With Every Letter (5 page)

Mellie edged forward. Her heart thumped, but the conversation had crossed into the professional domain. “As nurses, our job is to comfort our patients. What could be more comforting than music?”

“That’s right, Philomela.” Georgie grinned and extended her free arm. “You’ll join us in our song, won’t you?”

Mellie froze. The image of her singing arm in arm with two other girls was such a foreign image. Appealing, but so strange.

“But Philomela’s a lady.” Vera pressed a hand to her chest. “That would be beneath her.”

Georgie’s hand settled back to her side, the invitation fluttered away, and Mellie ducked her chin. She’d never make friends. How could she when she didn’t know how? And how on earth could she learn? Mellie felt like she was learning to walk at the age of twenty-three.

Mellie blinked hard and studied the plane. The Douglas C-47 was the military version of the DC-3 passenger plane used by civilian airlines. Painted a muted medium green, the plane had a cute snub nose and a large square cargo door. Between the cargo door and the tail, the U.S. Army Air Forces’ white star on a blue disc was painted at eye level.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” Lieutenant Lambert strode up, followed by four enlisted men, and she beckoned to about three dozen nurses scattered nearby. “Today these gentlemen will instruct you in the proper use of the litter.”

A tall blonde nurse raised her hand. “Won’t medics carry the patients?”

“Ideally, yes.” Lieutenant Lambert motioned for the ladies to stand in a circle around the enlisted men. “This is experimental, as you know. No one’s performed medical air evacuation in an organized manner. Our plan is to gather patients at airfield holding units. We’ll fly in, and medics will load the patients under our guidance. However, this is war, and war doesn’t follow plans. If there aren’t any trained personnel on the ground, you’ll recruit and train. If you’re under fire or ditching a plane, you’ll carry patients yourselves.”

“Oh my,” Georgie whispered to Rose.

“You’re little but strong,” Rose whispered back. “You can do it.”

Mellie studied Georgie’s pale face. Did she really lack confidence in her abilities or was she scared?

Lieutenant Lambert pointed to one of the men, blond and strapping. “Sergeant Kowalski will take over from here.”

“Ground litter!” Sergeant Kowalski called out.

A private lowered a folded litter to the ground and unfastened the straps.

“Open litter.”

The private did so. A canvas litter with aluminum poles stood on stirrup-shaped feet.

“Private Gibson.”

One of the men lay on the litter, and the other men strapped him in position as the sergeant barked more orders. They assumed rigid positions at the foot and head of the litter.

“Prepare to lift.”

The men squatted and grasped the handles.

“Lift. Forward march. Understand, ladies?”

Mellie nodded. Simple enough, but she couldn’t imagine such a regimented process under fire.

“Break into groups of three and practice. One as patient, two as litter carriers, and rotate.”

Every one of Mellie’s muscles tightened. Why couldn’t they assign groups instead of letting the women form their own? All around her, women coalesced into trios, with a bit of negotiation when friends had to be separated, but no one was left out. Except her.

She edged backward and twisted her hands together. If only she could turn invisible.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Trying to get out of work?”

Mellie spun around and faced Capt. Frank Maxwell, the surgeon assigned to her flight of six nurses—tall, well built, and movie-star handsome. Half the girls swooned over him and bemoaned the fact that he was married and the father of two. “No, of course not. I was . . .”

He studied her through narrowed green eyes. “Miss Burke, isn’t it? I’ve heard about you.”

“Blake. Lieutenant Blake.” And what had he heard?

His eyes narrowed more.

Mellie winced. So he didn’t like being corrected by a woman. She’d worked with doctors like him before.

“Well, Lieutenant, so you think you already know how to do everything and don’t need training like everyone else?”

“That wasn’t . . . I just . . .” How could she admit she was too shy to barge in where she wasn’t wanted? “I don’t have a group.”

Captain Maxwell gave her a flat smile. “So, find one.”

Mellie surveyed the crowd, all practicing and laughing and neatly divided.

“Think you’re too good to work with others, huh? That’s what they’re saying.”

Her mouth dropped open. Why did people couple shyness with conceit? “I never . . . I don’t think that.”

