The Liberators of Willow Run

by Marianne K. Martin

  Bywater Books

  Copyright © 2016 Marianne K. Martin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Bywater Books First Edition: October 2016

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61294-080-9

  By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Bywater Books.

  Cover designer: Ann McMan, TreeHouse Studio

  Bywater Books

  PO Box 3671

  Ann Arbor MI 48106-3671

  www.bywaterbooks.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events described by the author are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons, dead or alive, is intended.

  Always for Jo

  And for my mother, Vivian L. Martin, R.N., whose surgical nursing skills were outweighed only by her compassion. During her years at the Crittenton Home she gave “her girls” the love and respect and empowerment that much of society denied them. And she understood the blessings that sharing them with her family meant to both. She stood strong for what she believed was right and she taught me to do the same. Her love and strength are sorely missed.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Acknowledgments

  It’s a solitary thing, writing is, tucked away in the private places of life. Alone with pencil and paper, with questions and research and plot lines in my head vying for justification on paper. Just me and the words.

  Until it isn’t. Until it’s time for edits and jacket copy and cover art and marketing, and an essential team of women who help take my story from its scratched in longhand first breath of life to a finished product that I can be proud of and into the hands of readers. These are tasks that I am grateful to have in the hands of the incomparable team at Bywater Books. My thanks and gratitude to Editor-in-Chief Kelly Smith, editor Caroline Curtis, proofreader Nancy Squires, cover designer Ann McMan, publisher Salem West, and publicity director Rachel Spangler. Without you my words remain in solitude.

  And without the original liberators, the Rosies of World War II, this story would not have been possible. Their personal stories of commitment and sacrifice chronicled a time of change and helped shape a new world of employment and independence for women. Their impact is immeasurable.

  There are times in life when, although good friends are always appreciated, something happens that shows them to be blessings beyond measure. A recent accident and unexpected surgery has done just that. Thank yous are simply not enough. My Bywater family made sure that this book came out on time. And I do not know what I would have done without Marcy Tyson and Courtney Duke being there through the emergency and surgery and mornings and nights of care. Or what I would have done without Jan Payne and Sally Dawson taking me and the pups into their home to feed and care for us. You are all blessings without measure and I love you.

  Chapter 1

  We are engaged in a war on the successful outcome of which will depend the whole future of our country . . . We will win this war only as we produce and deliver our total American effort on the high seas and on the battle fronts. And that requires unrelenting, uninterrupted effort here on the home front.

  Franklin D. Roosevelt, Fireside Chat, May 2, 1943

  Nearly every word she had written was a lie. Audrey Draper folded the letter, slipped it into the envelope, and addressed it to her parents.

  She wasn’t staying with a friend’s family, not anymore, and she wasn’t pining for her guy in the service. Bradley Willis never stole her heart. There was no Bradley Willis. It was a lie, one of many. Audrey Draper had become a good liar.

  The lights of Jack’s Ford shone through the front window of her Willow Village apartment, and Audrey checked the clock beside the bed. 5:30. He was early this morning. Audrey scooped up her jacket and keys, snapped off the overhead light, and locked the door behind her. She returned Jack’s smile and climbed into the back seat.

  “Mornin’, Lucy,” she said as Jack’s wife turned to greet her from the front seat.

  “I’m sorry, Jack forgot to tell you yesterday that we’d be picking you up early now.”

  “No, that’s alright. I was up early today.”

  Jack made eye contact in the rearview mirror. “I want to let Lucy off at the entrance on the other side of the plant from now on. Less of a walk for her.”

  “He worries too much,” Lucy said. “This baby’s not comin’ any time soon.”

  “How long will they let you work?” Audrey asked.

  “Until I tell them I can’t. And I’ll work as long as I can. We’re gonna need every bit of that money once this little one is here. They’re offering $300 if I go back to work within six weeks after birth.”

  Audrey nodded. Exactly. And at $5 an hour and nine hours a day, it was more money than they could make anywhere else. It was more money than Audrey’s own father made back home.

  “If they have any chance at all to meet their production goal, they can’t afford to lose workers for any reason,” Jack added. “The newspapers are calling us ‘Will it Run,’ and Truman’s War Investigating Committee is sayin’ we’re nowhere near our projected numbers, so the plant’s trying to increase the crew numbers. We have a new one to our crew comin’ in today, and we’re goin’ on overtime starting this week.” Jack stopped the car at the intersection and waited for traffic, most of which was also headed to the Willow Run bomber plant. He spoke as he waited his turn. “If Lucy weren’t working in payroll, though, I’d be puttin’ my foot down about how long she works. I don’t care how much money we’re talkin’.”

