GI Brides: The Wartime Girls Who Crossed the Atlantic for Love

by Barrett, Duncan; Calvi, Nuala

  She soon learned that he came from an old land-owning family in Blakely, Georgia, where his late father had been the judge of the city court. She couldn’t help being impressed by this, and by the fact that he was university educated. He also turned out to be a book lover like herself, and soon started lending her novels.

  But despite all the time Margaret was spending with Lawrence, Taylor still hadn’t made any attempt to win her back. She decided the only way forward was to contact him herself, so one evening after work she called him at his flat.

  ‘Oh, hi, Margaret,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m very well,’ she replied. She chatted for a little while, and then dropped in nonchalantly, ‘I’ve been dating a captain in the Engineer Service, Captain Rambo. Perhaps you know him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Taylor replied, unconcerned. ‘Well, I’ve gotta go. See ya.’

  After she hung up, Margaret felt almost as wretched as she had done when Taylor had thrown her over. He clearly wasn’t the slightest bit jealous, and all she had done was embarrass herself again.

  When Lawrence called later asking if she was free, she ran to him. She didn’t want to be alone that night, and it felt good to be in the arms of a man who she knew really wanted her.

  The following week, Margaret was surprised to find she had missed her period. She put it down to the distress caused by Taylor and forgot all about it. But a month later, still it hadn’t come, so she made an appointment with a doctor.

  ‘I’m afraid to say you’re pregnant,’ he told her.

  ‘How is that possible?’ Margaret cried. ‘I used the cap.’

  ‘Oh, those things don’t always work,’ he replied.

  Margaret couldn’t believe it. She rushed out of the doctor’s surgery and hurried home as quickly as she could, afraid she might burst into tears in the street. Once in the house she ran up to her room and locked the door behind her, before collapsing on the bed and crying bitterly into her pillow.

  Margaret felt beside herself with fear and regret. She had only really gone out with Lawrence to make Taylor jealous, and now not only had her plan failed, but it had backfired in the worst way imaginable. To give birth to an illegitimate baby would utterly ruin her, and her family would never get over it.

  The next day was a Sunday, and Margaret spent the whole day locked in her room. The landlady came and knocked on the door, worried about her. ‘I’m all right – just a slight cold,’ Margaret called out. But inside the room she was in hell. She hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours and she had been crying all night long. To make matters worse she was feeling nauseous, and wasn’t sure if it was the pregnancy or her dread of it that was making her want to vomit.

  Once again she felt how alone she was in the world. If only she had a normal mother, perhaps she could have turned to her and confessed what had happened. But she hadn’t had any contact with Mrs Boyle since she had left Ireland. The thought of her military father finding out about the pregnancy filled her with dread. Margaret knew abortions were illegal, and that backstreet abortionists were often little better than butchers. If she was going to find a solution to this problem, she would have to find it for herself.

  She went to the cupboard, took out a wire coat hanger and untwisted it. Then she lay down on the bed, took a deep breath to steady her sobbing and inserted the hook.

  4

  Gwendolyn

  In July 1943 the US Army took over the port of Southampton, putting the docks under the control of their 14th Port Transportation Corps, who would handle the huge influx of cargo necessary for the invasion of Europe. Before long, the city had become the chief supply centre for the Americans in Britain.

  One local girl had a perfect vantage point from which to study the American officers as they zoomed in and out of the forecourt of the grand, red-bricked Polygon Hotel, where they were billeted. Gwendolyn Rowe counted herself lucky, at seventeen, to have scored a job as a shorthand typist at the Chamber of Commerce just opposite the hotel, where she and her female colleagues watched the new arrivals with great interest. When she cycled into work, her glossy black hair streaming in the wind, she always drew calls of, ‘Hey, baby – slow down for me!’ But she responded with a curt ‘I’m not your baby.’

  Watching from afar was one thing, but Gwen’s first real encounter with an American soldier had been something of an embarrassment. A young GI, slouching along her road with his hands in his pockets, had made her almost jump out of her skin by suddenly pulling out a small box and waving it in her face. ‘Hey, want some talc, miss?’ he asked.

