted him, and Tom could not abandon him, could not let him down.

“Sesame! Sesame!” His voice competed with rumbling trucks and crackling explosions.

“Sesame!” Larry called. “I’ll go down this side of the runway. You go down that side.”

Tom nodded. What was the dog thinking? He hated explosions, turned into a quivering mass of fur during air raids.

That was when he had Tom by his side. He was looking for Tom.

Pain rent its way across his chest. “Sesame! Lord, help me find him.” He peered around burning planes and inside dugouts. Where would Sesame look for him?

He stopped in his tracks. All these explosions. Like an air raid.

“The slit trench.” Tom wheeled away from the field. “Sesame!”

He leaped into the earthen trench, whipped his head left, then right.

Sesame cowered down, his face burrowed against the wall.

Relief tumbled around in Tom’s chest. “Sesame,” he said in a low voice. “Here, boy. I’m here.”

He lifted one eyebrow.

Tom clucked his tongue and crawled forward. “Here, boy. It’s okay now. Everything’s okay.” He reached out his hand. Sesame didn’t draw back, so Tom stroked his warm head covered with short tawny fur. “Hey, boy. I’m here now. It’s okay.”

Sesame whimpered and raised his head, his brown eyes questioning but trusting.

Tom gathered the dog in his arms and buried his face in that soft fur. “I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

Sesame licked Tom’s face, concentrating below his eyes. Tom scrunched his eyes shut—his wet eyes. He was crying? When was the last time he’d cried?

The day Dad died. Two decades without tears. Was he losing control? He couldn’t afford to do that.

Tom drew a deep breath, climbed out of the trench with Sesame in his arms, and jogged back to the jeep.

Larry ran on the other side of the runway, waved at Tom,
and raised a fist of victory. For a fellow who had never owned a dog, he’d become awfully fond of Sesame.

Tom held that dog tight. In this life he had God, Mom, Annie, and Sesame. But Sesame was the only one he could hold.

17

Oran, Algeria
February 22, 1943

Mellie leaned against the wrought-iron railing on the grounds of the old French villa and absorbed the full rainbow of color around her. Purple-tinged clouds hovered over the gray-blue Mediterranean. Orange and red hibiscus and magenta bougainvillea spilled over the villa’s yellow walls.

“So beautiful,” she said to Georgie and Rose. “I haven’t seen colors like this since I left the Philippines.”

Georgie’s cheeks glowed. “This is wonderful, isn’t it? From Ernie Pyle’s columns in the paper, you’d think North Africa’s nothing but mud and gloom.”

Rose laughed. “We’re almost four hundred miles from the front.”

That distance shortened every day. Mellie shuddered. In the past week, Rommel’s tanks had rolled over Allied strongholds, stormed through Kasserine Pass, and driven the Allies back over fifty miles. The Germans took five American airfields and thousands of prisoners. Mellie prayed Ernest wasn’t among them.

“Can you believe this place?” Alice Olson strolled across
the grounds with Kay and Vera. “K rations for dinner, sleeping on the cold, hard floor, and now it looks like rain.”

Rose chuckled. “Thank goodness we came ashore yesterday. Alice has new and different things to complain about.”

“I was worried she’d run out,” Georgie said.

Mellie didn’t join their laughter, but she did smile. Alice’s whining had even gotten on Vera’s nerves.

“Ladies!” Lieutenant Lambert called from the doorway. “Come inside please. Mail call and then we head to our bivouac area.”

“Mail call.” The phrase hopped rabbitlike over the grass. They hadn’t had mail for over two weeks.

The twenty-four nurses of the 802nd MAETS sat on the floor of the villa’s main room, void of furniture. The ladies wore their dark blue service jackets now paired with matching trousers. On board the
Lyon
, Georgie had helped the ladies refashion their jackets into the new waist-length style.

A sergeant passed out mail, and the ladies chattered like parakeets in the Filipino jungle.

Mellie received four letters from Ernest. She opened them and examined the dates—February 2, 6, 9, and 13. All before the German offensive. In Mellie’s heart, the thick pool of worry for Papa expanded to cover Ernest.

Georgie waved a Victory Mail envelope in front of Rose’s face. “Look at this. Mailed February 8. We didn’t know where we were going, but the Army Post Office did.”

“From one of your sisters?” Rose glanced at the envelope. “Your parents?”

“Ward. Now that he discovered V-Mail, I’ll never get a full letter again.” Georgie opened the square envelope and pulled out a single sheet, one-quarter the size of a normal letter. She squinted at the contents. “He’d better improve his handwriting. Look at this.”

Rose obeyed too eagerly. “It’s manly handwriting.”

“Doesn’t he know they photograph his letter, put it on microfilm, ship the film overseas, then print it here all itty-bitty?”

“At least he wrote.”

Georgie sighed and gazed at Mellie’s envelopes. “I wish he wrote like Mellie’s man.”

“He’s not my man.” A bubbly feeling in her chest contradicted her words. Over two weeks had passed without word from him, but now his warmth and insight and humor lay on four precious pieces of paper.

She smoothed out the earliest letter and smiled at Ernest’s familiar square handwriting. Although she didn’t know his name or face, she knew his heart and mind and soul, what mattered in a man.

The feelings that billowed inside her—were they nothing more than affection for a friend? She was so new to friendship it was hard to tell, but her feelings for Georgie and Rose didn’t compare. Her feelings for Ernest flipped her organs around and frolicked on her lips and tingled over her skin.