Rufus Steele 1943

Rufus Steele: 1943

by Susan C. Turner and Warren W. Teets

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, businesses, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

First paperback edition, October 2011

Copyright 2011, Susan C. Turner and Warren W. Teets

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9847232-2-5

Summary: Third in series. Parallel stories. The year 1943 finds Captain Rufus Steele and Henry Murphy in the midst of World War II’s Italian campaign—Steele as an army surgeon, Murphy as a member of the Corps of Engineers. Though both are assigned to units in southern and central Italy, each man experiences a different type of action and a different view of the war.

To the men who served in the 904th Engineers A. F. Headquarters Company in the Italian Campaign, September 1943 to June 1945, and to Elmer Bird (deceased), fellow soldier and lifelong friend

Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.

---Martin Luther

Chapter One

Captain Rufus Steele, MD

September 1943

In the porthole’s dim light, Captain Rufus Steele squinted at his watch. Quarter to five. He had slept little, tossing in his narrow cot in the cabin he shared with Captain Jasper Petty. Outside, he heard low tones of conversation. Explosions rumbled in the background. Steele listened to the aging ship creak and groan as it glided amidst the convoy of ships entering the Bay of Salerno.

Troop carriers, destroyers, cruisers, merchant ships, ammunition freighters, and landing transports moved slowly into place. Today, America’s Fifth Army would invade Italy. Steele’s unit—thirty medical officers, forty nurses, and 200 enlisted men assigned to the 95th—awaited shore transport where they would set up their evacuation hospital. No telling how the day would unfold, where they would be at the end of it, or how many bodies they would patch up.

Quietly, so as not to wake Petty, he slid open the top drawer of his bedside locker and withdrew a thin brown book, the one he kept with him since he landed in North Africa in April. As he peeled back the first page, the sound of a plane’s engine alerted him. A fair distance away, but closing quickly. He strained to identify the plane’s origin. During the past four months he had, by necessity, learned the difference between strafing Messerschmidts and Stuka dive bombers. If he listened hard enough, he could distinguish one engine from another.

What do you think? Petty whispered. Jerry?

Can’t tell, but it’s almost right on us. Let’s hope this one’s friendly. Not the Germans paying us a visit.

Steele listened intently as the plane drew nearer—the sound on top of them now, a constant drone overhead. Within seconds, he recognized the bomb’s high-pitched whine. Another followed quickly. An instant later, the big ship jolted and lurched violently to one side—an ear-shattering explosion filling the air. Boards fell from the ceiling, landed solidly on Steele’s chest. Hot water and black soot rained on his head. He smelled gasoline and fire. Muffled shouting erupted outside the cabin.

Rufus Steele jumped from his cot and began to fling boards and broken pipes from Petty’s back. Dazed, both officers gaped at the hole where the door had been a moment ago. The adjoining cabin and its two occupants—their surgical teammates since their first days in Sicily, Captains Bill Drumm and Claude Taylor—had disappeared.

You in one piece? Steele called above the din.

Right with you, Doc. No worries.

The two men hustled into their clothes and fastened their helmets’ chin straps. As they rushed into the smoky corridor toward the hollers for help, Steele and Petty wrapped their noses, mouths, and hands in strips of bed sheet. Though blackened and damp from the burst water pipes, this thin layer of cloth provided a measure of protection from the fire and smoke that awaited them. They stepped into a blast of scorched air. The stench of burning motor oil stung Steele’s nose. The black haze made it impossible to gauge distance or obstacles. He sensed but could not see the closeness of others rushing into the corridor.

Rufus Steele first became aware of two women wedged in the doorway when his helmet bumped one of theirs. He stood near enough to recognize Vera Brannen, the nurse who assisted at his operating table. She held a flashlight. The beam illuminated her feet. Another nurse—one he did not know—held Vera’s arm. Vera grasped Steele’s shirt as he passed.

How far to the hatchway, Captain Steele? The flashlight’s beam wobbled against the black smoke as Vera choked. We’re all turned around. Can’t find the others.

Hatchway’s straight ahead. Stay left. Fifty feet. What others? Are they ahead of you? Or behind? Rufus Steele shouted into her ear, hoping she heard him above the cries and falling debris.

Behind. Their cabin’s on fire. They tried to grab their clothes. I thought they were right with us.

