‘Can we go home now?’ she asked.
‘I’m being sent to another hospital for some tests,’ he said. ‘Routine procedure before a trial.’
Margaret nodded. On her way out she stopped the doctor and asked where Lawrence was going. ‘He’s being transferred to the 96th General Hospital near Worcester for observation,’ he told her. ‘They have specialist psychiatric facilities there.’
‘But why?’ asked Margaret. ‘There’s nothing wrong with him, is there?’
‘We have to determine whether he’s responsible for his actions,’ the man told her. ‘That requires a neuro-psychiatric examination.’
Before long, Lawrence was passed fit to stand trial, and once he was released from the hospital, he was taken to London for the court martial. Margaret had been called as a witness, and she travelled down separately. Her mind was in turmoil – as well as worrying about Lawrence’s impending trial, she had just learned from a doctor that she was pregnant again.
On the day of the court martial, Margaret felt sick with shame as she watched the first witness take the stand – a Miss G. M. Blayney from the American Red Cross club on Charles Street, Mayfair. ‘That’s Captain Rambo, over there,’ she said, pointing to Lawrence, who looked down at the floor. ‘I recall cashing a cheque for him on 24 January.’
The young woman was presented with the cheque. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said. ‘I took it from him and gave him ten pounds cash for it.’
The cheque had been returned from the bank marked ‘insufficient funds’.
‘Thank you, Miss Blayney,’ the judge said.
Next, a Mrs Gwendolen Sommerville was called from the Red Cross’s Jules Club. ‘I cashed a check for Captain Rambo on 15 January for ten pounds,’ she said. ‘There’s an entry in our club’s cheque registry.’
Again, there had been no money in Lawrence’s bank account.
One after another, women from the Red Cross clubs stood up to testify that Lawrence had obtained cash from them with cheques that were returned marked ‘insufficient funds’ or ‘no account’. Twelve times he had pulled the same trick – at the Duchess Club, the Reindeer Club, the Nurses Club, the Washington Club, Rainbow Corner – all the most famous GI hangouts in central London. In total, he had swindled them out of £103.
Margaret was appalled. Of all the institutions to steal from, to target the Red Cross seemed beyond the pale.
Lawrence’s bank manager, Mr Wigmore, from Barclays Bank on Oxford Street, told how Lawrence had been overdrawn for a year, by sums of as much as £96. ‘I was constantly in touch with Captain Rambo by means of personal interviews, telephone calls and letters, and was continually pressing him to repay the money he owed the bank,’ he told the court.
No wonder Lawrence had seemed distracted and fretful all the time, thought Margaret.
To her surprise, her own bank manager from Lloyds was also called to testify. He identified seven of the cheques written to the Red Cross and told the court: ‘These cheques were taken from a book issued to a customer who was then named Miss Boyle.’
Margaret gasped. He had stolen her chequebook to carry out his fraud!
Next, their old landlady, Mrs Campion, testified about the unpaid bills and the cost of the smashed electrical fire that they had left behind at 58 Pembridge Villas. ‘Captain Rambo assured me the money had been sent, but I never received anything and the amount is still due,’ she said. ‘I also wrote to Captain Rambo’s wife.’ As she spoke she caught Margaret’s eye.
Margaret felt her cheeks go red. She wondered if the whole court thought she had known of her husband’s crimes and had been in on them.
Luigi Martini, head waiter at Kettner’s, the restaurant where she and Lawrence had gone for their very first date, was next to point at him across the courtroom. ‘That is the gentleman I served,’ he said, in a thick Italian accent. ‘His food and drink bill came to five pounds, sixteen shillings and sixpence, and he gave me a cheque.’ Once again it was from Margaret’s chequebook, and had been returned marked ‘no account’.
Finally, it was Margaret’s turn to speak. She took the stand shakily and was sworn in, and was asked to explain her relationship with Lawrence.
‘I met Lawrence Rambo on 25 December 1942, and we married in October 1943,’ she told the court. ‘Our daughter was born in December.’
