by Jane Healey
“Sure,” Martha said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “Happy to.”
“Well, let’s go, then,” Blanche said. “The boys await!” As if on cue, we heard Jimmy honking his horn outside, which sent the skinny chickens in the living room bolting, their feathers flying as they hid from the noise.
Everyone headed out to the car as I reapplied my lipstick. I picked up my change purse off the end table and stood for a moment in the sitting room. I was heading out to a dance, and somewhere out there Danny was sitting in a prison cell or worse. Part of me wanted to crawl into bed and ruminate about this news until I cried myself to sleep. Smiling and dancing with strangers felt like an odd thing to do now that I had another clue to his whereabouts.
“Fi, are you doing okay?” Frankie opened the front door and peeked back inside.
“No,” I said, giving her a sad smile. “I was just thinking about his last letter to me, before he went missing. I lost it in London, and I looked everywhere, but it never turned up. And this news, if it’s true, means he made it out of the crash alive. He’s been alive this whole time, and yet I haven’t received a single letter from him. Where the heck is he right now? What shape is he in? I can’t . . .” My voice cracked, and I stopped talking, putting my hands up to my mouth. I closed my eyes and took a long, slow breath.
“I know it’s hard, trust me, I know more than anyone,” she said with a nod, sympathy in her eyes. “But I promise you, you’re better off if you don’t sit here and wallow.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for reading it for me. And for understanding. And I know you’re right. I can’t sit around here and feel sorry for myself. If I do that, I might as well not have come here at all. No matter what I learn about Danny’s fate.”
“That’s right,” she said. “So let’s go dance; you can at least pretend to forget about it all for a while. I promise you it will help.”
We heard the sound of the jeep’s horn again.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll take your word for it. Let’s go.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me outside.
Chapter Thirteen
August 23, 1944
As our days in the English countryside went by, we got more comfortable with our daily routine. Jimmy would pick us up in his jeep at dawn, then we would go get the Cheyenne in Doughnut Alley behind Red Cross headquarters. When we arrived, we’d pray the British baking ladies that worked the night shift in the doughnut kitchen had baked enough to get us through most of the day, because the doughnut machine continued to be an instrument of the devil.
We hit eight or nine camps each week, usually at least two a day, sometimes three if one of the other Clubmobiles was out of commission. Our faces ached from smiling, our throats hurt from talking, and our muscles were sore from everything else.
Quite a few of the GIs we came in contact with were from the Eighty-Second Airborne, and though many of them were young, they had the eyes of old souls, their invisible battle scars apparent after all they had endured in Africa and Normandy. They didn’t speak of it, but you could see it in the way their hands shook when they were smoking a cigarette, or in the moments of grief revealed in their faces when they didn’t think anyone was watching.
Viv, Dottie, and I grew fond of “our boys in the Eighty-Second,” and though it took some of them time to relax and trust us, eventually they accepted us.
“There’s this fierce, quiet pride about these men,” Dottie said as we loaded trays of doughnuts onto the Cheyenne that morning behind headquarters. “I think they’re finally warming up to us, though.”
“I agree,” I said. “They never complain, and they’d never, ever say they’re sick of training in the countryside and need us to cheer them up, but something has changed in the last week or so. They don’t treat us like visitors anymore.”
“Well, I think they’ve adored us from the start,” Viv said, coming out of the doughnut kitchen, struggling as she carried one of the huge tin cans of lard. “Where’s Jimmy? Can we get on the road? I want to decorate the outside of this thing now that I’ve finally got paints.”
“He went to the loo,” I said. “And he stinks of booze. Again.”
“Ain’t had one drop to drink,” Jimmy said, looking defensive, not to mention very pale and sweaty as he ran over to help Viv load the lard. “Are we ready to go, then?”
“Yes. Later today I need to recruit some GIs to help us scour the Clubmobile from top to bottom before Miss Chambers’s visit tomorrow,” I said. “We’re going to be so great, she’ll want to ship us to Southampton by the end of the week. We could be in Normandy by the weekend. You’re going to play some songs, right, Dottie?”