“Good. Find a group or we’ll find a nurse who fits in.”

“Yes, sir.” As Mellie walked away, the physician’s gaze burned a hole between her shoulder blades and straight to her heart. Shouldn’t her nursing skills matter more than her social skills? They said they wanted women who could work independently. When had that changed?

She wound her way through the groups. Three. Three. Three. No one looked at her.

Off to the side, Georgie and Rose carried a litter holding Private Gibson. Georgie caught Mellie’s eye. “Philomela! Don’t you have a group?”

Mellie’s fingers hurt from all the twisting she’d given them. She shook her head.

“Come join us and give the private a break.”

He scrambled out of the litter. “You’ve already given me plenty of breaks. A broken arm, a broken noggin . . .”

Rose laughed. “Don’t worry, Philomela. It’s Georgie’s turn to be dropped.”

Gratefulness turned up Mellie’s smile before she could cover her mouth. “I won’t drop you.”

“Why not?” Georgie lay on the litter, hands tucked under her head. “That’s the fun part.”

Mellie fumbled with straps and handles, and she and Rose lifted the litter.

“Do you think they’ll send us back to Alaska?” Georgie asked Rose. “It was beautiful there but so cold.”

“Maybe.” Rose led them on a zigzag course around the other groups.

“Where do you think we’ll go, Philomela?”

Mellie glanced at Georgie’s smiling face below her, surrounded by a puff of brown curls. People rarely asked her opinion. “The Pacific, I hope. We could support the Guadalcanal campaign or bring patients home from Hawaii.”

“Ooh, I like that idea. Eating pineapple on the beach and learning the hula.” Georgie wiggled her hips, which set the litter swaying.

Mellie grasped the litter poles and almost laughed.

“Careful there, hula girl,” Rose said. “I’m hoping for England. Those handsome wounded airmen need a lift home.”

Georgie clucked her tongue. “You sound like Vera, Alice, and Kay. Look at them now. And he’s a married man.”

The threesome stood by their litter, chatting with Captain Maxwell. Vera leaned close, said something, and patted the doctor’s arm. He tilted back his head of shiny black hair and laughed. He didn’t seem to mind that they weren’t working.

“Left turn,” Rose called. “You don’t have to search. You’ve got a fine boyfriend.”

“I do,” Georgie said with a sigh. “Ward is fine indeed. Don’t worry, Rose. We’ll find you someone. How about you, Philomela? Do you have a boyfriend?”

No one had ever asked her that question before. “Me? No. No, I don’t.”

“We’ll look for you too. Won’t that be fun?”

Oh dear. Mellie shifted her gaze up to the back of Rose’s head. That would be a long, painful, and fruitless search.

“All right, ladies,” Sergeant Kowalski said. “That’s enough for today. Tomorrow we’ll learn how to transport the litters into the plane.”

Mellie and Rose set down the litter and unbuckled the straps.

Georgie got to her feet. “We have free time before dinner. What should we do, gals?”

Mellie blinked. Georgie actually looked at her. But Rose’s smile stiffened, and Georgie’s head tilted a bit too much.

Her heart sank. She’d drag down any activity, Georgie wouldn’t be as happy as she thought, and Rose would be annoyed at her for ruining their fun. Mellie would feel more awkward and out of place than if she were alone. Best to stay in the forest.

“Thank you, but I need to . . .” She gestured toward the buildings. “I need to run errands.”

She strode toward the Post Exchange, her stomach churning, and she poked loose bobby pins back into her coil of braids. What was wrong with her? First she wanted to make friends, then she turned down an invitation. No wonder she didn’t have any friends. That would be the last time Georgie reached out to her.

The PX radiated warmth from a furnace, the smell of coffee, and the laughter of people who actually had social capabilities. The mail usually arrived by this time, although Mellie hadn’t received any yet. But every day she checked. What if she heard word about Papa today?

“Do you have any mail for me?” she asked the clerk. “Lt. Philomela Blake.”

He reached into a cubby, flipped through a stack of envelopes, and pulled one out. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her heart flew into her throat and blocked her voice. Papa! Finally she’d know if he was alive and well. She mouthed a thank-you to the clerk and took the letter in trembling hands. A thick letter. How was that possible? The Japanese placed strict limits on the length of letters from prisoners, and the State Department or Red Cross would only send one thin sheet.

