Audrey has a point, I suppose. Until I finish these classes, moving out isn’t an option. “I promise we won’t get caught.”
My dearest friend rolls her eyes and straightens her thick, black-framed glasses over her nose. “I’ll think about it.”
She’s already thought about it. We both know she’ll be tagging along with me after class. Neither of us can pass up the beach on a perfect day like today.
“Lizzie, why is your hair still down?” Audrey asks, stepping into her bicycle’s pedals.
“Oh, Audrey, you know how I love to feel the wind blow through my locks. I have my pins. It will only take but a second to fix when we arrive.”
“You sure are a pistol, Lizzie. I’ll give you that.”
Audrey follows the rule books down to the fine print unless my pleas become irresistible. It’s not that I’m trying to set a poor example for the girl, but I feel it’s far too important to deny ourselves the chance to experience our best life before we settle down, become someone’s wife, and have a family. A girl simply must have fun at some point.
* * *
Our ride is brief, down the side streets along the center of Hingham Naval base. The scent of gunpowder warns us what to expect during today’s field training. Murky smoke in the distance and shouts of leaders define a typical Monday morning. They must rally the boys back to their responsibilities after looking for trouble the last two days.
We take a few shortcuts to the hospital, avoiding crowds of pedestrians marching to their next destination. There is never a quiet moment to appreciate here. Life revolves around this base morning, noon, and night.
We situate our bicycles along the metal rails out in front of the emergency room entrance. Audrey secures her mode of transportation with a heavy chain and lock. I’m more of a risk taker, I suppose. I have trouble imagining anyone would take this red clunker. If they were to, it would be easier to catch them than a cow with a bell.
While Audrey snaps her lock in place, I pull the pins out of my pockets, twist the front quarters of my hair, and maneuver the strands just right to keep my face clear. “See, nothing to it, Audrey.”
The motherly side-long glance I receive isn’t new from my best friend. Her proof of disapproval is never far from the last time she disagreed with me.
I smear my finger beneath my lips, ensuring the red tint didn’t smudge among the beads of sweat I released on our travels. “Do you want my compact?” Audrey offers.
“No, thank you. I’m sure I look fine.”
Audrey and I adjust our cross-body satchels and make our way toward the main entrance of the hospital, passing no less than a dozen sailors slinging jokes and stories from their weekend.
“Good morning, ladies.” One gentleman is courteous enough to pull his cigarette out from between his lips and greet us as if we’re royalty crossing their path. Then, as if practiced in unison, the other boys remove their caps and tip their heads in our direction.
“Sailors,” I respond with cordiality. Some of these poor fellas are just so lonely, it’s no wonder the sight of a girl can cause a ripple in any conversation. However, most men should know that a female on base means they are the daughter of a higher rank, or a wife of a fellow serviceman. Still, they never falter to show their respect.
“Say, you’re Commander Salzberg’s daughter, aren’t you now?” The question comes from behind us, and it is a common question I hear at least once a day. It is also a question I choose to ignore once a day.
“Don’t ask her that, you twit,” another says. The sound of a slap against skin on what I can assume to be a man’s neck smarts my ears as we walk in through the glass doors of the hospital.
Rubbing alcohol and ammonia sting my nostrils as the pitter-patter of our shoes pulsate in the hallway. We’re heading to the training room where Audrey, myself, and fifteen others have spent many hours over the last two-and-half years. We’re considered medical volunteers until we finish our classes, but it doesn’t stop the registered nurses from moving us to the front lines of this hospital when necessary. They are often short staffed and with the growing population of families on base, there is never a slow time in the wards. Our training has become real world experience, which will prepare us for the Red Cross once we finish up in a few months.
“Thank heavens,” a shout rings out between the ceramic walls. “We need your help. There is a terrible virus hitting the grade school and we have a dozen children with high fevers, vomiting, and—well, you can imagine the rest, ladies. Chop, chop.”
Audrey and I share a fleeting look before we hustle down the hallway toward the clean room to scrub up and mask our faces. “Poor little ones,” I say, securing my apron.
“If there are twelve today, it’s safe to assume there will be twice as many by tomorrow morning, Lizzie. This is terrible.”
I want to help people get well, tend to the slick, mend the injured, but watching a person spew their guts—it is my weakness, one I must hide as it literally makes me green in the face.
“This is going to be a doozy,” I reply.
Holy Mackerel.The children’s ward doesn’t have an empty bed in sight. There must be an entire classroom full of kids in here.
“There’s a stomach virus going around. Many of the youngsters have high-level fevers. We need to keep cool compresses on their heads. There are buckets by each bed for bodily fluids, but you will oversee the process of switching out the dirty bins for clean ones,” Nurse Jones says to us, breathless with an obvious sense of anxiousness.
It’s unusual to find myself in a situation when I’m not eager to jump in and begin helping in every way possible, but there are only two nurses in the room and they seem to be in a tizzy, spinning in circles. The children are suffering, and most are very pale and shivering.
“Audrey, you can start on that side and I’ll begin over here,” I say.
