“Dull but restful,” she sighed. “I’m all for it.”
Two days later, together with a score of officers and men of official distinction, bound for home on leave or on business, they climbed aboard a giant airliner and headed out over the Pacific. After long hours of travel they came swooping down upon a broad island airfield that, as far as they are concerned, will remain forever unnamed.
Here they were greeted by hundreds of American soldiers who, at first, stared at Mary in disbelief, then let out a lusty cheer.
Beneath the palms that night, with only the stars for light, and with soldiers, sailors and nurses as an audience, Mary told her story all over again.
In the very midst of her talk, someone set a shiny object down before her, then whispered:
“You’re doing great, sister. Keep right on.”
Cheered by the marvelous attention of her audience, she talked for an hour only to learn in the end, what she had suspected all along, that the last half of her talk had been broadcast by short wave to America.
“Now there’ll be no living with you, Mary,” Sparky laughed as he escorted her to the nurses’ tent where she was to spend the night.
“In Heaven’s name, why?” she exclaimed.
“You’re famous!”