by Jane Healey
“I’m from Boston,” I said.
“Ah . . . Red Sox fan?”
“Of course,” I answered. “Cubs fan?”
“Are you kidding? From birth,” he said. “What do you do with yourself in Boston?”
“I work—well, I worked—as an assistant in the mayor’s office in city hall,” I said.
“Did you like it?”
“I actually really did. And I was good at my job too,” I said, thinking of my coworkers, all the girls in the office who had been so supportive after Danny went missing. “It was hectic, and every day was different, dealing with some crisis or another. But the hours flew by, and the people I worked with were nice. Mayor Tobin was a decent boss. Not perfect, but fair.”
“So, what made you do this?” he asked. “I mean, I have to go. Guys have no choice. I’m always impressed when I meet girls like you who want to go to the war. Why’d you and—your two friends you said, right? Why’d you girls decide to do this?”
I paused and looked at him. This was another test. Since the beginning of the week, I’d been asked this question dozens of times. I had yet to share my story with the soldiers I had met on the ship. I swallowed the grief down. I hadn’t been chosen as a Clubmobile girl so I could tell soldiers my sad story. I was there to help them get through the war, not remind them about its horrors.
“Yes, my two best friends from Boston’s Teachers College are here with me. After seeing so many of our friends and family, so many men the same age as us, go over and do their part, it didn’t seem right to be on the sidelines anymore.
“We went to a Saturday matinee a while back, and we saw this reel of Red Cross Clubmobile girls all over Europe and Africa helping the troops, and that did it. The three of us had to apply. My friend Viv was gung ho from the start. She loves art and design and got a job at this prestigious advertising firm in downtown Boston last year, but they hardly ever let her do anything except serve coffee. She figured if she’s just going to serve coffee and doughnuts, it might as well be for the troops.
“But my friend Dottie, the shy one? She took some more convincing. She was a music teacher at an elementary school in Back Bay, in Boston. She loved her job, loved her kids, so she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave them. It was the thought of me and Viv traveling the world without her that finally changed her mind. And she has a brother in the Pacific. A bunch of our friends from college are fighting too. We just felt like it was a great opportunity . . . And I’m sorry, I’m rambling on . . .” I felt my cheeks grow warm and took a sip of beer.
“No, I asked. I was curious,” he said. “We’ve all got friends and family in this war now . . . ,” he said, running his fingers through his cropped hair. He pointed at me. “I bet your sweetheart is already over there too, right? Or in the Pacific or North Africa maybe? You must have a fella, a pretty girl like you.” The foghorn punctuated his compliment.
I hoped he didn’t see the shadow that crossed my face when he said it. I shook my head, probably one too many times, and said, “Thank you, but no. It was just the thought of being able to travel together and serve—we thought if the three of us could get accepted, how amazing would that be? How about you? Do you have someone back home waiting?” I was eager to change the subject.
“I do,” he said, smiling even bigger than before. “Mary Jane Abbott. She’s an English teacher with the prettiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Want to see her picture?” He was already reaching into his pocket for it.
“Of course,” I said as he handed it to me. It was a picture of a striking dark-haired girl with enormous doe eyes. She was wearing an eyelet dress and laughing into the camera.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“She is.” He sighed. “And maybe she’ll actually wait for me.”
“You really doubt that she will?” I asked, frowning.
“A little,” he said, his smile fading. “I’ve heard too many stories. The Dear John letters guys over there get, telling them their girl’s engaged or even married to someone else.”
“I have a feeling she’ll wait for you,” I said. I wanted it to be true for this nice, handsome piano player. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“Thanks,” he said, not reassured at all. He looked down and fingered a few of the keys.
He started to play again, and some of the other soldiers looked up in appreciation. It was “Moonlight Cocktail,” a song that Glenn Miller’s band had made hugely popular a couple of years before. It was still one of my favorites, and I watched as he closed his eyes and disappeared into the music. I’m not sure if it was the melody or the beer, but I felt much more relaxed than when the foghorn had jolted me awake.