“Yes, I’ll play a couple,” Dottie said. She had remained shy about playing in front of the troops, despite the overwhelmingly positive reception she had received the few times she’d done it so far.
Just as we were about to pull out of the alley, we spotted Liz Anderson waving at us from the back door of headquarters, and she came over.
“I’ll be escorting Miss Chambers tomorrow, and we’ll most likely see you midmorning,” she said. “And remember: no ribbons or jewelry or anything nonregulation—she’s a stickler. Go easy on the lipstick too—no bright red, Viv.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Viv said, rolling her eyes, and then added, “but thank you for the reminder. I know it’s not you, Liz.”
“And Fiona, I did send her a note about your fiancé right after I left Mrs. Tibbetts’s that night, but she still hasn’t responded,” Liz said.
“I know you did,” I said. “Thank you for trying.”
For some reason, I doubted Miss Chambers would ever make my search for Danny a priority.
The last camp of the day was the very first one we had visited on the job, and the men there were some of my favorites. Viv and I recruited Tommy Doyle, Patrick Halloran, shy Sam Katz from Pennsylvania, and a few other GIs to help us clean the inside and outside of the Cheyenne until it shined. After the army green was as sparkling as the color army green could be, Viv got out the paints Liz had procured for her and went to work. Dottie was helping Eddie from Mesa write a letter home, and a few other GIs were waiting in line after him, so we told her to keep at it.
As I scrubbed the counters inside the Clubmobile, the Victrola was playing an Andrews Sisters record. I was surrounded by soldiers armed with brushes, cloths, and sponges as they helped me clean every inch of the Cheyenne’s interior. Vera Lynn was sitting next to the Victrola like a queen on a small dusty-pink-and-white-checkered pillow Sam had found for her. The smell of cleaning agents and doughnut grease almost overpowered the odor of sweaty soldiers, but not quite.
“Looking good, Viv,” I heard Patrick say. He was outside cleaning the windows.
“Are you talking about me or the Cheyenne?”
“Both,” he said with a laugh. “Seriously though, that’s some nice painting.”
I leaned out to take a look at what she was doing. She had painted a delicate bright-green vine with red, white, and blue flowers framing the Clubmobile window. In the left-hand corner near the door to the front cab, she had added our names in bright red with a flourish:
VIV DOTTIE FIONA
THE BEANTOWN GIRLS
“Nice, Viv,” I said. “Although I suspect you’re painting today just to get out of cleaning in here.”
“Me? Never,” she said with a wink. She stepped back and admired her work. “I was supposed to be designing advertising campaigns by now. Instead, I’m standing in a muddy field in England, stinking of doughnut grease and trying to make this jalopy less ugly.”
“Do you think you’ll go back to your job after this?” I asked.
Viv sighed. “I don’t know. They said I could have it back. But I didn’t get to actually do anything beyond secretarial work, despite their promises. None of the women at Woodall and Young were allowed to manage any of the accounts—even the Kotex account, for Christ’s sake. What the heck do men know about Kotex?”
“Hey, keep it down; you sound like my sistah,” Tommy said from behind me, frowning in disgust, revealing his Boston accent. “We don’t need to hear about that girl stuff.”
“Sorry,” I said, and we both started giggling.
Just then a truck pulled up and parked about twenty feet away. Captain Peter Moretti got out, along with another officer.
The young GIs fell over themselves to greet the two officers. Even though they weren’t required to salute, all of them did.
“Please keep working, soldiers. I don’t want to interrupt,” Moretti said as he walked over. His cheeks were sunburned, and I had forgotten how tall he was. I hadn’t run into him since the night we left London. I hardly knew the gruff captain at all, so I wasn’t sure why the sight of him was like seeing an old friend.
“Good to see you, Captain Moretti,” I said, smiling. “We’ve still got a few doughnuts left. Would you like one?”