‘What did you know of his financial situation?’
She hesitated. ‘I knew that his financial troubles were worrying him, because he couldn’t sleep and he drank too much.’
‘And how did he seem to you in his state of mind?’
‘He was restless and nervous,’ she said. Then, fighting back a sob, she added, ‘He seemed to be a different man from the one I knew.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Rambo. That will be all.’
She returned gratefully to her seat.
Lawrence had failed to enter a plea in response to the charges, and Margaret wondered what on earth he was going to say to explain himself.
As he took the stand, he looked contrite and his brown eyes glittered as if he might be about to cry. He read from a written statement, admitting all the charges against him and throwing himself on the leniency of the court. Lawrence explained that during his years in the Canadian Army earlier in the war, he had fallen into drinking heavily and spending more than he earned. He had got his family to send him money several times from his bank account in Georgia. When he left the States, there had been $2,000 in the account, but now it was all gone.
‘I have never been a particularly good manager of money matters, and I can now see very clearly that I simply weakened under the strain of three years of living under conditions of excess drinking and both domestic and money troubles, and although it was very wrong and very foolish, I began to default on debts,’ he said. ‘It was then that I cashed the cheques listed against me in the charges in this case.
‘I have made a terrible mistake during the past several months, and I fully realise it. I do not know whether my nerves were affected, or what happened to my judgement, but I can thoroughly understand how it must appear to anyone who has not experienced the pressure caused by my personal finances.
‘Unfortunately for me and for my family, I have a wife and a four-month-old baby who will suffer more than I will. I hope that some punishment can be assessed against me that will enable me to remain in the Army so that I may immediately have a chance to begin paying off the money represented by these cheques, so that my wife and daughter will not be made to suffer for what I have done.
‘I appeal to the mercy of the court, but I stand ready to meet whatever sentence it adjudges against me with a humble and contrite heart, and regardless of the sentence, with a firm resolution that I shall never again give way to the temptation that put me in such difficulties.’
It was a moving speech, and Lawrence seemed genuinely regretful. Despite her shock and anger over what he had done, Margaret couldn’t help feeling sorry for him as she thought of the mental anguish he had been going through.
Nevertheless, the judge decided not to grant his request to save his job. Lawrence was found guilty, and sentenced to be dismissed from the Army. He was to be repatriated as soon as possible.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he told Margaret at the end of the trial. ‘Can you forgive me? I told the judge I would never give way again, and I meant it. I’ll never touch another drop of alcohol. If you come with me to Georgia we can start afresh – as a family. Promise me you’ll follow me to America. Promise me.’
Margaret had no idea what to do. How could she trust Lawrence’s words after what he had done? But then, what kind of life would she have if she stayed behind? She had no one in England to support her, and now with another baby on the way, who knew what would become of her? She didn’t want to end up like her mother, raising her children alone, and she couldn’t bear the thought of telling her father that her marriage had ended in failure.
Lawrence’s dark eyes looked at her earnestly. Maybe he
just wasn’t cut out for this war, she thought. Back in Georgia, with his family around him, things would be different. She had to hope so.
‘All right then, I promise,’ she said.
8
Gwendolyn
Early one morning towards the end of May 1944, Lyn woke to a rumbling noise outside her window. She leaped out of bed and flung open the curtains.
In the street below, an endless column of American tanks trundled along at a glacial speed, while dozens of jeeps were parked up on the pavement.
One was sitting right in Lyn’s front garden, and when she went out to investigate, the driver smiled at her. ‘Want a doughnut?’ he asked, gesturing to a Red Cross van up the street.
‘Yes, please,’ she replied.
The man went and fetched a couple of doughnuts, handing one to Lyn. She had never tried this particular American delicacy before, and the moist, sugary dough tasted like heaven.
She learned that the young man’s name was Eugene Gidcombe – ‘from Hermiston, Oregon, ma’am’ – and that he was passing through the town on his way to a staging area further down the coast.