“Well, I should try to go back to sleep, although I’m not sure I will,” I said after he finished the song. “Between the foghorn and my friend Viv’s snoring . . . oh, and I think I actually heard mice scurrying around our cabin tonight too. Ick.” I made a sour face.
Joe laughed. “Good luck, Fiona Denning. It was nice to meet you.”
He stood up when I did and shook my hand.
“You too, Joe. Thanks for the beer. If I don’t see you in the next couple of days before we disembark, good luck,” I said.
“Thanks.” He smiled and gave a small salute as I turned to go.
I was about to open the door to the deck when I heard, “Fiona!”
“Yes?” I said, turning back around to see Joe still standing by his piano. He walked over to me. “What’s his name?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.
“What?” I said. I felt my cheeks turn pink.
“Your guy, the one you didn’t want to talk about. What’s his name? It’s okay, you can tell me. This war’s gone on long enough I can tell . . . I can tell when someone’s lost someone.”
“His name is . . . I . . . his name was . . . is . . .” I never knew how to say it—was he past or present? He’s lost, but is he gone? “Danny. Danny Barker. He’s my fiancé,” I said finally. “He’s a second lieutenant in the air force, in the 338th Bombardment Squadron. He . . . he went missing in October of last year. Somewhere in Germany. I found out in late November.” I let out a deep breath. It was a relief to tell someone about it after keeping it such a tightly held secret all week. It felt good to acknowledge my grief.
“Missing . . . I’m sorry,” he said. “Did you hear any more after that? Do you know—”
“That was all. His parents haven’t heard anything since,” I said. “It’s been hard, the not knowing.”
“I understand,” he said, looking down and kicking at the hardwood floor. “I’ve lost a cousin. And one of my old friends from high school went missing in the South Pacific.” He looked up at me, his eyes sympathetic. I blinked a few times to avoid shedding any tears in front of this man I had just met.
“So, for the first month after I found out, I was in a complete fog,” I said, remembering my mother and sisters dragging me out of bed during that time, forcing me to eat dinner with them. The grief had swallowed me up, and I felt like I would never breathe again without the tightness in my chest, the ache in my heart. “You have to understand. We’d been going together since sophomore year of college. I’m a planner, and I had planned out my entire life with him. Danny had insisted we put our wedding plans on hold because of the war. So when I got the news . . . it almost broke me.
“When I started coming out of that fog and thinking more clearly, I felt restless,” I said. “He’s missing in action, but missing isn’t dead. What the heck happened to him? Is he gone forever? What if he’s hiding out in a village somewhere?
“So, I came up with a new plan. I decided I had to find out what happened to him. And I figured the best way to do that was to get myself to Europe, to the Continent. And for a woman, the Red Cross was one of the only options.”
“So, the real reason you’re going to war is to find your missing fiancé?” he asked, giving me a look I couldn’t decipher.
“Well, yes, that
is definitely the main reason,” I said. “I’ve only just admitted it out loud to my friends who are here with me. It’s not something I told anyone about. Don’t get me wrong, I am proud to be in the Red Cross, to get this assignment, but yes, I do want to find answers about him.”
“Even if it’s not the answer you want?” he asked softly.
“Even if it’s not,” I said, the tightness in my chest returning. “I’ve thought about that. It’s this not knowing that’s the worst part. I feel like I’m in a limbo of grieving.”
“It’s impressive,” he said, looking me in the eye with an intensity that made me blush again. “Doing this. I don’t think a lot of girls would.”
“Thanks, but I think most people would say I’m crazy,” I said, giving him a weak smile. “I’m pretty sure my friends think I am. But they know when I’ve made up my mind.”
“It’s not crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “This war is what’s crazy. But what you’re doing, if you have even a slim chance of finding out what happened to him, well, I don’t blame you for trying. It’s brave.”
“I don’t feel particularly brave,” I said with a shrug. “Anyway, I just . . . I’m not here to share my sad story. That’s not why they accepted me for this role.”
