by Len Levinson
“You got a pass?” asked one of the guards.
“No, but I got I.D.”
“You’ll need an escort.”
“Get one.”
One guard made a telephone call, while another guard examined Lieutenant Norton’s and Butsko’s I.D. cards.
“What’re you gonna do in the factory?” the guard asked Lieutenant Norton.
“Sergeant Butsko here wants to see his wife.”
“Why can’t he wait until she gets out of work?”
“Hey!” Butsko said, stepping forward. “I’ll punch you right in your fucking—”
Lieutenant Norton held out his hand and stopped Butsko. “Calm down.”
“Who does that clown think he’s talking to?”
“Shut up!”
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Norton turned to the guard. “Sergeant Butsko here has just returned from the front, and he’s on his way to Washington to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor. He’s here to see his wife because he doesn’t have much time.”
“I see,” the guard said.
“If I ever see you alone someplace,” Butsko said to the guard, “I’ll blouse your fucking eyes for you.”
“I thought I told you to shut up!” Lieutenant Norton shouted.
“Yes sir.”
A few minutes later a patrol of four guards showed up. Lieutenant Norton identified himself and Butsko to the leader of the patrol, and they were escorted onto the factory grounds. They passed through a huge proscenium door and entered the factory itself. It was one immense room, bigger than twenty football fields, full of bombers in various stages of construction. Welders sent sparks flying in showers through the air and riveters hammered away at the seams. The building was six stories high, and cranes carried wings and fuselages over everyone’s heads. The male and female workers wore blue denim uniforms, and some of the women wore colorful bandanas to keep their hair in place.
Lieutenant Norton and Butsko climbed a flight of metal stairs and made their way along a catwalk. All the executive offices were near the ceiling, and the guards stopped in front of the office door stenciled with: PERSONNEL.
Lieutenant Norton and Butsko were escorted into an outer office where women pounded on typewriters. Against a wall were private offices, and one of them was marked with: DIRECTOR OF PERSONNEL. The sergeant in charge of the guards opened the door to that office, spoke with the secretary inside, and then opened another door that said: CLARENCE P. WHITTAKER.
Clarence Whittaker was in his fifties, short and slim, with a bald head and a salt and pepper mustache. His eyes were sad.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” he said in a businesslike manner, as if he was being disturbed, and then he noticed the Congressional Medal of Honor ribbon on Lieutenant Norton’s shirt. His voice became more ingratiating. “What can I help you with?”
The office had photographs of airplanes on the walls. Papers were piled high on Clarence Whittaker’s desk. Behind the desk was a photograph of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who was running for re-election that summer against Thomas E. Dewey, the former governor from the state of New York.
Lieutenant Norton introduced himself and Sergeant Butsko. He explained that Butsko was on his way to Washington to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor, and wanted to say hello to his wife, who was a riveter at the factory, before he left Los Angeles.
Clarence Whittaker shook Butsko’s hand. “A pleasure to have soldiers like you come to visit us,” he said. “How long since you seen your wife?”
“About two years,” Butsko said.
“What’s her name?”
“Dorothy Butsko.”
Clarence Whittaker picked up his telephone and asked his secretary to find out the section in which Dorothy Butsko was employed. He stood with the phone next to his ear for a few moments, and then the secretary told him that Dorothy Butsko had been assigned to Section 14.
Clarence Whittaker hung up his telephone. “Mind if I bring our company photographer along?” he asked.
“What the hell for?” Butsko asked.
“The press might be interested in the picture.”
“I don’t think I—”
Lieutenant Norton interrupted him. “Of course it’s all right, Mr. Whittaker.”
“Who asked you?” Butsko said.
“I’d like to talk with you in private, if you don’t mind, Sergeant Butsko.”
Lieutenant Norton grabbed Butsko by the arm and dragged him out of Mr. Whittaker’s office, through the outer office, and to the catwalk overlooking the factory.
Lieutenant Norton pointed his finger at Butsko, and his finger was so close it almost touched Butsko’s nose. “You talk too fucking much,” Lieutenant Norton said.
“Get your fucking finger out of my face.”
“You’d better start keeping your fucking mouth shut, you idiot.”
“What’d I do wrong?”
“I just told you—you talk too much. From now on keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.”
“What do we need a fucking photographer for?”
“To sell war bonds. To make people feel patriotic about America. I can see the headline now:
RETURNING WAR HERO
SEES WIFE BUILD BOMBERS
It’s the kind of headline that’s good for the war effort. So shut up from now on and let me take care of everything, because that’s my job, got it?”
“What’m I supposed to say: ‘Yes sir’?”
“That’s exactly what you’re supposed to say.”
“Yes sir.”
“That’s better.”
Lieutenant Norton and Butsko went back to Mr. Whittaker’s office, leaving the clanging and banging behind them.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Whittaker said, dropping into his chair behind his desk. “It’s a real honor to have men like you here. You’re the men who’re saving the world for freedom, and we’re all very grateful. I wish I had something appropriate to offer you, but alcoholic beverages aren’t permitted in the factory.”