  Lucy turned to face Audrey again. “Did you see the government ad? Can you use an electric mixer? If so, you can learn to operate a drill.”

  “They’re tappin’ the only well with water,” Jack offered as he merged the car into the line of traffic.

  Women. It made Audrey smile. That previously untapped well was supplying a workforce that had already exceeded all expectations. Smart, dedicated, and efficient. They didn’t have to be on the front lines to help win this war. If the government needed bombers, then this plant was going to build more than any other in the country. And it would be the women who made it possible.

  She was there at the station waiting, with that expected wide-eyed look of ant
icipation, when Audrey and Jack arrived.

  “I’m Nona,” she said in an accent that clearly indicated that she was from deeper south than Ohio. “I finished training school Friday and Mr. Bentley assigned me to your crew.”

  “He must have been impressed, then,” Audrey said, extending her hand. “You won’t find a faster riveting crew on the floor.”

  “Hey, if you can use a mixer . . .” Jack said and grinned at Nona’s puzzled look.

  “The government ad,” Audrey explained. “It may make us even more grateful for the training school.”

  “Is it true the President himself was here?” Nona asked.

  Audrey nodded. “Last year. Jack here got to see him firsthand.”

  “President Roosevelt himself, as close as I am to you right now,” Jack said and flashed a toothy smile. “Rode right down through the whole plant in the car with Mr. Ford. We got a lot to do to live up to them promises Mr. Ford made, but by God, we’re gonna do it.”

  The last three members of the crew arrived with only enough time for a quick introduction and directions from Jack. “You make sure you follow safety rules,” he directed at Nona. “You’re rivetin’ for Janice and I’ll have none of my crew goin’ down to negligence.” He went over the rest of the safety rules despite her obvious compliance. “Head scarf, trousers, flat shoes, no jewelry?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, let’s get at it, then.”

  The sound of Mac, the company’s Star Man, bellowing “Will it run?” signaled the beginning of the shift. It was his angry response to the initial plant problems that had prompted the nickname. “You answer them sons-a-bitches with your numbers,” he reminded them with the anger and determination that he used to drive the crews all day long. And their numbers were the only response he heard.

  So the day began, with any talk past introduction waiting for the lunch break. And even then it was squeezed between bites and dotted with nods. It wasn’t until the end of a long nine-hour shift that Audrey had a few uncompromised minutes to find out a little more about their new crew member.

  Jack lacked her curiosity and went on ahead to walk Lucy to the car while Audrey and Nona walked at a more casual pace to the closest exit. It was curiosity, Audrey admitted, and not merely born of wanting to know who she was working long hours next to. And not because of a natural draw to women that had seemed always to have been there. It was true that Nona offered a smile that made you smile back without a single reason why. But she was also the first Negro Audrey had ever talked to. There were no Negroes in the neighborhood she grew up in, none in her school, or at her church. There was only the woman who walked from the bus stop once a week to clean the Bronson’s house down the block, and the old man who picked up trash around Mr. Peter’s grocery store. There never seemed to be any reason to talk to them—or a reason not to. And now there was Nona and an undeniable curiosity.

  “You came up from Kentucky all by yourself?” Audrey asked. “Don’t your parents worry?”

  “There were articles in the papers every day about what we can do for the war effort and how much money can be made. Our papa said he doesn’t know another place on this earth I could make this much. I want to go on to college and this is the only way I can do that.”

  “Where are you staying? I was so lucky to get into the Village. They’re putting up housing as fast as they can build them. Outside of that, seems like you can’t find a bed in a closet within twenty-five miles of the plant.”

  “Our church back home connected with a church in Detroit that lets workers stay in their basement. I take the plant bus back and forth. Far from the comforts of home, but it’s worth it.” They stopped at Audrey’s exit. “The bus picks up at the other end,” Nona said. “It seems like I’m walking a mile. I’ve never seen anything this huge in my life.”

  “There isn’t anything else this huge in the world. Mr. Lindbergh himself calls it the Grand Canyon of the mechanized world. I’m really lucky that I can ride with Jack. I don’t want to keep him waiting, Nona, so can we talk more tomorrow?”

  “Oh, sure,” Nona replied with a look of mild surprise. “Sure, I’d like that.”

  “So I’ll see you in the morning. It’s a six o’clock start time until they tell us different. Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t,” Nona said. “You’ll see. I’ll never be late.”

  Audrey offered a smile. “Tomorrow then,” she said and slipped out the door.

  Jack was waiting and Audrey quickened her steps and jumped into the back seat. “I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

  “Naw, just a couple of minutes,” he replied.

  “There are so many things I want to know about Nona. In a way I feel like Curious George straight out of my little cousin’s storybook. Have you ever worked with a Negro, Jack?”

