The Beantown Girls

by Jane Healey

  “No. Nothing new about Danny. Right at the top of the letter your sister Niamh says, ‘As of this writing, he is still considered missing in action.’”

  I let out a sigh and realized I had been holding my breath while she was reading it.

  “She would do that; she’s good that way. It’s torture, but . . . I can’t help but have hope,” I said.

  “I understand,” Frankie said. “Can I read it out loud to you? It’s really sweet. How old are they?”

  “Niamh is twenty-three; Deidre and Darcy are eighteen,” I answered. “Sure, please read the rest.”

  Frankie read the letter aloud:

  Now that we’ve got that out of the way, how are YOU? How was the trip over? Do you miss us yet? We’re putting together a care package for you. What do you need? Deidre’s knitting you a red scarf and mittens. Don’t worry, we won’t forget the Kotex! I can’t believe . . .

  The air raid sirens started, and Frankie and I jumped. We stood and scanned the skies, looking for any V-1s heading in the direction of Park Street. She handed me back the letter. We kept searching, and I could feel my heart beating in my throat.

  “Okay, if we spot one incoming, we ring the bell?” I said.

  Frankie nodded. “We ring the bell, run downstairs to knock on everyone’s doors, and then we all head to the basement, put helmets on, and pull pillows over our heads until it’s over.”

  “Frankie . . . ,” I said, pointing up to the horizon. I heard it before I spotted it—the tail end a steady, very bright-white light.

  “Yeah, that one’s coming close. Grab your helmet and let’s go!” she said, throwing her own on and running to the staircase.

  “Do you think we’ll ever get used to this?” I asked, as we flew down the stairs to warn the others, the motorcycle-like rumbling in the sky getting louder by the minute.

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  Chapter Six

  July 24, 1944

  I stood next to Dottie and Viv, cracking my knuckles as we eyed the enormous, ten-ton GMC truck in front of us with suspicion. We had just changed into the army fatigues that Norman, our British driving instructor, had thrown at us when we arrived back at his garage at Camp Griffiss for the first day of our four-day driving and maintenance course. The final two days of training would be dedicated to doughnut and coffee making.

  Our training would conclude with a ceremony featuring Harvey Gibson, head of the Red Cross in the European theater. Other Clubmobile trios, including Blanche, Martha, and Frankie, were scattered across the base getting their own private lessons with an instructor.

  From the beginning, I had been excited about the idea of being a Clubmobile girl. But I was not excited about driving the behemoth in front of me.

  “I’m not sure why we have to have these lessons now if we’re staying in England and going to have our own driver here,” Dottie said.

  “Exactly,” Viv said, looking down at the fatigues she was wearing with obvious distaste. “I wish we could skip this and get on to the doughnut making.”

  “The reason you’re having lessons now is so you’ll be ready if and when we need to send you over to Zone V,” Miss Chambers said as she came around the corner of the garage with an athletic-looking woman, who was also dressed in a Red Cross uniform. The woman was tall, though not as tall as Miss Chambers, with blonde bobbed hair and a face my sisters would describe as handsome but not pretty.

  “Well, that makes sense, then, Miss Chambers,” I said with a smile. She had to send us to Zone V at some point. Trying to fake enthusiasm, I added, “We’re really looking forward to our lesson as we definitely want to be ready for the Continent, er, Zone V.”

  Viv raised her eyebrows, signaling to me that I was laying it on a little too thick.

  “I wanted to introduce you to Liz Anderson,” Miss Chambers said. “She recently served with the Clubmobiles in North Africa. Liz is going to be the field captain for your newly assigned Clubmobile group, Group F. You’ll be one of eight Clubmobiles in Liz’s group.”

  Viv, Dottie, and I introduced ourselves to the woman who was our new boss and talked with her about where we were from and her experiences in Africa.

  “I didn’t even know we had been assigned a group yet,” I said.

  “Yes, well, we’re here for a meeting to finalize the details, but we’ve almost got it figured out,” Liz said. She gave us a warm smile. “I look forward to working with you. And trust me when I say that I know these trucks look intimidating, but you’ll be fine once you get the hang of it.”

