LT. COL. ROBERT H. TERRILL
COMMANDING OFFICER
EIGHTH AIR FORCE
Audrey took a slow breath, looked into June’s waiting eyes and said calmly, “He’s missing, June. His plane was shot down over Normandy, France.”
“Oh, God!” She clasped her hands to her head. “Oh, God.”
“It means there’s hope.” Audrey forced June to look at her. “For now there’s hope. He could have parachuted out. You know they won’t leave him behind, even if he’s captured. You know that.”
“Yes,” June replied, her eyes finally focusing. “Yes, he’s a tough soldier, he’s smart. They’ll find him. They will.”
Audrey offered a reserved smile, an attempt to comfort, to affirm what she honestly could not in her own mind. She had no idea of the statistics for MIAs coming home alive, but she feared that they weren’t favorable. She feared that for June.
Not knowing what more she could say or do to ease June’s fear and her pain, Audrey was relieved when a soldier appeared and offered his hand to June. Like an obedient child she took it and then his arm. “I’ll take you home,” he said.
But the worry didn’t stop with June, and the world turning ass-end-up for her. Like most everyone, Audrey was attuned to the rumors, hints that the war was winding down, which was both wonderful and unsettling all at the same time. The end of the war would mean lives would be spared, the world stabilized and safer. Rationing would end and industry would move from supplying the war effort to making products available and lives easier for everyone. But it was unlikely that a plant the magnitude of Willow Run and its own army of workers would have a purpose in peace to match the need in war. There were a number of rumors about the plant’s future. Ford might sell it, or part of it, to the highest bidder. He might convert it into a manufacturing plant. Or the government might take it over as a military base.
More than a rumor, though, was the fact that thousands of military men would be returning home to a civilian life once again. And when they did, they would need jobs, jobs right now being held by women. Thousands of women, many working since the beginning of the war, now earned their own money, had skills and knowledge in industry that they wouldn’t have otherwise, and an independence few would have imagined previously. What would happen to them once they were no longer needed?
Many, of course, welcomed the chance to return to the life they had before the war. For those whose husbands and boyfriends came home healthy and able to work, life would be what they wanted. But what about women like June, needing to provide, needing to continue working? Alone for who knows how long? And for those who wanted to work, those who would always be self-sufficient, independent, in need of good jobs and a good wage—what of them?
The end of the war offered a lot of unanswered questions and an uncertain future for Audrey.
Chapter 32
Uneventful was certainly not a word used to describe most days since the war began. Normal, the expected and accepted, had been redefined. The world, broken into game pieces, had been shaken and tossed down to settle in an unexpected arrangement. A new norm, at least for now.
But since the events surrounding Amelia’s rescue, Ruth’s days could realistically qualify as uneventful. They had become wonderfully routine. Work was tiring and rewarding. Love was breathless and full, calming and sure. No surprises, no challenges. Until today.
Lillian Barton’s phone call wasn’t unusual, holiday cards, occasional letters and phone calls were common. This one’s message, though, was not. At the end of the conversation Lillian said something that would disrupt the calm. “There’s someone I want you and Audrey to meet.”
Their first sight of her, lying there in the hospital bed, made Ruth want to look away. She had to force herself to look at the battered face, one eye swollen shut and purple, her lips twice their normal size, bloody and split. One arm was wrapped and strapped tightly across her chest.
Ruth and Audrey stood in the hallway outside the room listening to Lillian’s explanation. “Her name is Mary,” she said. “The official report is that the injuries are a result of a fall down the stairs.”
“Official?” Audrey asked.
“She has an injury to her abdomen that surely did not come from a fall,” Lillian replied. “And since this is the fourth accident resulting in a hospital visit in the last year, I was sure there was more to it, and finally she told me. It’s her husband. That’s why I called you.”
“Why did he do this?” Ruth asked.
“This time?” Lillian said with a tilt of her head. “This time Mary bought a blouse for herself without asking him. Each time the injuries have gotten worse.”
Ruth looked again into the room. “So—”
“I think I know what you want,” Audrey said, looking directly at Lillian.
“Talk to her,” Lillian said.
She didn’t need to say more. Ruth caught Audrey’s eyes and acknowledged her nod. They entered the room knowing that neither of them would be able to walk away from the challenge ahead.
It wasn’t merely pain registering in Mary’s eyes. Ruth recognized the fear immediately. She had seen it in Amelia’s eyes, heard it in the barely controlled quiver beneath their words. The trust in Lillian, and in two strangers, was born of desperation. That, too, was in Mary’s eyes, pleading for an answer, for a solution.
So, they asked the questions and got their answers. Yes, she made up stories about how she got her injuries; it was embarrassing that she couldn’t please her husband. Yes, Nurse Barton had told her that good men do not beat their wives. No, she had no friends she could stay with. Her parents believed that she should be a better wife. She tried to do what her husband wanted, but she was rarely right. Yes, she was afraid of him. Yes, she wanted to leave.
In the dim solitude of the car Ruth’s words took on an unusual magnitude. “What are we going to do?”
Audrey hesitated as the lights of a passing car illuminated her face. “What do you want to do?”