“No, thank you, but maybe Lieutenant Lewis would like one or two?” he said, nodding to the thin man beside him with the sandy brown hair. Then he added, in a softer voice, “It’s good to see you too, Fiona.”
We made introductions all around. Lieutenant Lewis happily took three doughnuts and some lukewarm coffee and started talking with the GIs, teasing them about doing women’s work.
“All spiffed up for tomorrow, Beantown Girls?” Moretti said to me as I jumped down to admire Viv’s artwork.
“Oh, so you’ve heard? Yes, our director is coming from London.”
“Not just your director. All the top Red Cross officials, including Harvey Gibson. And I heard some photographers too,” he said.
“Oh no, please tell me you’re joking,” I said, feeling my stomach turn at the thought. “Do you know for sure?”
“Yes, a couple of my superiors are going to be giving them the tour,” Moretti said.
“Hey, Fi, maybe you can bypass Miss Chambers altogether and just ask Mr. Gibson himself, see if he knows someone at the International Red Cross that can help,” Viv said. She was now painting the silhouettes of three women wearing Red Cross uniforms under the Beantown Girls lettering.
“What do you need from the International Red Cross?” Moretti asked, frowning.
I looked away and bit my lip. There it was. The question. Here was another person who didn’t know about Danny. I had to explain again, see the look of pity again, or hear another person stumble over their words. Again. Or did I?
“I had a question about a . . . um . . . a neighbor from home who might be a POW here. I know the IRC keeps track of those things; we thought Gibson might have a contact at the IRC,” I said, realizing I was talking too quickly but not able to help myself. I wasn’t a natural liar. “Although my neighbor’s family may have heard more by now. The letter they sent was dated almost a month ago.”
Viv flashed me a questioning look, but I ignored her.
Moretti tilted his head and examined my face. I self-consciously smoothed my hair, tucking the blonde strands in front under my cap. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d brushed it or put on fresh lipstick.
“Look, if you don’t have any luck with Gibson, I might be able to get some information for you,” he said. “I have an old friend from New York who works for them. Tracking Allied POWs is part of his job.”
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you, um . . . I’ll let you know.”
Now Viv was glaring at me, mouthing, “Tell him,” behind his back.
“Lewis, we’ve got to go,” Moretti said and smiled. “It was his idea to stop; he was hoping for doughnuts. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Captain,” I said, noticing that his smiles came easier now than when we first met. “We’ll need it.”
“Did you know Captain Moretti’s a boxer? Like a top-ranked boxer?” Tommy said after they headed to their truck.
“I think everyone in England knows by now,” I said, amused at their adoration.
“He’s an even better soldier and captain,” Sam Katz said in his quiet voice.
I looked up at Sam. “Really?”
Tommy, Sam, and the other guys started nodding, their faces solemn. “Really.”
The GIs got back to work. Viv came and stood next to me, watching the truck kick up dirt as it drove away.
“You’ve always been the worst liar,” she said in a quiet voice.
“I know,” I said. “Do you think he bought it?”
“Who knows,” she said with a shrug. “But why wouldn’t you just tell him?”
“Because I’m tired of telling my sad story?” I said with a sigh. “I don’t know.”
“He has to contact his friend for you,” she said. “I think he’s a much better bet than Gibson. You’ve got to track him down, ask him to do that, and tell him the truth.”
“You’re right,” I said. “God, why the heck did I lie to him? I never do things like that.”
Viv looked at me, and I couldn’t quite read her expression. “No, you don’t,” she said. “But I think I get why.”
“Oh, really? Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. Let’s finish up. Mrs. Tibbetts promised a surprise for dinner.”
“Oh no, I really hope she doesn’t cook that black-and-white-speckled chicken for us; she’s become my favorite pet,” I said, and we both started laughing as we went back to finishing our chores.
It was drizzling when we pulled into the camp the next morning. My eyes were puffy, and I was a bundle of nerves. I had woken up with the roosters, going over everything in my head, praying that we could wow Judith Chambers and Harvey Gibson with our skills and charisma.