The return address read, “Lt. Edna Newman, Walter Reed General Hospital.”

Mellie’s heart landed with a thud in her stomach. Still no word about Papa.
Oh, Lord, you’re the only one who knows how he’s doing. Please keep him safe
.

“Anything else, ma’am?” the clerk asked.

“A—a coffee please.” Why did she ask for coffee? She was already shaky, and now she’d have to stay in the PX until she finished the beverage.

She took the cup and saucer from the clerk and surveyed the PX. Booths ran down one side of the building, where nurses and pilots sipped Cokes and coffee. One empty booth stood in the far corner, and Mellie slipped in, her back to the crowd.

Why had Lieutenant Newman written her? Perhaps she’d sent paperwork from Walter Reed.

Mellie opened the envelope. Another envelope lay inside, sealed and unaddressed. A short note from Lieutenant Newman accompanied it.

Dear Lieutenant Blake,

I hope all is well with you. Please give my best to Cora Lambert.

Thank you for participating in the letter-writing campaign. Here is your response. Since you are no longer at Walter Reed, it would be more efficient to mail your response directly to my husband. I’ve let him know to expect your reply. To maintain anonymity, please put your letter to the gentleman in an unaddressed envelope inside an envelope addressed to my husband: Capt. Richard Newman, O-111897; Co. “B” 908th Engr. Bn. (Avn.); APO 528, c/o Postmaster, New York, N.Y.

Your pen pal will give his letters to my husband, who will mail them directly to you.

Mellie stared at the note and read it again. Who on earth would respond to her letter?

It had to be a mix-up. The letter must be meant for another woman. She’d scan the letter to make sure, then send it back and let Lieutenant Newman sort it out.

She opened the envelope. Square, manly handwriting covered a piece of paper, and a suspension bridge was penciled across the top with a firm, practiced hand.

Dear Annie the Anonymous Nurse,

Pardon the nickname, but I couldn’t address a letter to “blank.”

You’re probably surprised to get a reply. As you thought, most of the men are looking for romance. I’m not, but I am looking for a friend.

If we met, you’d think we had nothing in common. You’d find me sociable, cheerful, and surrounded by a crowd. But in that crowd, I have no true friends.

You say anonymity appeals to you. Well, it sets me free. For reasons too numerous to mention—and forbidden by anonymity—I can’t be myself in public. I always have to be sunny. But in anonymity, perhaps I can be myself.

You offered encouragement, prayer, and a listening ear. If that offer still stands by the time you get to the end of this letter, I’ll take it. I offer the same to you.

Who am I? I’m a nameless civil engineer. I serve in an Engineer Aviation Battalion, the Army Air Forces’ version of the Seabees but without the catchy name. Someday soon, we’ll land with the first or second wave of an invasion force and build airfields from rubble or wilderness under fire. The odds of our meeting in a professional manner are high.

Like you, I have no brothers or sisters. My father is gone, and my dear mother raised me alone. We have more in common than you’d think.

To me, your background sounds intriguing, and I’d like to hear your stories. I don’t mind odd. In fact, I enjoy it. However, if you’re apprehensive and don’t want to write back, I’ll understand.

No matter what, I’ll pray for you. You nurses put yourselves in danger and deal with the messes we men make. I hope we never meet professionally, and if we did we’d never know it, but I’m sure I’d be in good hands.

Sincerely,
(make up a nickname for me if you have the guts to write back.)

The letter rippled in Mellie’s shaking hands. It was for her. It was genuine. One lonely soul reaching out to another.

Now what? Her mind spun, and she stuffed the letter back in the envelope. She strode out of the PX, her coffee untouched, her head down, her eyes misty.

A chance for a real friendship? Just what she’d wanted. Yet her stomach filled with acid. She didn’t know how to be a friend. She only knew how to be a daughter, a nurse.

“No. I can’t do it.” She belonged in the forest. The forest was safe. If she stepped into the clearing, something horrible could happen.

A bird twittered on the roof of a building she passed.