  Gwen was infuriated. What did he think she was – a charity case? ‘No, I do not,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t take presents from strangers.’

  The young man’s face fell. ‘Sorry, miss, didn’t mean to cause no harm,’ he said.

  Gwen’s mother Mrs Rowe, a forthright Scottish lady with raven hair just like her daughter’s, had witnessed the scene from the doorway of their house on Padwell Road. As soon as Gwen reached the doorstep, she reprimanded her: ‘Those men are here to help us. You go back at once and say thank you.’

  Gwen let out an irritated sigh, and went after the young man. ‘Sorry,’ she said, as she caught up with him. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘No problem, miss,’ he replied with a smile, pushing the talcum powder into her hand. When she got the gift home, Gwen was secretly thrilled. Rose scented and luxurious, it was the most wonderful thing she had been given in four years of rationing.

  Gwen and the girls at the Chamber of Commerce found that American officers were frequently coming in to ask them for local information, and it was sometimes difficult to know whether their enquiries were genuine. The Americans seemed particularly keen to solicit local information from Gwen, although so far none of them had actually asked her out – perhaps because, being very slender, she looked younger than her seventeen years. But one day, as she was going into work, a jeep screeched to a halt beside her. The driver called out ‘Hey, sugar!’ and Gwen, turning to give a smart reply, was caught speechless.

  There, with one foot on the dashboard and a large cigar hanging languidly from the corner of his mouth, was a stunningly attractive GI with sparkling brown eyes and exotic good looks. ‘What you doing tonight, baby?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, I don’t know,’ replied Gwen, flustered.

  He laughed. ‘Come to the dance at the Polygon with me. What’s your name, sugar?’

  ‘Gwen.’

  ‘I’m Ed. See you at eight, Gwen.’

  His beautiful face zoomed off with a big smile on it.

  That evening Gwen peddled home from work faster than she ever had before. A date at the Polygon would require a sophisticated outfit, and she knew there was only one dress that would be up to the task: her emerald-green one. Handmade by her mother from curtain material, since dress fabric was rationed, she knew the colour complimented her dark eyes and jet-black hair.

  With relief she found the dress hanging up pressed and immaculate in the cupboard. After bathing in the regulation five inches of water and dousing herself in her rose-scented talc, she put it on – and immediately felt like a princess. Unfortunately, with no carriage and horses to transport her, she would have to make do with her bike to get her to the hotel, so she hitched up the dress with safety pins and rode off.

  When Gwen arrived at the Polygon, she stowed her bike out of sight and walked through the grand revolving doors. The hotel had long been frequented by passengers from the grand ocean liners that came in and out of Southampton, including many from the fateful Titanic. Its elegant dinner dances were legendary, and had continued throughout the war, providing American officers with an upmarket setting in which to entertain the local female population.

  As Gwen entered the room, Ed stood up to greet her and she felt giddy at the sight of him. ‘Just stand still for a moment,’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘My, that is such a beautiful dress. And you have such pretty eyes.’
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br />   Gwen smiled. Clearly the green dress was having the intended effect.

  Sitting opposite Ed, she found herself hardly able to eat her dinner – he was just too distracting, and she was trying too hard to be sophisticated. But it was dancing in his arms that she was really looking forward to.

  When the resident band struck up, Gwen and Ed moved onto the dance floor, and as she spun around the room with him she felt as if she were in a fairy tale.

  The musicians took a break, and Gwen caught Ed looking at her again. ‘My, you really do look beautiful in that dress,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘But I can’t see you again.’

  Gwen was confused. ‘Why not?’ she demanded.

  ‘Because’, said Ed, drawing slowly on his cigarette, ‘I’m thirty years old. And you’re just a child.’

  Gwen felt indignation rising in her. ‘I can handle it,’ she said. Then, grabbing at a phrase she had heard some of the GIs use, she added, ‘I’ve been around the block a few times.’

  ‘I’m not sure you know what that means,’ Ed laughed.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Gwen said, crossly.

  ‘All right then,’ he replied. ‘Do you want to come upstairs and show me?’

