With Every Letter by Sarah Sundin Page A

snorted. “Lehman needs a good whipping.”
    Newman’s face had a pinched look. “We need those tools.”
    “I know, sir. Maybe someone will find the kit and send it to us.”

    Quincy fluttered his hands by his shoulders. “Maybe the tool fairy will put it under your pillow at night.”
    Tom laughed as if the joke didn’t have a mean, sarcastic edge. “Maybe she’ll bring a pillow too while she’s at it.”
    “We’ll have to make do.” Newman crossed his arms over his field jacket. “Here’s the story—Quincy and his men did a quick survey. The runway’s got some shell damage, not too much. The buildings are intact, but we need to do a thorough sweep for mines and sabotage. I’ll put Quincy to work on the runway, and Gill, your men will check out the buildings.”
    “Yes, sir.” He and Larry returned to where the platoon lounged under a palm tree. “Okay, boys, airfield’s secure and we’ve got a job.”
    Rinaldi rolled onto his back. “Ah, Gill. We’ve been at it since midnight. We need a rest.”
    “You got one. Come on, this is why we’re here.”
    “I’m finishing this orange first.” Butler held up a glossy beauty. “I need my nutrients. I’m a growing boy.”
    The men didn’t budge. They chatted and joked and tried to steal Butler’s orange.
    Tom fingered the strap for his musette bag, the small haversack that held his necessities. He glanced behind him, where Quincy’s men lined up. With a single barked command, Quincy’s platoon was ready for action.
    Tom’s smile felt stiff and useless. He needed to get his men to work, but how?
    Rinaldi grabbed Butler’s orange, held it to his cheek, and danced around, singing “Tangerine.”
    “Hey, fellows,” Tom called out. “First squad to finish their job—I’ll buy them oranges.”
    Thirty-nine heads swiveled to him. Thirty-nine pairs of eyes lit up. Thirty-nine men got to their feet.
    Tom outlined their tasks, divided up the buildings, andreminded them to watch for booby traps. A squadron of Spitfires was scheduled to arrive from Gibraltar late in the afternoon, and the base needed to be ready.
    The squads headed for the buildings, and Tom smiled at Larry. “Now I just have to find thirteen oranges.”
    “Hank and Bob and I will take care of that.” The platoon’s jeep and truck drivers had nothing to do until the vehicles arrived.
    “Thanks, Larry. I appreciate it.” Tom pulled some crisp new francs from his wallet.
    “I hope it’ll always be this easy to bribe the men.”
    “Yeah.” A frown threatened Tom’s face. He wouldn’t always be able to bribe them. Then what? How could he convince them to do a job they didn’t want to do?

7
    Bowman Field
November 16, 1942
    “Voila!” Kay Jobson struck a model’s pose, gesturing to the litter bracket she and Alice Olson had assembled in the C-47.
    Mellie joined the other nurses in applause. Assembling the aluminum brackets required many steps and plenty of practice. Since the planes carried cargo and troops to the front, litter supports had to be assembled after they landed and unloaded. C-47 crewmen grumbled about how the 218 pounds of equipment reduced the amount of cargo they could transport. There had to be a better way.
    “Excuse me, ladies. I’m looking for Lieutenant Blake,” a corporal called through the open cargo door.
    “That’s me.”
    “Lieutenant Lambert and Captain Maxwell want to speak with you, ma’am.”
    “Right now?” She couldn’t afford to miss the drill.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    Alice and Vera exchanged a knowing look.
    “I’m coming.” Mellie eased her way down the ladder, straightened her skirt, and followed the corporal to the headquarters buildings. If only they’d issue trousers to the women.

    Why did Lambert and Maxwell insist on meeting her now, when she was about to learn something useful? With such haphazard training, would they ever be ready to do some good? The wounded deserved air evacuation. The Marines continued to take heavy