before they retired. Usually a subdued group, this morning they were edgy and talkative, telling what little they knew. The bombing started at 2 a.m. Manila time. The naval station at Pearl Harbor was a disaster; fires raging, and untold casualties. Sobbing, Karen fled the room. A siren wailed. Outside, people ran about in confusion. Desperate to see Royce, Margie left her breakfast uneaten and hurried to the hospital.
The corridors buzzed with unusual activity. The charge nurse answered incessantly ringing telephones. Bedridden patients jangled call bells, imploring doctors and nurses for information. Knots of ambulatory patients in gowns and slippers congregated in tight groups, conferring in hushed voices. Margie zigzagged her way through hallways jammed with anxious people, linen carts, and aides trying to deliver breakfast trays. She stepped through the surgical unit’s double doors where it was quieter. She saw Royce standing at a sink, scrubbing from fingertips to elbows with a stiff, soapy brush.
She needed his hug, but checked her impulse. “Hey,” she said, mimicking the Texas greeting he often used. “Trouble’s brewing.”
Royce spoke, his voice tight and muffled by his surgical mask. “What’ve you heard?”
“Just what the night nurses said. Pearl Harbor’s in flames. You think the Japanese will bomb Manila?”
Worried blue eyes peered over the mask. “Let’s pray not. Sure hope the air corps is ready.” He rinsed his hands and arms under running water and turned the tap off with his elbow. “I’ll be done here in a couple hours. Where are you going to be?”
“Room two. Hernia. Should I cancel our tee-time?”
“Not yet. Business as usual until we hear otherwise.” With arms held up and away from his body, he gave her a wink before backing into the surgery.
Margie rolled her gas machine into Room 2, readied an instrument tray with her anesthesia supplies, and found a stool to sit on. A corpsman wheeled in the patient and transferred him to the surgical table. A nurse draped him with layers of sterile sheets. Groggy from the sedative given earlier, the patient grinned when he saw Margie. “Sweetheart, I’m feeling good,” he slurred.
Margie lowered the gas mask. “Bye, bye, baby. You’re off to dreamland.”
“Tell the Doc to make this quick. Nips are—”
He lost consciousness before he finished his sentence. The surgeon started the routine surgical procedure, and for the next 60 minutes, Margie focused on keeping her patient anesthetized at the level desired by the physician.
While Margie attended to business, Japanese bombers roared into the Philippines and flattened Camp John Hay, the mountain retreat 200 miles north of Manila where Helen worked, leaving it ablaze and choked with smoke. Flying in great V-formations, they journeyed south to their primary targets, Fort Stotsenberg and Clark Airfield. With less resistance than they could have hoped for, the Japanese bombed and strafed the aircraft parked wing-tip to wing-tip, reducing the bulk of the United States Far East Air Corps to a plume of greasy smoke and piles of black, burning rubble.
By the time Margie left the hospital, the beauty of her surroundings, the blue sky, the manicured lawns, and gardens abundant with exotic flowers could not mask the nervous energy of a tense population. People stampeded stores, stocking up on food and supplies. At the post office and every bank, lines spilled out the doors and wound down the streets.
Margie’s plans for an afternoon golf date changed when Miss Kermit called a mandatory meeting for all nurses. A short, boxy woman with salt-and-pepper hair and dark-brown eyes, kind and knowledgeable, the director had earned the affection of her staff and the respect of the doctors. Margie edged her way into the room of restless women and found a chair next to Karen.
She squeezed Karen’s arm. “Are you okay?”
Karen nodded, but her red-rimmed eyes and tightly held body
The corridors buzzed with unusual activity. The charge nurse answered incessantly ringing telephones. Bedridden patients jangled call bells, imploring doctors and nurses for information. Knots of ambulatory patients in gowns and slippers congregated in tight groups, conferring in hushed voices. Margie zigzagged her way through hallways jammed with anxious people, linen carts, and aides trying to deliver breakfast trays. She stepped through the surgical unit’s double doors where it was quieter. She saw Royce standing at a sink, scrubbing from fingertips to elbows with a stiff, soapy brush.
She needed his hug, but checked her impulse. “Hey,” she said, mimicking the Texas greeting he often used. “Trouble’s brewing.”
Royce spoke, his voice tight and muffled by his surgical mask. “What’ve you heard?”
“Just what the night nurses said. Pearl Harbor’s in flames. You think the Japanese will bomb Manila?”
Worried blue eyes peered over the mask. “Let’s pray not. Sure hope the air corps is ready.” He rinsed his hands and arms under running water and turned the tap off with his elbow. “I’ll be done here in a couple hours. Where are you going to be?”
“Room two. Hernia. Should I cancel our tee-time?”
“Not yet. Business as usual until we hear otherwise.” With arms held up and away from his body, he gave her a wink before backing into the surgery.
Margie rolled her gas machine into Room 2, readied an instrument tray with her anesthesia supplies, and found a stool to sit on. A corpsman wheeled in the patient and transferred him to the surgical table. A nurse draped him with layers of sterile sheets. Groggy from the sedative given earlier, the patient grinned when he saw Margie. “Sweetheart, I’m feeling good,” he slurred.
Margie lowered the gas mask. “Bye, bye, baby. You’re off to dreamland.”
“Tell the Doc to make this quick. Nips are—”
He lost consciousness before he finished his sentence. The surgeon started the routine surgical procedure, and for the next 60 minutes, Margie focused on keeping her patient anesthetized at the level desired by the physician.
While Margie attended to business, Japanese bombers roared into the Philippines and flattened Camp John Hay, the mountain retreat 200 miles north of Manila where Helen worked, leaving it ablaze and choked with smoke. Flying in great V-formations, they journeyed south to their primary targets, Fort Stotsenberg and Clark Airfield. With less resistance than they could have hoped for, the Japanese bombed and strafed the aircraft parked wing-tip to wing-tip, reducing the bulk of the United States Far East Air Corps to a plume of greasy smoke and piles of black, burning rubble.
By the time Margie left the hospital, the beauty of her surroundings, the blue sky, the manicured lawns, and gardens abundant with exotic flowers could not mask the nervous energy of a tense population. People stampeded stores, stocking up on food and supplies. At the post office and every bank, lines spilled out the doors and wound down the streets.
Margie’s plans for an afternoon golf date changed when Miss Kermit called a mandatory meeting for all nurses. A short, boxy woman with salt-and-pepper hair and dark-brown eyes, kind and knowledgeable, the director had earned the affection of her staff and the respect of the doctors. Margie edged her way into the room of restless women and found a chair next to Karen.
She squeezed Karen’s arm. “Are you okay?”
Karen nodded, but her red-rimmed eyes and tightly held body
Similar Books