“Something,” Ruth replied. “Don’t we have to do something?”
Audrey pulled her eyes from the road to meet Ruth’s in the near darkness. “Lillian expects us to.” Her eyes returned to the road. “She didn’t have to say it. I’m beginning to think she knows us better than we know ourselves.”
“She’ll help us,” Ruth said. “That is the one thing I am sure of.”
“She is sure of something, too. That we can’t walk away from this.”
Had this become their mission, their secret call to arms? Ruth asked herself the question already knowing the answer, already plotting the path forward.
She finished packing her bag with fresh clothes and straightened the folded coverlet at the end of the bed. It was a perfect part of the solution, the room she rarely used, the rent already paid. She would talk with Mrs. Welly tonight. And a job. Her thoughts were jumping ahead so quickly it made her anxious. There was so much to do, so many people to talk to. An old excitement began to edge out worry and apprehension. There was a whole new life out there for Mary. Just as there was for Amelia. A new chance, a new hope. She would feel the excitement of it as soon as she was safe and as soon as fear bowed to the power of independence. One decision, made and trusted, would spur the next, and then the next, until she believed her own strength. That’s the way it worked.
Ruth ran down the stairs. There was a mission at hand.
Ruth was talking so fast, starting the second that she walked in the door, that Audrey grasped her by the shoulders and met the dancing eyes with a bright smile. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Slower, slower, so I can make sense of all this excitement.”
“Mary,” Ruth replied after a longer than normal breath, “she can stay in my room. I talked with Mrs. Welly and it’s fine. The rent is paid, so Mary doesn’t have to have money right now. And Martin at The Bomber can take her on part-time. It’ll give some of the girls much needed breaks, as long as Mary is okay with an ever-changing schedule.” She took another
breath.
The look on Ruth’s face was the look Audrey needed, the one she had been waiting for and hadn’t even realized it. She knew, though, the moment she saw it. There in her eyes, in the pink of her cheeks, and sounding in the passion of her words was the strength—the wonderful, essential strength.
She wrapped her arms around Ruth and hugged her tightly. “Oh, I love you,” she said. “Oh, how much I love you.”
“You worry way too much, my love.” Ruth kissed the side of Audrey’s head, her cheek, her neck. “I know why. I do know. But you mustn’t worry anymore—about me, about us.”
Audrey held her close, felt the promise tighten around her, and vowed never to let go.
“There’s going to be only one Velma,” Ruth whispered against Audrey’s ear. “One Velma to love and cherish. Only one Velma to lose.”
Chapter 33
April 1945
It started as a whisper. A cook, tears streaming down his cheeks, whispered the news from the radio in the kitchen. Martin stood for a long moment in the silence, his head bowed, his hand covering his eyes.
As he moved slowly toward the middle of the diner, with no apparent purpose, the customers began to notice. Many stopped talking, held the next bite, watched. He stopped, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, and cleared his throat.
“NBC has just announced,” his voice wavered noticeably and tears filled his eyes, spilling uncontrollably down his face. He struggled to continue. “President Roosevelt is dead.”
An immediate and collective gasp filled the room, then fell to silence. Shock halted thought, stared into the incomprehensible, prevented any other response. They were, all of them, suddenly riding a ship without a captain—without their longtime leader—the only one many of them had ever known.
The questions and fears beginning to surface were no doubt the same ones filling Ruth’s thoughts as she dropped heavily onto the closest stool. As tears coursed down her own cheeks, Ruth asked the questions. What would happen now? Who would lead the troops, the country, keep them safe, win the war? Their plight was left to a Vice President, a man untried and untested. A man the world knew so little about. Who would talk to them now, come into their living rooms to calm their fears and keep the home front solid?
They huddled at the table near the radio as they had done every night now for weeks, wondering, like the rest of the nation, who this man, Truman, was. Ruth focused vaguely on the radio, and Audrey wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and stared blankly at the cream-colored contents. They were waiting for a sign that the new President had the reins firmly in hand, that he could and would guide the most powerful forces in the world to victory. It was as if the nation was holding its collective breath until they heard an affirmation or saw the unmistakable bold print headline splashed across the front page of the newspaper. Their voice of reassurance and guidance was silent now, the strong hand at the helm gone. So they waited, night after night, for a sign that they could believe in their new leader.
Then, just as they had wished it, came the voice they needed to hear.
“This is a solemn but glorious hour. I only wish that Franklin D. Roosevelt had lived to witness this day. General Eisenhower informs me that the forces of Germany have surrendered to the United Nations. The flags of freedom fly all over Europe . . .”
Audrey met Ruth’s eyes, wide with hope and wonder, and motioned her to wait as she started to speak. They listened intently as President Truman continued. He spoke of the sacrifices so many had paid, the terrible price of freedom from evil. And then, what they and an entire nation were wondering: what this meant in the large scheme of things.
“If I could give you a single watchword for the coming months, that word is: work, work, and more work. We must work to finish the war. Our victory is but half won. The West is free, but the East is still in bondage to the treacherous tyranny of the Japanese. When the last Japanese division has surrendered unconditionally, then only will our fighting job be done. . . . The job ahead is no less important, no less urgent, no less difficult than the task which now happily is done. . . . I call upon every American to stick to his post until the last battle is won. Until that day, let no man abandon his post or slacken his effort.”