  “And you better get the hang of it quick—there’s only a few days of training left,” Miss Chambers said with a laugh. “You need to get those British licenses and pass Norman’s written test, or you won’t be going anywhere.”

  “Wait, there’s a written test too?” Viv asked, looking at me and Dottie.

  “Just some basic maintenance questions,” Liz said, trying to reassure us, something Miss Chambers was definitely not doing. “How to check the oil and gas, how to keep the distributor clean—”

  “The what?” Dottie and I both said at the same time.

  “The distributor. Don’t you know what it is?”

  Norman walked over with a tool kit, his fatigues already smeared with black grease. He was in his sixties and spoke with a Cockney accent. The look on his heavily lined face told me he wasn’t exactly thrilled to be teaching American girls how to drive. “See you got your fatigues on. Ready to get on with it, then?”

  “Good luck, ladies.” Miss Chambers’s tone of voice said, You’ll need it.

  As the two women started to walk away, Liz turned around and mouthed, “You’ll be fine,” giving us a thumbs-up.

  Almost two hours later, we were finishing up our lesson on the vehicle parts under the hood, or “the bonnet” as Norman called it.

  “Now, tell me what ’at is and what ’at is,” Norman said to me, pointing.

  “Um . . . that is the doohickey, and those are the thingamajigs,” I said, looking at him with a serious expression. He looked so frustrated, I had to break into a grin.

  “Oh, I’m only teasing you, Norman,” I said, patting his shoulder. “That’s the carburetor, and those are the spark plugs.”

  Norman let out his breath and nodded. “’At’s right. You Red Cross girls are going to drive me to drink.”

  Just then, another Clubmobile came barreling down the road toward us, the horn blaring and “Deep in the Heart of Texas” blasting out of the speakers.

  “What in the name . . . ?” Norman said.

  “Hey, girls!” Blanche and Martha were leaning out the windows of the Clubmobile, yelling and waving at us as they went by. Frankie was driving, clearly pleased with herself as she sat behind the steering wheel on the right-hand side of the car. Her instructor was sitting next to her, holding on to the dashboard, looking as though he was on the verge of a heart attack.

  “See you later . . . if Frankie doesn’t kill us first!” Blanche said, cupping her hands around her mouth and yelling loud enough for us to hear over the music.

  “Goin’ to have to buy ol’ Alfie a pint tonight,” Norman said, shaking his head. “I thought your lot were bad.”

  “Norman, sweetheart, when are we going to actually drive?” Viv said, batting her eyelashes at him so that he blushed. The maintenance lessons were necessary, but they were tedious and boring.

  “Now that you gots an idea of what’s under the bonnet, you’ve got to go under the truck next.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say under the truck?” Dottie said.

  “Yes, all three of youse,” Norman said. “You girls are going to be in the middle of nowhere someday in France or Germany, and you’re going to thank ol’ Norman when your truck breaks down and you ain’t got a soul in sight to help youse. You’ve got to go under the truck; you’ve got to learn to change a tire. Then I’ll let ya drive.”

  “You’re right, we absolutely will. Thank you, Norman,” I said. I knew he was
reaching his limit with us.

  “All right, ladies, let’s get under here,” I said, kneeling down next to the GMC. Just then, a jeep full of soldiers drove up and started beeping at us. We gave our usual waves and smiles when I heard, “Hey, it’s Boston!”

  Joe Brandon jumped out of the jeep and came running over. “Just wanted to say hi,” he said, and I noticed he looked Dottie in the eyes when he said it. Norman grunted his annoyance at the interruption.

  “Oh, hi, Joe,” Dottie said, moving her glasses up her nose as she looked at him, the color creeping up her cheeks.

  “Hey, girls, how are the lessons going?”

  “’orrible,” Norman said with a huff.

  “We’re not even done with maintenance,” I said. “We’re about to get under the truck before Norman here quits on us.”

  “They’re about to get under the truck,” Viv said. “I’m going to stay out here and take notes for them.”