“Yes, but then, some of us . . .” He looked down at his feet again, thinking. “Look, nobody in America is getting through this war unscathed. Nobody. You don’t always have to keep quiet about your story when we get over there. This war has gone on long enough, most of us have a sad story or two by now. Sometimes it helps to talk about them. It makes everyone feel less alone.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“It’s true,” he said.
“Well, good night, Joe. I appreciate the talk.” I didn’t know what else to do, so I reached out to shake his hand again. He shook mine and put both palms over it and squeezed it before he let go.
“Me too. Good night, Fiona,” he said. “Good luck.”
I smiled and waved good-bye as the foghorn sounded again. “I’ll keep an eye out for the Twenty-Eighth Infantry when I’m over there, Captain.”
“You do that. And I’ll be sure to look out for the three Clubmobile girls from Boston,” he said.
Chapter Three
July 21, 1944
London, England
According to Viv, I slept on the train during the eight-hour ride from Scotland to Euston Station in London. She said she had drool on her shoulder to prove it. I couldn’t recall sleeping at all. I only remembered being uncomfortable, squished together with Viv, Dottie, and a bunch of other Red Cross girls on the cold, blacked-out troop train all night long. I remember Dottie falling asleep on my shoulder, and I guess I must have fallen asleep on Viv’s.
Our train had just pulled into London. We were marching through the station to the trucks that would take us to a Red Cross dorm for women, where we’d be staying for the duration of our Clubmobile training. The enormous station clock said the local time was 5:00 a.m.
“My stomach is growling,” Dottie whispered as we stood in line. “I’m famished.”
“What about your ‘gourmet’ K rations? The canned cheese product didn’t look delicious?” I asked, not able to hide my sarcasm.
“I only ate the chocolate. I couldn’t stand the look of the rest,” she replied.
Dottie was wearing her helmet and her Red Cross–issued blue wool coat so she didn’t have to carry them. She had her guitar and musette bag over one shoulder and her canteen and gas mask over the other. She looked like she was going to collapse under the weight of it all. We were awkwardly carrying all of our gear, but Dottie’s petite size and her large guitar made it that much worse for her.
“The biscuits weren’t too terrible,” Viv said, letting out a huge yawn. “Happy for the mini pack of Chesterfields included.”
“I almost smoked one hoping it would curb my appetite,” Dottie said. “But I heard they’re terrible for your vocal cords.”
“Dottie, you won’t sing in front of anyone anyway, so what does it matter?” Viv said. “One cigarette’s not going to kill you.”
“You can have my Chesterfields, Viv,” I said.
“Mine too,” Dottie said. “And that’s not true; I sing in front of my students.”
We exited the station through its enormous arches and walked toward the line of waiting army trucks. I inhaled the damp London air, refreshing after the stuffiness of the troop train.
“Hello! Hello! Red Cross, over here, this way!” Right outside the station there was a very tall woman in a Red Cross uniform holding a sign that read, WELCOME RED CROSS GIRLS! She kept calling out to us in a shrill voice, waving us over. There were already a couple dozen women from the ship standing with her.
“Hello, I’m Judith Chambers. I’m the Red Cross field director in charge of your orientation. Welcome.” She gave us a warm smile and held out her hand to me, Viv, and Dottie. Judith Chambers was probably in her late thirties, well over six feet tall with a long face, sparkling blue eyes, and dark-brown, chin-length hair. She was the tallest woman I’d ever met.
“We’re just waiting a few minutes for the rest of the group, and then I’ll take you all to the trucks that will bring you to 103 Park Street in Mayfair,” she said. “That’s where you’ll be staying for your eight days of orientation.”
“Eight days?” Dottie asked, frowning under her helmet as it fell over her face. “I thought we were in London for two weeks.”