How many? he asked.

Four in that cabin, I think. No, I’m sure. Four, she answered.

You move on, get topside. Petty’ll take you. I’ll check on the others. Rufus Steele faced Jasper Petty and said, Find a lifeboat for them. See you in a minute.

Make it a short minute, Doc. This smoke will get you, sure enough.

Before she turned away, Vera touched his sleeve, pressed the flashlight into his hand and pointed in the direction they had come.

Steele’s mind raced. He understood Petty’s warning. He had faced this situation before. Three years ago—almost to the day—when Warren Myers’ horse barn burned to the ground. On that occasion, the red hot flames soared thirty feet, blistered the soles of his shoes. The smoke had clogged his throat and lungs so that he could not breathe. In the end, his mission had been successful--with seconds to spare, Myers’ two prized Percheron stallions saved from a fiery death. But Steele had known that barn—as familiar to him as his own hand. Dozens of times, he had walked the center aisle to the horses’ stalls, could find his way to them on the darkest night.

Four nurses in a hulking ship would prove more difficult. He blinked his eyes to clear the soot and pressed the thin cloth against his nose and mouth. Already the cloth felt dry and not much use to him. His head was clear, but he knew the smoke would burn his lungs within five minutes. He must get in and out—with the women—before he grew dizzy and disoriented. He ran quickly along the corridor. The smoke’s density increased. He struggled to see or hear any sign of the missing group. Keep moving. He counted off the doorways as he passed, invisible the next instant. Nothing but the heat through his back. He stumbled over an object, regained his balance, felt his way through the darkness. One minute.

The bombs had blown away one side of the ship, causing it to list badly. He felt as if he were climbing a steep rise, a faint orange glow above his head—soft above the smoke.

He hurried on. The passage grew dimmer. He listened for the faint sound of voices. His eyes peered into the darkness. He had never been in this part of the ship. Two minutes. Here was a corner. Left or right? He could not see behind him, dared not touch the crackling walls. Right. He felt his way with his feet, determined to count the number of steps back to this corner. A wrong turn on the way back, and he would be lost in the ship’s maze of doors and corridors. Beside him, around him, in front of him—immense heat. He moved the flashlight beam to pinpoint a landmark—a distinctive stain on the wall or blotch on the floor. The light flickered and died. He shook it hard, willing it to stay alive. He slammed it against his palm. Revived, the renewed spotlight came to rest on what appeared to be the back of a woman’s head kneeling in his path. Had he kept walking, his knee would have brushed her shoulders. The nurse he knew as Kathryn Wheeler turned and pushed herself towards him.

Thank God. Captain Steele, isn’t it?

Are you alone? he asked, steadying her. This corridor—somehow flatter than the one he’d abandoned—contained less smoke. He took a breath. Dust and soot hung thick in the air.

No, three more. I slipped in the water. Clumsy me. Hurt my ankle. I told them to go ahead. We can’t find the way out. Too much smoke. Been back and forth. She pointed both ahead and behind her to show him the paths that brought no reward.

How far ahead are they? We need to move quickly. Not much time left. His throat ached as he said it. Three minutes. He shouted into the corridor, keeping the alarm from his voice. Are they close enough to hear me?

Nurses. This is Captain Steele. Move toward my voice. No time to waste. Two minutes down the corridor on the left and up the hatchway. Count off as you approach. Let me hear you. He peered through the smoky silence and waited an eternity.

One, came the first voice.

Two.

Three.

Four. All accounted for, sir, said Kathryn, her voice rising and forceful at the end.

The three nurses—in various stages of undress, two without helmets or coveralls—emerged from the darkness. They huddled in a half circle around him. In the dim light, Rufus Steele stared hard into their faces so he could remember them. His lungs burned, as if he were smothering. He grasped Kathryn’s hand and held it up. Four minutes. His voice came out rough and harsh.

Follow close. Hold a hand. Don’t let go. Watch your step. Next corridor slopes downhill twenty to thirty degrees. Debris at your feet. Anyone stumbles, pick her up and keep moving. Move out on four. On the count of four, he took the three steps he had counted from the corner, and turned abruptly to his left. This way, he hollered, not knowing if they heard him.

He shoved the flashlight into Kathryn Wheeler’s hand, grasped her around