The broadcast continued with the President’s official Proclamation, but where the effort stood and what was needed now was clear.
The initial excitement on Ruth’s face had tempered. “Do you think it will take as long to win the Eastern part of the war? Look how many years the war has lasted. How many more years, how many more lives is it going to take?”
“We can only hope that it will end soon,” Audrey said. “Our campaigns there have been steady since we entered, and now we can concentrate our efforts there, so we should have hope.”
“Just to think that this war could finally be over—it’s a good thought, such a good thought.”
Audrey watched the flash of joy return to Ruth’s face. “Well, maybe we should celebrate the freedom of half the world.”
“There’s going to be a lot of that going on, you can be sure,” Ruth added. “Do you want to go to the USO?”
“I know most of the crew will be there, but I really don’t want to fend off drunken soldiers and plant workers, do you?”
The thought was simultaneous, the natural choice. “Let’s go—”
“To Nona’s,” Ruth finished.
Mrs. Bailey met them at the side door. “Did you hear?” she said. “It’s a victory day for sure. Makes me wanna dance like I was twenty again.”
“You get some music on then,” Audrey followed with a smile, “and we will do just that.”
Nona’s smile was wider and brighter than Audrey had ever seen as she rushed to greet them. “What great news,” she said, wrapping Ruth in a tight embrace.
“Worthy of celebration,” added Audrey. “So here we are with the makings of white-peach purée and, at least for tonight, no thought of tomorrow.”
“What drink is that?” Mrs. Bailey asked. “Sounds too fancy for this simple soul.”
“One of the simplest drinks I know,” Audrey replied. “Concocted by an Italian and adopted by my father.” She placed a bag on the table and reached inside. “Drop this peach into cold champagne and let it fizz. Killer diller,” she said, adding a big smile.
Much of the country was indeed celebrating. The big bands dominated the airwaves, signaling hope and the best reason to dance in a very long time.
“It’s not something that you forget how to do,” Audrey claimed as she pushed the coffee table to the side of the room and took Mrs. Bailey’s hand. “Come on, there’s nothing like swinging with Benny.”
It was contagious, the sense of relief, of reason to be happy, that for now lifted up the weight of war. Ruth grasped Nona’s hand and the living room came alive with the steps and swings of the Lindy Hop.
They danced and laughed and shared their joy until Mrs. Bailey collapsed with a giggle onto the davenport. “I haven’t had this much fun in years,” she said, as she caught her breath. “But you girls are wearing me out.”
The girls, though, weren’t done. As the harmony of the Andrew Sisters replaced the jazz tempo of Benny Goodman, the three of them sang along to the tribute to the Bugle Boy of Company B. It had been far too long since Audrey had felt the pure joy of song, of letting go of worry, of releasing constraint. And it felt wonderful.
So they kept going, singing along song after song, while Audrey reveled in watching Ruth. Her eyes sparkled and smiled, she bounced with a happy energy, and the vision made Audrey’s heart sing. Yes, she could say it—finally, again—she was happy.
Mrs. Bailey clapped, and sang the lyrics that she knew, until Nona and Ruth dropped onto the davenport beside her.
“Oh, you two are so subtle,” Audrey said, hands resting on her hips. “You could have just asked me for fresh drinks.”
“Please?” Ruth asked.
“For those smiles,” she replied, “anything.”
; Anything. It wasn’t an exaggeration. To feel the happiness, to see it in their eyes and their smiles, especially Ruth’s, she would walk on hot coals, swim an ocean; she would kidnap a girl. And what lit her soul as brightly as the noonday sun was that she knew Ruth felt the same way. Yes, she was happier than she had ever been.
She carried a tray of fresh drinks to the living room in time to hear the question again, the same one that no doubt was first on the nation’s mind. This time Nona asked it.
“Do you think it will take as long to defeat the Japanese?”
Audrey was ready with her hopeful answer, but Mrs. Bailey gave one that was unexpected.
“I got it on good word that it won’t be long now and Japan is going to have to surrender.”
“Good word?” Nona asked.
“If you know people who clean the right houses, you hear things,” replied Mrs. Bailey. “People in government are talkin’ about the end of the war. Nobody was sayin’ anything like that ’til last month. Gotta be somethin’ to that.”
Mrs. Bailey’s “good word” was in doubt. That much was obvious from the less than immediate, less than enthusiastic response.
“I sure hope that’s true,” Ruth replied. “It would sure save a lot of lives.”
Chapter 34
A war nearing its end meant realistic hope for security, for the United States, for the world, and an end to worldwide loss of life. It meant an end to rationing, an end to personal and community sacrifice, but what it meant right now was an end to the amazing production that had made Audrey and everyone at the Willow Run plant so proud. A finished Liberator out the door every 55 minutes—25 bombers a day—had come to an end. The numbers were no longer necessary. On June 28 the last Liberator, number 8,685, rolled out through the giant door, with the name Henry Ford; it seemed fitting.
The Liberators of Willow Run Page 19