  “You ain’t doin’ no such thing!” Norman said, arms crossed, but when he looked at Viv, he shook his finger at her and added, “Viviana . . . oh . . . oh, you girls need to stop the jokin’.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” Joe said. “But I’m playing with some of my band members at the Paramount Dance Hall on Sunday night, and I’d love for you three to come.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “That’s our last night in London.”

  “Can we bring friends?” Viv asked.

  “You ladies can bring all the friends you want,” Joe said, smiling, casting a shy glance at Dottie and kicking the dirt like a kid.

  A guy from the jeep called to him that they had to get going.

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” Joe said. “See you soon.”

  “See you soon,” Dottie said, and Viv elbowed her as we said our good-byes.

  “Oh, stop,” Dottie said, elbowing her back.

  “Stop what?” Viv asked. “He only had eyes for you, Dottie.”

  “She’s right, Dottie,” I said. And then I remembered that I still had to tell her about Joe’s girl waiting at home . . .

  “All right, all right,” Norman said. “Under the truck now, too much to do.”

  I was the first to crawl under the truck, and I immediately whacked my head against what I was pretty sure was the axle. “Ouch,” I cried, and a gob of grease fell on my face. And all I could think was, Danny Barker, if you could see me now.

  Dottie and Viv joined me, and we all lay side by side under the truck as Norman yelled out the different parts we were required to grease.

  “I can’t believe how much grease has dripped on my face,” Viv said. “It’s disgusting. And a disaster for our complexions.”

  “I can’t believe how many parts there are under here. Aren’t we almost done?” Dottie asked.

  “Dottie, while Norman is out of earshot, I need to tell you something,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Dottie asked.

  “Well, the night I met Joe Brandon on the boat, he told me he had a girl waiting at home,” I said. “A teacher named Mary Jane.”

  “That wolf!” Viv said. “You’d never know it by the way he was looking at Dottie just now.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s what he said at the time,” I said. “I meant to tell you sooner, and I forgot. Maybe he’s not with her anymore . . .”

  “That’s fine, Fiona, really,” Dottie said, her voice quiet. “You girls were making something out of nothing.”

  “I agree with Viv. Not that he’s a wolf, but he does seem to like you,” I said. “So maybe she broke it off.”

  “Like I said, it’s nothing. We’re leaving soon, and I’ll probably never see him again after London,” Dottie said, her voice somehow hopeful and disappointed at the same time.

  “Do you still want to go see his band play?” I asked.

  “Why not? I’m sure they’re going to be great,” she answered.

  “And we’ll make sure you look absolutely beautiful that night,” said Viv. “Blanche told me this morning that we’re actually allowed to wear civilian clothes since it’s our last night in London. It’ll probably be the last night that we’re allowed to wear a pretty dress for a long time. Joe Brandon will be eating his heart out.”

  “Oh, I don’t . . .”

  “Girls, ah you greasin’ or gabbin’ down there?” Norman called down to us. “I want to get some drivin’ in before it gets dark.”

  I had wrapped my hair in a red kerchief to try to cover it, but several strands had escaped and were sticking to my neck. I could feel the grime and grease caked on my face, and my fatigues were filthy.

  I spotted two large shiny black leather boots standing next to Norman’s worn brown shoes as I crawled out. The sun had come out, and I had to shield my eyes to get a look at the officer. He was well over six feet with a broad chest, and his nose looked off-kilter, like it had been broken and put back together not quite the same. His thick black hair was cut military short, and he had big dark eyes with a small scar through one of his eyebrows. The boots were different than those of most GIs I had seen, and he had a distinct silver parachute badge on his chest and a patch with double A insignia on his shoulder.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, trying to at least tuck some of my hair back in my kerchief. I was sure that in that moment I looked like the opposite of a fresh-faced Red Cross girl. “We’re just finishing up, Norman.”

  “Hi,” the officer said, nodding, distracted. He was the first soldier not to smile at me. Now I was sure I looked even more of a mess than I thought I did.

  “So, Norman, you think you’ll be able to fix the jeep in the next few days if I bring it by tomorrow morning?” the officer asked. “We’re heading out to Leicester soon.”