From the build-up of troops and vehicles in Southampton it was obvious that the long-awaited D-Day was imminent, although officially the plans remained top-secret. Lyn knew that Eugene would soon be fighting in France.
‘Are you scared?’ she asked him.
‘Of what?’
‘Going to war.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Were you scared when the Germans bombed Southampton?’
‘Not really,’ Lyn replied honestly.
Eugene laughed. ‘Hey, do all limey girls talk funny like you?’
‘You’re the ones who talk funny!’ Lyn replied.
They sat chatting for a while, until the time came for him to move on. ‘Can you do something for me?’ he asked her.
‘Of course,’ Lyn said.
‘Scratch your name on the side of my jeep. It’ll give me something to remind me of you when I’m on the other side.’
Eugene offered her a pocketknife and she carved a shaky ‘Lyn’ on the side of the vehicle. He took down her address and promised to write to her.
Lyn waved goodbye to Eugene and he went on his way, but she found that every new jeep that stopped outside her door contained a young man equally eager for a little conversation before he went off to face the war. Soon Lyn had given out her address to half a dozen GIs, all of them promising to write.
As the vehicles trundled out of Southampton, she wondered if she would hear from any of them again.
On the morning of 6 June, the sky above Southampton was filled with planes heading towards the Continent. Meanwhile, a body of men and machines comparable in size to the city of Birmingham was making its way across the Channel.
Lyn sat glued to the wireless, desperate for news of the invasion. At 8 a.m., the BBC announced that paratroopers had landed in France overnight, and just after 10 a.m. news broke that ground troops had landed in Normandy. A lump formed in Lyn’s throat as she thought of Eugene and the other GIs who had pulled up outside her door.
On the first day of the invasion more than 4,000 Allied soldiers were killed, among them 2,500 Americans. Many never even made it ashore.
Over the next few weeks, Lyn was surprised to receive letters from all the GIs who had asked for her address. Eugene wrote most vividly, describing the liberation of Paris and the hordes of young French girls weeping and throwing flowers on his jeep.
For Lyn, the letters were a welcome distraction from thoughts of another GI. She was still struggling with her feelings for Russ, the charming Mexican-American who was so devoted to his wife. They had continued to spend tantalising yet chaste evenings together under the supervision of her parents, who believed they were doing their patriotic duty in welcoming a GI into their house.
One day, Russ surprised Lyn by presenting her with a gold bracelet. ‘Could you take it to a jeweller’s and have it inscribed?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Lyn replied excitedly. ‘What should it say?’
‘To Larina, from Russ,’ he said wistfully.
Lyn hid her disappointment and dutifully took the bracelet to the shop. She watched as the words were carved into the metal, wishing the bracelet bore her name instead of Larina’s.
As more and more Americans arrived in Southampton after D-Day, the city was soon even busier than it had been before. Over 60 per cent of all American personnel and equipment shipped to the Continent came through the town.
The Polygon Hotel, where the American officers stayed, was busier than ever, and Lyn and her workmates were there every Saturday night. One evening, they were eating dinner before the dancing began when she heard a commotion by the entrance.
‘I’m sorry,’ the maître d’ was saying, ‘but it would disturb our clientele.’
Standing behind him was a group of men in RAF uniform, their faces severely disfigured by burns, like those of many pilots who had survived the Battle of Britain.
Lyn’s heart went out to them. Her older siblings, Bunty and Ron, were in the Air Force, so she felt a natural sympathy towards the men.
But the maître d’ was resolute, and the group reluctantly shuffled away.
As they left, a young American lieutenant stood up from his table and followed after them. He didn’t look much like the typical GI Joe – he was slim, dark and delicate looking – but something about him caught Lyn’s attention.
‘You should be ashamed,’ he told the maître d’ on his way out.
A few minutes later he was back, but there was no sign of the disfigured young airmen.
‘Excuse me,’ Lyn said as he passed her table. ‘Wouldn’t they come back?’
‘No,’ the American replied. ‘And to be honest I don’t blame them.’ He returned to his table just long enough to pay for his food, before leaving.