  Gwen was horrified. ‘Oh no,’ she blurted out.

  Suddenly, she felt very young indeed, despite the green dress. It wasn’t long before she was peddling as fast as she could back to Padwell Road.

  Despite the unsuccessful date with Ed, the glamour and elegance of the Polygon Hotel had taken hold of Gwen, and now she couldn’t stay away from it. Some of the girls from work went to the dinner dances every Saturday night, and she started going with them. It required her mother’s expert sewing skills to keep Gwen in suitable outfits for these nights out, often pulling apart her own old dresses and turning them into skirts with a more fashionable cut for her daughter. After the humiliating experience with Ed, Gwen was determined to look as sophisticated as possible on the dance floor.

  She had also made a decision: she would no longer go by the name Gwen. Her family might have called her by the nickname for as long as she could remember, but she had decided that Lyn sounded much more grown up. The girls at work soon adapted to the change, but her mother, despite repeated reminders, still insisted on calling her Gwen.

  One Friday morning, Lyn was daydreaming about the weekend to come when an American ensign came into the Chamber of Commerce. ‘Do you know where I could get some invisible mending done?’ the man asked. His enquiry struck her as falling into the spurious category, but nevertheless she did her best to advise him.

  Afterwards, he lingered, his brown eyes gazing at Lyn. It was only then that she noticed how deep they were, and what beautiful tanned skin he had. Like Ed, he had something exotic about him that elevated him beyond the brashness of the usual Yanks, but his eyes seemed clearer and more open in their gaze than Ed’s had.

  ‘Say, miss,’ he said. ‘Would you like to have tea with me?’

  He must be at least in his mid-thirties, Lyn thought, impressed, and agreed to his request.

  The next day, she met the GI, whose name was Russ, at a little tea room. As they sat down, he put his hat on the table and Lyn caught sight of a photograph tucked inside the rim.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she said, pulling the picture out. The woman in the photo was a beauty, with tumbling dark curls and a flower in her hair.

  ‘Oh, that’s my wife,’ Russ said, sounding wistful.

  ‘You’re married?’ Lyn asked, shocked. ‘Why are you having tea with me then?’

  ‘Because I trust you, and I think you trust me,’ he replied. ‘And I think we could be friends.’

  As he poured the tea, Russ poured out his heart about his beloved Larina. They were both of Mexican origin, he told Lyn, and she was a singer in a mariachi band.

  Their life together in Florida, surrounded by sunshine and orange trees, sounded idyllic, and the tear in his eye as he spoke of her was very affecting. By the time she had swallowed the last of her tea, Lyn was so impressed by Russ’s apparent devotion to his wife that she felt overcome with warmth towards him.

  Soon she and Russ were meeting regularly. As he stared into her eyes, talking about another woman, Lyn found herself squeezing his hand in consolation, her heart overcome with feeling. But she couldn’t help wishing it was she, not Larina, who was the lucky recipient of his idolisation.

  ‘You know,’ he said one day, ‘if you lived in the US you would never date a man like me.’

  ‘You mean because you’re married?’ asked Lyn.

  ‘No, because I’m a Mexican.’

  Lyn thought this the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.

  ‘It’s true,’ Russ continued mournfully. ‘American girls don’t date Mexicans.’ He smiled sadly at her.

  ‘I would!’ Lyn felt like saying, but she managed to stop herself.

  After a while Mrs Rowe noticed that Lyn wasn’t going out on the town as much as she once had. ‘Have you met someone special?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Lyn replied, ‘we’re just friends. He’s married and he really misses his wife.’

  ‘Well,’ said her mother, ‘why don’t you invite him home for tea?’ She knew that all Americans loved to be invited into British homes, and local families were actively encouraged to host them.

  When Lyn passed on the invitation, Russ accepted immediately.

  On the appointed day, he arrived at Padwell Road, his black hair combed back and greased even more than usual. Just as they were all about to take their seats in the front room, Russ said, ‘Mr and Mrs Rowe, I must tell you that I am married. But I would never hurt Lyn for anything – we are just friends.’

  ‘Well, Russ,’ said Lyn’s father, ‘we appreciate your honesty.’

