Cherry Ames 05 Flight Nurse (10 page)

Cherry was puzzled. How could this man probe for information for the enemy—if that was what he was doing—yet in the next breath, mention his wife whom the enemy had killed? Or was this only the most innocent of conversations? It could be interpreted either way.

Muriel was having a fine time sitting on her father’s knee and telling him about her adventures as mascot.

“I’m going to go up in the plane!” she invented. “And fly all over, and help win the war! Did you ever go up in a plane?”

Mark smiled. “Sometimes, yes.” Cherry pricked up her ears. What sort of plane? Going where?

Then he added quickly, “Before the war, I often flew to various jobs. That’s before you were here, Muriel.”

“But do you ride in planes
now
?” the little girl insisted.

Her young father hesitated. “Let’s talk of something else.”

Mrs. Eldredge interposed dryly, “Yes, let us, indeed!” Cherry waited for Mark’s reply. But he made no move to defend himself. He asked Muriel in a low voice, “Do those naughty children still call you names?” 90

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“It’s only on
your
account that they taunt her!” Mrs.

Eldredge said sharply.

Still Mark Grainger made no explanations. His face tightened momentarily: that was all.

The rest of his visit belonged to Muriel, with due attention for Lilac. There were fairy tales, conversation, conundrums, and a good romp around the living room.

Muriel glowed with happiness; her handsome young father looked every bit as happy, and deeply moved.

Cherry thought, “Even evil men might love their own children.” Yet, there was something so forthright in this man’s face—something so pleasant in his strong voice—Or was it simply good acting?

A knock sounded, and the door opened a second time. There stood an old man of the neighborhood.

When he saw Mark, a dour look spread over his weather beaten face.

“Come in, Mr. Heath!” Mrs. Eldredge said. “Will you have a cup of tea? It’s so damp tonight—” But Mr. Heath hung back, standing gingerly at the threshold as if the visitor might contaminate him.

“I just come to say good evening and tell you Mrs.

Heath sends her thanks for the periodicals.” He threw a bitter look at Mark, then glanced at Muriel. “Poor little

’un.”

Just then the phone rang. It was an old-fashioned phone on the wall. Mrs. Eldredge rose and answered it. She listened, then bent her head. “It’s for you, Mark.”

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He sprang up, suddenly charged into action and im-personality. “Yes . . . Yes—Speak louder—Very good, immediately.”

The young man seized his coat and like a whirlwind, kissed Muriel, called, “Good-bye, Mother! Good-bye, Miss Ames! Please take care of Muriel”—and all but ran out the door.

Mr. Heath, who had taken all this in, picked up a cushion Mark had knocked to the floor in his hurry.

“Good night, mum. I don’t think I’ll be staying.” The old neighbor closed the blue door emphatically behind him.

Mrs. Eldredge sat down and put her hand over her eyes. The room, so lively a moment before, was now so quiet Cherry could hear the clock ticking and the leaves rustling outside.

Cherry sat down, too, and took Muriel on her lap.

She was determined to protect this bewildered child, as much as anyone could, from her grandmother’s bitterness and the neighborhood wrath. She spoke softly to the little girl.

“What a nice father you have! I like him very much.

And didn’t you have a fine visit! Even Lilac had fun.”

Gradually, the strain began to leave the child’s face.

Cherry talked on, softly, persistently.

After a while Mrs. Eldredge rose wearily. “Come, dear, time for sleep now.”

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After they had tucked Muriel into one of the high beds, Mrs. Eldredge led Cherry back to the deserted living room. They resumed their places before the fire.

“Well, Miss Ames, you have seen for yourself. The whole village knows and suspects. Your friend, Captain Wade, is probably hearing about it this very minute at the inn. And Mr. Heath, I fear, is going to add fuel to the fire.”

Cherry studied the old, finely drawn face in the flick-ering firelight.

“One neighbor has complained about Mark to Scotland Yard!”

Cherry’s black eyes widened. To report a man to Intelligence at Scotland Yard—the equivalent of the American FBI—was extremely serious. “What was done?”