Lyn went back to her dinner, but all through the rest of the evening she couldn’t help thinking of the airmen, and how disgusting the maître d’s behaviour was.
On Monday morning, Lyn was cycling to work at the Chamber of Commerce when she caught sight of the American lieutenant. ‘Hello!’ she called, jumping down from her bike. ‘I just wanted to thank you for what you did at the hotel on Saturday.’
‘Well, I thought it was a low blow,’ he said. ‘Those guys were willing to give their lives for their country, and to be treated that way . . .’
‘I couldn’t believe it either,’ Lyn agreed. ‘Are you going to file a complaint?’
‘I’d love to, but I can’t. We’ve got enough issues between Yanks and Brits as it is.’
‘Well, you did what you could,’ she told him, as she hopped back on her bike and rode off.
The next day, Lyn saw the GI again on her way into work, and again she stopped to speak to him.
‘Morning,’ he said politely, giving her a smile. Lyn noticed that he had never called her ‘baby’ or ‘sugar’.
‘Morning,’ she replied. ‘I just realised I never found out your name. I’m Lyn.’
‘Ben Patrino,’ he said.
Lyn learned that Ben was from California, that he was Italian-American – she thought the Italian part sounded very romantic – and that he supervised the black troops who loaded and unloaded the cargo in the Port Company.
In the days that followed, the two of them bumped into each other regularly and Lyn found herself looking forward to it, although somehow she never got round to mentioning her new friend to Russ. Ben might not have had the Mexican ensign’s easy charm, but the more Lyn saw of him the more she liked him. He was polite and softly spoken, so different from most GIs she had met.
After several more brief encounters, Ben finally got up the courage to ask Lyn out to the movies. She found herself saying yes, and only afterwards thought of Russ with a jolt. But then, why shouldn’t she go out on a date? Russ was allowed to spend time with her despite having a wife in Florida.
When Lyn arrived home that afternoon, her mother told her she
had just missed a visit from Russ. ‘He’s left something for you on the mantelpiece,’ she said.
Lyn rushed into the front room to find a crisp white envelope waiting for her, and ripped it open impatiently. Inside, Russ explained that he was being transferred away from Southampton. ‘To my little English girl-friend,’ he wrote, ‘I pray that someday you will find what I have – the happiness of a loving and peaceful marriage.’
He had included a photograph of himself, looking intensely at the camera, and signed it, ‘To Lyn, without you I would have been lost.’
Lyn held the letter to her heart. She felt choked at the thought of never seeing Russ again and filled with disappointment that their romance had come to its inevitable, unsatisfying end.
In a desultory mood, she put the letter back on the mantelpiece and went up to change for her date with Ben. She couldn’t believe she had missed the chance to say goodbye to Russ.
When she met up with Ben outside the cinema, he beamed at her. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her inside.
‘Thanks,’ Lyn replied a little weakly.
It was a relief to take her seat in the darkened cinema and focus on the screen, rather than having to make conversation. As the film played out in front of her, Lyn’s mind kept drifting back to her dates with the Mexican ensign, to the way he had looked into her eyes and played footsie with her under the table. After a while, she realised she had no idea what was happening in the film. At least Ben seemed to be enjoying it, though – and he hadn’t even made a move to kiss her.
‘Would you like some food?’ he asked her afterwards. ‘We could see if the Polygon’s still serving.’
It was already getting late, and all Lyn really wanted was to go home and read Russ’s letter again, but now Ben had mentioned it she was pretty hungry. ‘All right,’ she replied politely. ‘That would be nice.’
Unfortunately, with a clientele made up almost exclusively of Americans, the Polygon had begun serving dinner early, and all they could offer Ben and Lyn was sardines on toast. As they ate, he told her about his former job as a book-keeper, and about his family back in California – how his dad would sit out on the porch at night playing the banjo and every Friday his mom would throw open their doors to the whole neighbourhood.
GI Brides: The Wartime Girls Who Crossed the Atlantic for Love Page 7