“Yes, that was the original plan,” said Miss Chambers. “But the Red Cross executive team, with input from the military, just made the decision to shorten the orientation period to get you girls out into the field as soon as possible. One of the reasons you were selected is because you’re smart and well educated. I’m hoping you’re all fast learners too. Ever operated a doughnut machine or driven a two-ton truck before?”
Nobody said yes. I looked around, and everyone was shaking their heads with facial expressions that ranged from anxious to amused.
Miss Chambers let out a laugh and waved her hand. “Of course you haven’t! There’s nothing to it—you’ll all be fine.”
Dottie raised her eyebrows at me and Viv, not convinced.
“Um . . . Miss Chambers,” Viv said. “Why the rush to get us out in the field?”
“Well, we just don’t have enough of you to go around,” she said. “The Clubmobile program has exceeded our expectations in terms of popularity. The soldiers absolutely love it, so the military leaders want as many Clubmobiles as we can provide. We recently sent over four hundred women to the Continent after D-Day, and now we’re understaffed across the United Kingdom.”
“Wait . . . United Kingdom?” I said, feeling a rumble in my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. “In DC we were told that we’d be sent to France.”
“Yes, well, DC is always behind the times in terms of their information,” said Miss Chambers with a smile. “In this war, we’ve got to be careful when sharing news about all of our comings and goings. The English countryside is probably your fate, at least for now. Possibly Scotland, but you’ll know for sure in a couple of days.” When I didn’t smile back, she studied my face for a second before adding, “Are you okay—it’s Fiona, yes? You look a little pale.”
“I just had in my mind this whole time that we’d be going to France and then on to Germany,” I said, not wanting to explain my real motivations. “Do you think we’ll get to the Continent at some point?”
“My dear, while I can’t predict the future, it’s certainly a strong possibility,” Miss Chambers said, watching my reaction.
“How long do you think we’ll have to stay in the UK?” I asked, and I caught Viv giving me a look, telling me with her eyes to stop asking so many questions. I couldn’t help myself, though. I was upset that we would be stuck in the UK. As Danny’s last known location, Germany was where I needed to get to, however I could.
“I really can’t say; things change on a dime in this war,” Miss Chambers
said. “So, it’s somewhere in the UK for you for now, but that could change at any point, depending on the needs of our troops.” She paused before adding, “Is that going to be a problem, Fiona? Why so anxious to go elsewhere? In the Red Cross, we need to go where our troops need us.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, of course.” I looked down at my ugly black shoes, feeling my face grow hot. What was I going to do, have a tantrum about not going to the Continent? Still, I was devastated to hear that not only were we not going now, there was no guarantee that we would ever get there. My doubts and grief started creeping in again, and that familiar ache in my chest was back.
“Think of it, Fiona, the English countryside . . . ,” Dottie said, putting an arm around my shoulder. Miss Chambers had moved on to answer questions from another girl. “We won’t have to worry about not knowing the language, and we’ll see lots of beautiful, um . . . gardens . . . and I don’t know . . . English sheep? It will be great.”
“Oh, yes, English sheep and rose gardens,” said Viv with sarcasm, teasing Dottie. “It’ll be swell. Cannot wait to see those sheep. Do you think they baa with an English accent?” Dottie swatted her arm, and they both started giggling, which made me smile despite myself. I was beyond disappointed, yet I had no choice but to put on a brave face for now.
“Okay, I think we’re all here,” Miss Chambers said after the last of the Red Cross girls from the Queen Elizabeth made it over to our group. “We should start heading to the trucks. I’m sure you’re all tired and hungry and want to get—”
A terrible sound punctuated the air, like a police siren but higher pitched and more frantic.
She paused and looked up. There was another sound of something in the sky—a loud, low rumble like a motorbike, coming closer.
“What’s that sound?” I asked.
“British Royal Air Force, right?” Dottie asked, looking at Miss Chambers.
“Miss Chambers, incoming buzz bomb,” a young British soldier said loudly as he ran past our group. “We all need to take cover.”
“What on earth is that boy talking about?” Blanche Dumond asked, snapping her gum.