  Mrs Rowe enjoyed having a new visitor to the house, and loved listening to Russ’s tales of Florida and the beautiful wife waiting there for him as much as her daughter did. He was soon a regular dinner guest, and he told the Rowes tearfully, ‘I feel like you’re my family now.’

  Lyn’s parents seemed blissfully unaware, however, that their generosity was encouraging their daughter’s hopeless crush all the more. The fact that Russ was unavailable only made her longing for him stronger, and she wondered if he felt the same about her. There had been signs that he did, Lyn thought, but despite her confident front she was woefully inexperienced with men, so it was difficult to know if they meant anything. When her parents were out of the room, and he rubbed his foot against hers, saying wistfully, ‘This is what Larina and I used to do,’ surely he was simply thinking of his wife?

  As they said goodbye at the door after dinner one warm evening, he brushed her hair back from her face with his hand. ‘You know, it would be very easy for us to get involved,’ he said.

  If he tries to kiss me now, thought Lyn, I am going to kiss him back. She looked up into his eyes.

  ‘But’, continued Russ suddenly, ‘I’m not going to do that. Goodnight!’

  ‘Goodnight,’ mumbled Lyn. She closed the door and ran to the window to watch him disappear into the darkness of the blackout.

  Once again, she thought, Russ had proved himself the most honourable of men – which only made poor Lyn adore him all the more. While the girls around her were having fun dating the GIs, her love life was in limbo.

  5

  Sylvia

  Sylvia’s first GI date, Andy, who had been such a hit with her mother, was soon posted elsewhere. But there was no shortage of keen young men at the American Red Cross club where she volunteered, and she soon had so many dates that she rarely had a night to herself. Among those who took a liking to her was a swaggering Texan called Wally Benson, who liked to impress her with talk of his life back home. ‘My dad’s got a real big ranch,’ he told Sylvia, who listened wide-eyed.

  ‘What’s it like being a cowboy?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, like it looks in the movies,’ he replied vaguely. ‘Texas is so big you could fit this little country insid
e it four times over! I’d like to show it to you someday . . .’

  Wally often came into the club, and repeated his wish to take Sylvia back to Texas with him. ‘Hey, baby, how about you and me get hitched, and when this war’s over you can come live on the ranch with me?’ he asked one day.

  Sylvia didn’t know what to say, so she gave an embarrassed giggle and hurried back into the kitchen. ‘I think Wally just asked me to marry him!’ she told one of the other volunteers.

  ‘Oh, they’re just after a bit of hanky-panky when they say that,’ the other girl replied. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’ She knew that in war a man was likely to seize his pleasures where he could, not knowing what tomorrow might bring.

  Sylvia soon began to accumulate marriage proposals at the rate of about one a week. Since she always thought the best of people, she preferred to believe it was a little bit of permanence and security the men were looking for, in the midst of so much uncertainty. But she learned to bat away the proposals all the same.

  Wally continued to be a regular visitor to the club, however, and when he had some leave coming up he asked if he could come and visit her and her family in Woolwich. Sylvia’s mother was all for the idea, and Wally duly turned up, bringing with him a bottle of expensive perfume for Sylvia. She felt like a movie star when she put it on, and walked back and forth for the sheer pleasure of wafting the divine scent around.

  Mrs Bradley insisted on the two of them joining her and her husband at the pub, and while Sylvia stuck to her usual shandies, her mother became increasingly tipsy. She was on top form, and had Wally laughing at everything she said.

  On the way home they were still having a good giggle when Mrs Bradley said, ‘Oh, I’m going to wet meself laughing if I don’t find a loo.’ At the top of the street was an empty air-raid shelter, and they waited as Mrs Bradley ran in to use the toilet. They chuckled as they heard strains of ‘Swanee’ coming out of the shelter, as she sang away merrily to herself on the toilet. Then suddenly there was a screech of ‘Oh my Gawd!’ and a flustered Mrs Bradley came racing out, followed by a homeless man waving a stick and shouting, ‘Can’t you be quiet? I’m trying to get some sleep in here!’