“Shit,” Butsko said.
“What was that?” asked Mr. Whittaker.
Lieutenant Norton cleared his throat. “Sergeant Butsko just said that he doesn’t drink.”
Finally the photographer arrived with a Speed Graphic news camera.
“I think we’re ready,” Mr. Whittaker said. “We might as well get started.”
He led them out of the office and onto the catwalk. Butsko looked down and saw a completed bomber being hauled by a tractor toward an opening at the far end of the building. Butsko didn’t know much about aircraft, but he’d seen bombers just like that one over Bougainville and New Guinea. They’d bombed the shit out of Japs that otherwise would’ve had to be killed by him and other GIs with bullets and bayonets. Butsko always had been overjoyed to see American bombers and fighters arriving in his combat zone, and now he could see where they came from: factories like this all over America where women built them alongside men who weren’t fit for duty in the military. I wonder which one of these guys she’s fucking, Butsko thought darkly.
Mr. Whittaker led them down a steel stairway. The din on the floor of the factory became louder. Riveting guns sounded like machine guns, and terrible clanging and slamming came from all directions. They reached the floor of the factory and walked down the center aisle. On each side of the aisle was a row of bombers in various stages of completion. The noise was terrific and Butsko wondered how the workers could handle it day in and day out. Components of planes were suspended in the air by chains and moved about by a crane apparatus overhead.
Butsko saw signs that said SECTION 9 and SECTION 10. He realized he was getting closer to Dolly. Looking around, he saw women in blue overalls and bandanas, riveting, hammering, and twisting in screws. He saw men who looked healthier than he, and wondered which one of them was screwing Dolly.
Midway down the line was a sign that said SECTION 14, and Butsko felt a lump arise in his throat. Butterfl
ies flew around in his stomach. That’s where Dolly was supposed to be working, and he hadn’t seen her since before he left for New Guinea. They’d argued at their last meeting, but that was nothing new because they always argued.
They came to Section 14 and nobody paid any attention to them because everybody was building bombers. Mr. Whittaker called the foreman over, to find out which worker was Dorothy Butsko, but Butsko already was conducting a reconnaisance, and his eyes came to a stop when he saw the back of a woman in blue coveralls and a red bandana, leaning against a riveting gun. He looked down at her big fat ass, and he’d know that ass anywhere. It was Dolly.
Mr. Whittaker pointed at her. “That’s her!” he shouted.
Butsko nodded. He didn’t know what to do. Lieutenant Norton grabbed his arm.
“Easy now,” Lieutenant Norton said.
“I’m okay,” Butsko replied.
But Butsko didn’t feel okay. He felt weird. There was his wife standing in front of him, and he couldn’t believe she actually was working, because all she’d ever wanted to do was sit around in saloons, drink booze, and flirt with guys. It was amazing to see her working like a man, and it didn’t look like easy work either. It was real man’s work. Butsko always thought that Dolly was a lazy worthless bitch, yet here she was doing her part for the war effort.
Butsko put one foot in front of the other and walked toward her. A woman carrying a bucket of rivets walked between him and Dolly. Butsko continued to advance. He wondered what to say to Dolly. Maybe she’d hit him over the head with her rivet gun. He stopped, looked back, and saw Mr. Whittaker and Lieutenant Norton looking at him. The photographer had his camera raised to his eyes, ready to snap a picture. How did I get into this mess? Butsko asked himself. Lieutenant Norton grinned and gave him thumbs up. Butsko turned toward Dolly again and moved toward her. He came up behind her and tapped her shoulder.
She continued to shoot rivets into the tail assembly of the bomber. Butsko tapped her shoulder again. She pulled the gun away from the tail and turned around. Her goggles covered her eyes, and she stared at Butsko. A flashbulb exploded. Her jaw dropped open. Butsko winked at her, but he was so nervous both of his eyes closed and he looked like a dope.
Dolly wore big thick canvas gloves, and she pushed her goggles up. “What’re you doing here?” she asked Butsko.
“Which one of these guys are you fucking?” Butsko asked.
“All of them,” Dolly replied.
Another flashbulb exploded. Everyone in the area turned to look at what was going on. Riveters stopped riveting and hammerers stopped hammering.
“What’re you doing here?” Dolly asked again.
“I came to see you, baby,” Butsko said.
“This is a helluva surprise, Johnny.”
“I went to your house and you wasn’t home.”
“Why didn’t you answer my letters?”
“I was busy,” Butsko said.
“Are you all right?”
“I think so.” A mist came over Butsko’s eyes as he gazed at her. She wore a bit of makeup and still looked as perky as when he’d first picked her up in that bar near Fort Campbell, Kentucky. “It’s really good to see you again, Dolly,” he said.
“It’s good to see you too, Johnny.”
Their eyes met and the old fires burst into flame. They held out their arms, leaned toward each other, and embraced. Their lips touched and their bodies pressed against each other. Another flashbulb exploded and another photograph was snapped of the hero who’d just returned from the war, greeting his wife, a riveter in a bomber factory.