  He took his turn and pulled into traffic. “Yeah, at the River Rouge Plant. Ford’s been hirin’ ’em as fast as he can get ’em up here from the South. Payin’ big money, too.”

  “I noticed more hiring in here now, too,” Lucy added. “A lot of people aren’t too happy about it, though.”

  “Ah, they probably never worked with ’em before,” Jack said. “Most of ’em never worked with women before, either. But for now, they’re gonna have to get used to it. Everybody’s gotta pull together, don’t matter what color ya are or if you’re a man or a woman. They need B-24s and, by God, we’re gonna give ’em all they need. We’re gonna win this war.”

  He believed that. Audrey was sure of it. A freak shop accident had taken his father’s life, and he had no brothers. If he weren’t the last male in the family, he’d be fighting this war as a soldier, not as a crew chief in a bomber plant. She saw that in him every day, pushing his crew to top efficiency, proud to build the best damn plane our pilots had ever flown, and expecting the same dedication from everyone else. He was a good man and she was proud to work with him.

  “I’m bettin’ on it, Jack. I’m bettin’ we win this war right here from this plant.”

  Chapter 2

  Jackson, Michigan

  It seemed an imposing building the first time Ruth Evans saw it, sitting back off the road. Large, distant, brick. Before it a monotony of green—lawn mowed tight, shrubs trimmed and dutiful. No companions of color defining the edges, separating the boundaries. The Crittenton Home. There was no sign, the name had been mentioned only days before the trip, squeezed out tightly in her mother’s terse tone, the words clipped short.

  For seven hours, the entire drive from Bloomington, Indiana, her father had spoken only when they stopped for gas or for a bite to eat at a roadside diner. He focused—as if speaking was too distracting—on the road, on every bite of food, on lighting one cigarette after another until he had smoked two days’ worth. He was more distant than her new home. Now, no matter how hard she tried, she would never gain her father’s favor, and she could no longer be her mother’s shining example of virtue and purity.

  And it was never more clear than right now. Harold Evans lifted his daughter’s suitcase from the trunk of the car, carried it to the front door, and left it. He returned to the car and slid into the driver’s seat without a word.

  Margaret stood facing her daughter outside the car. Her tone held no warmth, but her eyes seemed to plead. “If you would only marry him,” she said.

  Ruth dropped her focus, left the pleading to stare at the red-painted toenails peering from her mother’s favorite open-toed heels. “But I don’t—”

  “It’s too late for that to matter.” Margaret’s coolness turned terse. “You should have thought of that before . . .” She looked away, across the drive to the hideaway she had chosen for the duration of her daughter’s pregnancy. “Is there anything you want me to tell Paul?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes came back, pleaded again. “Ruth.”

  “No, mother. Nothing.” There was an urge, a need to tell her why, to make her hear the truth. It was a strong urge, a gathering of forces she ha
d no name for that riled against her silence. The strength of her thoughts, of the feelings squeezed so tightly into submission, frightened her. What if they broke their bounds, spewed into the open? And who would suffer most from that kind of honesty? Paul? Her mother? Herself? Or, would she never recover from that self-destruction?

  Her mother’s tone changed, more motherly now than it had been in months. “They won’t allow any contact while you’re here. No visits or calls,” she said as her eyes returned to her daughter’s. “Even from us.”

  Ruth frowned. “Why?”

  “They want to avoid any problems.”

  “Like what?”

  The expression on her mother’s face was one Ruth was quite familiar with—eyes evasive, brow smoothed of its frown, dismissive. “They will explain it all to you once you get settled.”

  Exactly what she had expected. Maybe it was time to stop challenging her mother to breach her discomfort and answer the many questions, some begging for answers since childhood. So many whys left to her own investigation, her own discovery. It was a challenge her mother did not understand. The only answers she offered were suggestions that some things are not discussed, and life is easier and happier when you accept what is expected of you. But as hard as her mother tried, lifting her voice to put an air of lightness to the subject, she was never convincing. Ruth had never been able to define it, what it was that betrayed her mother’s conviction, but there was something that always made Ruth doubtful. She felt as if her mother was holding something too tightly, restraining it. What began as a guessing game had become a silent grasping that often made Ruth angry. Honesty simply was not possible.

  And so she left it—no further challenge, no more discomfort for her mother. Ruth followed the woman who answered the door, turned to see the feeble attempt from her mother to smile, and let it go.

  The woman introduced herself, Mrs. Stranton. The name suited her, Ruth decided. Maybe it was the dark hair streaked with silver pulled severely into a bun or the rod-straight posture, but somehow it fit her perfectly.