“Why does it have to be raining this morning?” I said as we opened up the side of the truck and pushed down the counter. Jimmy jumped out and hooked us up to the water.
“Because it’s England,” Viv said.
“It’s hardly rain at all,” Jimmy said. “Just a sprinkle trickling down; ain’t nothing to it, really.”
“Okay, Dottie, you’re going to play at least three songs today, yes?” I said. “‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’—they all love that one. And have you decided on the other two? Oh, Viv—don’t forget to put the scales on the counter today. We actually have to weigh the water and the flour.”
“Fiona, honey, you told us that three times on the way here this morning and at least another ten last night,” Viv said, slamming the scale on the counter next to the doughnut machine. “And if you ask Dottie what songs she’s playing again, I’m going to smack you.”
“And I’m going to let her,” Dottie said. “You need to relax, Fiona; it’s going to be fine.”
I looked at both of them, knowing they were right, but it didn’t calm my nerves one bit.
“I’m sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath and gripping the counter. “You’re right, and I’ll try not to be such a nag. Let’s get ready.”
We were setting up the counter with our guest log, cigarettes, gum, and Life Savers. It was our second time at this particular camp, and the welcome back made me feel better about the day ahead. Lots of greetings of “Hey, Boston!” as the GIs started to line up with their canteen cups.
Nelson Carmichael, a young, energetic dark-haired private from West Virginia, came running up to the Clubmobile. “Oh, hey, can me and a couple of my buddies help you girls make the doughnuts? Please?”
“I don’t know, Nelson. It’s a big day; Red Cross brass are coming,” I said, biting my lip. “They’ll be here in an hour or so.”
“But last time you said I could help this time,” he said. I had completely forgotten.
“Aw, let him help,” Viv said. “It’ll make us look good, having soldiers happily helping us. And we need to make at least one batch while we’re here.”
“Please?” he said again, holding his hands in prayer and batting his blue eyes at me.
“All right,” I said, shaking my head, laughing despite myself.
“Hey, that’s swell, thanks so much,” he said, flashing a
huge smile. “I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later, Nelson came back with his two friends, George, a tall, skinny Southerner with bad teeth, and Alan, a slight young man with unusually large ears.
The coffee urns were on the counter, and the already-made doughnuts were stacked neatly in their trays. But with the six of us inside, we could barely turn around. We had a long line of hungry soldiers waiting, and I started to panic.
“Okay, everyone, listen up. We need to have a system,” I said. “Dottie, you and Nelson mix the next batch of dough for the doughnuts. George, you grab soldiers’ cups and squirt milk in them, and hand them to Viv to pour the coffee. Alan, you help me hand out the doughnuts. And someone start the Victrola. I almost forgot—put a record on and blast it, something fun. Don’t let us down, boys; it’s a big day.”
“Pistol Packin’ Mama” by Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters played over the loudspeakers, and the soldiers waiting in line cheered as we poured the first cups of coffee.
We were working like a well-oiled machine as the jeeps carrying the Red Cross officials and press drove up. I spotted Major Bill driving Harvey Gibson, Liz, and Miss Chambers. Talking and laughing with our boys, Viv and I smiled our biggest Red Cross smiles as the photographer ran over and started snapping photos.
I was beginning to relax, feeling like this day might go just fine, when I heard Dottie let out a cry of pain.
“Oh no. Oh no, this isn’t good,” Nelson said behind me. “Fiona!”
I whipped around to see Dottie with a huge gash down her forearm. Nelson grabbed a cloth and started to wrap it.
“Oh my God, Dottie,” I said, putting my arm around her. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“I was getting some lard out of the damn can and I sliced my arm. I was trying to hurry, and I didn’t remove the lid all the way; it’s my own damn fault.”
The cloth that her arm was wrapped in was already soaked with blood, so Viv grabbed some more cloths from one of the upper cabinets and shoved them at us.
“It’s pretty deep; she’s going to need to go to the hospital to get this stitched up,” Nelson said. “Alan, tell someone to call for the ambulance.”