“Nothing has happened to Mark so far. It probably is simply a question of time. Perhaps—possibly—

Scotland Yard is still collecting evidence against him.

The neighbors are furious about the delay. Muriel and I are—not precisely ostracized but—oh, the poor child!” A little shiver went down Cherry’s back.

Long after good-byes were said that night—and days after seeing Mark Grainger—one word kept tolling in Cherry’s mind: “Spy. Spy. Spy.” And just as persistently, some faith in Cherry replied:

“No!”

First Mission

cherry was taking a shower one early december morning, before breakfast, when a whistle blew in the barracks shower room. Most of the Flight Three nurses ducked out of the stalls, dripping and in towels. Summoning them was Captain Betty Ryan already dressed in her uniform.

“Flight Three, you’re alerted! Calls are coming from holding stations in the combat areas. Urgent!

Don’t stop for breakfast—get right down there on the line!”

Cherry and her fellow nurses ran back to their room, scrambled into their flight clothes—not the trim blue gabardine, but into tough, wind-resistant coveralls and heavy boots—and then ran to the landing field for all they were worth.

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It was still dark on the airfield, windy and cold. Six C-47’s were lined up, their engines humming. Cherry found Captain Cooper waiting for her.

“Get in, get in,” he said urgently. “I’ve already cleared with base operations. Your sergeant is up there. We’re going up to advance battle positions. Good luck!” Wade boosted her up to the open bays. Bunce gave her a hand up, and she and Bunce slammed the heavy double doors. Cherry and Bunce sat down and strapped in, as their plane and the five alongside, quivered, roared, strained.

Cherry shouted above the racket, “This is our first test in a combat zone!”

“This is the real thing!” Bunce yelled back as they shook hands on it.

Now they heard the C-47 ahead of them taxi down the huge air strip and take off. It was Gwen’s plane.

Twenty seconds later their own aircraft started to rock, then skim over the ground. Cherry and Bunce held their breaths. They felt their plane tug—lift—lift again—

again—

In a few more seconds, all the planes were up, roaring over the base. The noise was terrific. Cherry could see the other mighty brown ships in the foggy sky, flying with them in precise military formation. “Some beautiful flying!” she cried. Bunce was so thrilled he could only nod.

“Did you get water? Sulfa? Blankets?” Cherry yelled.

“Yes, everything!” her technician yelled back.

She went back to the medical kit to lay out tourniquets, ointment for burns, and hypodermics. Bunce was pulling the webbing straps down into place. Cherry had a look at their cargo: medical supplies, mostly blood plasma. Not much for their huge transport to carry, but apparently the call came so suddenly, there was no time to load cargo.

Wade sent his copilot back into the cabin.

“Captain’s compliments, Nurse!” Lieutenant Mason said. “Wants me to tell you our base notified the holding station when we took off. They’ll be all ready and waiting for us. Captain says load the wounded as fast as possible—we may be under fire.”

“Yes, sir! Are all six planes going to the same holding station?”

“No. We’ll separate. Several holding stations, scattered all over the battle area! Excited?” Cherry and Bunce grinned. Cherry admitted, “This is kind of different from our forty-five minute jaunt up to Prestwick. What’s the flying time this trip?” Bill Mason looked at his wrist watch. “Our base is an hour out of London. Twenty minutes to cross the English Channel. Half an hour to an hour more across enemy-held territory.”

“Whew!” Bunce whistled. “Where’re we going, sir?” 96

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“Only Captain Cooper knows, Sergeant, and he’s not saying. Well, kids, you have a couple of hours to get ready.”

“We’ll need it,” Cherry said fervently. “Thanks a lot.” Lieutenant Mason saluted Cherry, nodded to Bunce, and started to go. He turned around awkwardly to say over the noise:

“Listen, kids. Take it from an old-time combat flier.

Don’t get too romantic about this mission. It’s just a job to do—a job of muddy, hard work.” Then he went up forward and disappeared behind the cockpit door.

Cherry and Bunce looked soberly at each other, then set to work. They made their preparations well—

checked oxygen masks, got the sterilizer in the corner working, laid out coffee in the galley kit, put tubing on the blood plasma bottles. Cherry was too busy preparing for her soldier patients to be frightened, or to think at all. She saw the south of England floating by below, fields and towns turning from gray to their natural colors as the first rosy light of dawn crept over them.