  “Yeah,” Norman said. “For you? ’Course I will.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. He looked over at me again, still no smile. “Red Cross?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Clubmobile. Leicester—that’s in the Midlands, up north, right? I think we might be headed that way too.”

  “Oh?” he said. “Well, if you do, don’t get yourself in any trouble out there. We don’t need to be worrying about a bunch of girls driving trucks of doughnuts around the countryside.”

  “We’ll have a driver there,” I said, annoyed. I cocked my head and crossed my arms. “But what’s the matter with girls driving trucks?”

  “Nothing,” he said, raising his eyebrows in amusement. “I’m sure you’ll be perfectly fine; just take care of yourselves.”

  “Hey, can we come out now?” Viv called from under the truck. “I think we’re done.”

  “I’ve got to go,” the officer said. “Thanks, Norman. Good luck, uh . . .”

  “Fiona. Fiona Denning,” I said. “I’d shake your hand, but . . .” I looked at my hands covered in black grease and dirt.

  “It’s fine,” he said. He held up his hands and finally gave me a tight, lopsided grin. “I’m Captain Peter Moretti, Eighty-Second Airborne. I’ve got to run. Thanks again, Norman.”

  He nodded and jogged off toward the administrative buildings on the opposite side of the field from the garages. Viv and Dottie had crawled out from under the truck and were brushing themselves off.

  “Who was that?” Dottie asked.

  “Some captain in the Eighty-Second. He doesn’t think girls should drive trucks.”

  “Yup, he’s totally right,” Viv said.

  “Viv!” I swatted her arm. “Not helping.”

  “Fella’s not just any captain,” Norman said. “That was Peter Moretti. He’s a boxer from New York City. Heavyweight. He was risin’ up the ranks before he ended up with the Eighty-Second. Almost fought Joe Louis.”

  “He looks like a boxer,” I said.

  “Those boys from the Eighty-Second just got back from Normandy,” Norman said, shaking his head. “Thirty-three straight days of bloody ’ell, with no relief. Almost half of ’em are gone.”

  “Oh Jesus.” Dottie sighed. “Dead?”

  “Most dead. Some
missin’. Don’t matter, though, does it?” Norman said, waving his hand in sad resignation. “So brave and such good American boys. Ain’t like some of your lot that’s come over, drinkin’, disruptin’, and runnin’ around with not-so-proper British girls. Eighty-Second Airborne is brilliant, though.”

  “Can we learn to drive this thing now, Norman?” Viv asked, trying and failing to wipe the grime off her face with her lacy pink handkerchief.

  “All right, if you girls can change this tire in less than thirty minutes, we’ll start drivin’ lessons right after,” said Norman.

  “But that tire looks like it weighs five hundred pounds,” I said. “There’s no way we can lift it.”

  “Yeah, you can. Last bunch of Red Cross girls could,” Norman said, looking at his watch. “You got thirty minutes. Get on with it, then.”

  “Come on,” I said, as Viv let out a groan and Dottie looked like she might cry. “If we work together, we’ll be done with this damn tire before we know it.”

  Chapter Seven

  July 27, 1944

  A fun fact about the Clubmobile trucks that we learned during our driving lessons is that, despite their size, the capacity of the tank is only four and a half gallons. Gas, or petrol, as the Brits call it, was so scarce in England, you could only get it at army camps. You needed to keep very careful track of how much petrol you had in the tank, or you risked running out of it “alone on a dark road somewhere, with bleedin’ Nazi bastards comin’ at ya,” as Norman drilled into us.

  If you were having any other sort of suspicious gas trouble, the first thing you were supposed to do was check the gas line and connection for leaks and dirt. Then you checked the functioning of the fuel pump. And if you still couldn’t figure out what the heck was wrong with the damn truck, you checked the fuel pump to the carburetor.

  During our training with Norman, he also taught us how to replace a worn-out bulb and check the battery and main cables, spark plugs, and all wire connections if there was electrical trouble. Changing one of the Clubmobile’s massive tires had proved to be one of the toughest obstacles and took us much longer than thirty minutes, but we finally succeeded. I had joked to Dottie and Viv that we should open our own garage when we got back from the war.