Then they were high over London, the Thames a silver thread below, the antique towers and domes and the myriad roofs turned to gold in the sun. But to Cherry, busy with her preparations, these were only brief, dis-connected pictures. Until she happened to look down and see dark, churning water, she hardly realized they were well over the Channel. They must be within an
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hour of their destination. Time to clear with the pilot.

Cherry made her way up forward.

“Captain—”

Wade did not turn. “Yes?” He was watching his course, as Ann’s plane’ veered out of formation to the east. They were all flying east now, east and slightly to the south.

“Captain,” Cherry said loudly over the engine noise,

“would you call the holding station and notify them we are a C-47 ready for eighteen litter cases.”

“Right.” Wade spoke into his interphone. “Dick?

E.T.A. [Estimated Time of Arrival] Now 08 hours.” Cherry went back to the cabin.

“We’re over enemy-held territory now,” Bunce reminded her. “I sure wish we had a Red Cross painted on our plane.”

Cherry saw the last two huge transports of their squadron veer off. They were flying alone now.

But not for long. She heard a different timbre, a different beat of engine roar, and looked out. Four small planes climbed up beside them, two on either side.

They bristled with guns but—thank heavens!—on their side was painted the white star of American combat forces.

Wade’s voice came through the interphone. “Don’t be frightened, you two babies back there! Those are our own fighters—P-47’s. They’re escorting us up to the front.”

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Bunce mopped his brow. “That means we’re within six miles of the holding station. Gosh, Miss Cherry—”

“Steady, Bunce.” Cherry herself did not feel any too steady. She felt better, though, when she looked up and saw the four small, sturdy fighter planes flying above them.

Almost immediately they felt Wade circle and feel for a landing. Looking down, they saw a little hut or tent, and tiny figures running along a crude air strip.

“Here we are!” the pilot cried over the interphone.

“We’re going down! Cross your fingers.” Wade started down, circling, spiraling. Bunce muttered that this was a very tricky field on which to make a landing. The strip was a mile long but narrow and extremely crude. A figure below was motioning with a signal flag. Wade lifted the heavy aircraft, tried again. Down, down, down it went. The wheels touched the ground, the C-47 bounced—and had Cherry and Bunce not been strapped in, they would have been violently thrown. The plane skidded to a stop.

“All out!” Cherry cried. She and Bunce ran to open the doors.

The haggard face of an Army doctor peered in. Behind him, men on the field came running to the ambulance plane, crowding around.

“Hello, anybody home?” called the doctor in stained khaki. “I’m Major Wright.”

“Lieutenant Ames, sir! Sergeant Smith.”
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“I certainly am glad to see you! You’ll have to work fast.”

Cherry and Bunce reached for outlifted hands and jumped to the ground. She heard one man exclaim, “A woman!”

“No nurses here, Major?”

“No, Lieutenant. Wish there were. We could use a few. But this is a holding station.” Cherry knew then that they were close to the front, as nurses stayed at least four miles back of the fighting. There was a sudden burst of artillery fire right in back of them, then more and more pounding away.

They were not just close to the fighting front, Cherry thought, they were virtually in the middle of the battle-field! There was an urgent ring in the Major’s voice. “We don’t dare keep the wounded lying in a holding station more than half an hour. This place can be strafed any minute.”

A captain came running up, with Wade behind him.

He was the Evacuation Officer, who found the sites for the holding stations. Then the troops set down some kind of air strip.

“This working out all right with you, Lieutenant?” the Captain asked.

“Fine, fine,” Cherry said and hurried after the Major.

He led her into a tent, fixed up like a rough field hospital, for temporary care. Here, on litters on the ground, lay the pitiful men she had come for.

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The Major briefly pointed out each casualty to Cherry and her technician. A stomach wound—a head wound—a back injury—some men were more seriously wounded. Among the eighteen wounded men they would take, only six absolutely helpless cases could go—no nurse could handle more.