by Jane Healey
“Love is not the word I had in mind,” Viv said. “This is disgusting.”
“Okay, if your dough is mixed, attach the cylinder to the machine very carefully; it’s finally time to make the doughnuts,” Miss Chambers said to the group. She clapped her hands and, in a sing-song tone, added, “Get your tongs ready to go.”
We attached the pressurized cylinder to the machine as best we could, although it didn’t seem to be secure enough.
“Do you think that’s on?” I asked Dottie as we struggled to screw it in.
“I think so.” Dottie shrugged. Viv was pouting, trying to wipe all the dough off her hands.
And then, like a small miracle, the dough poured from the cylinder and started dropping into the oil in perfectly shaped circles. Dottie stood at the ready with her tongs, grabbing the doughnuts out of the oil and throwing them onto the cooling rack when they had achieved a golden-brown color. The garage filled with warm, humid air and an overpowering sickening-sweet fragrance as all the groups churned out dozens of doughnuts.
“Blech. Think we’ll get used to the smell?” Martha said from the next station, covering her mouth with her hands. “It’s making me nauseous.”
“Me too,” I said. “Maybe our noses will get numb to it.”
“What’s that hissing sound?” Viv asked, finally recovering from her mixing trauma and helping Dottie.
I heard a high-pitched whistle coming from somewhere in our machine.
“I don’t know, that sounds weird,” I said, trying to find the source. “Miss Chambers, our machine is hissing. Is that normal?” I called over to where she was helping some girls whose machine had already malfunctioned.
Miss Chambers whipped her head around at the question and, with a look of fear on her face, yelled to us, “Back away! Get away from that machine now!”
We all ran several feet back just as the hiss turned into an enormous boom and the cylinder bowl of dough flew off the machine and exploded into the air. Several girls screamed, and the three of us ducked and tried to shield each other from what was to come. The cylinder came crashing down with a loud clang, warped beyond repair.
So much dough. On our station, on the floor. On our clothes and aprons, even in our hair. It covered Dottie’s shoes and splattered the front of Viv’s shirt. I looked over and saw that the dough had hit Blanche, Martha, and Frankie’s station as well. The rest of the girls in the garage stared in horror, and the smell of extra greasy, overcooked doughnuts filled the room as several groups forgot to take theirs out of the oil in time.
Miss Chambers came running over. “Are you all okay?” she asked, taking a deep breath and surveying the damage.
“What the heck just happened?” Dottie asked. “It was all going so well and then—”
“You didn’t follow the directions,” Miss Chambers said with a sigh. “You need to secure the pressurized cylinder correctly, or it can blow up. That’s what happened.”
“Let this be a lesson for all of you,” Miss Chambers said to the group. “Now, clean this mess up, ladies. When you finish, you can join the next station for the rest of training.”
I rubbed my hands over my face, wiping a gob of dough off my cheek. Viv, Dottie, and I looked at each other. I was somewhere between crying and laughing. There was no doubt the three of us were making an impression on Miss Chambers, but not exactly the one I had planned.
Chapter Eight
July 30, 1944
I stood looking in the mirror in our tiny dorm bathroom and adjusted my Red Cross cap over the two combs in my hair, pulling the chunk of blonde strands down the side of my face in a flattering sweep. Some powder, blush, a touch of mascara, and a sweep of pink lipstick, and I was ready to go. It was the morning of the Red Cross Clubmobile presentation ceremony to the military, and it felt good to wear our dress uniforms and feel clean and pretty, not covered with mud, dough, or car grease.
“Fiona? You in there?” I heard Dottie call from outside the door.
“Yes?” I said, adding a little more blush but still failing to conceal my freckles. “I’m all done if you need to get in here.”
“There’s been a change of plan,” Dottie said when I opened the door. She was standing in just her underwear and glasses, looking annoyed.
A few Clubmobilers hurried past us in various states of dress. A girl from New York named ChiChi stumbled and swore as she ran by, pulling on the high-waisted dark-blue pants that were part of the battle dress uniform. The Andrews Sisters were singing from the dorm’s sole record player, and laughter and chatting spilled out of the rooms. There was a palpable sense of relief in the air now that training was over.
“What’s the change?” I said.
“We have to wear our new battle dress uniforms.”
“What? Why?” I asked. “Those are wool; we’re going to be roasting.”
“It’s for publicity,” Dottie said. “LIFE magazine is going to be there, and the Red Cross top brass want us to be in the uniforms we’re going to be wearing out in the field. They want to get a bunch of photos of us holding doughnuts and stuff.”
“But that’s crazy. We’re all going to be so sweaty and overheated, we’ll be passing out.”
“I know, it’s ridiculous,” Dottie said. “But we’ve got to go change now. The bus will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“I’m wearing a clown suit,” Viv said to us as we walked in the room. She was frowning as she twirled around and modeled the new uniform for us.
It included a short belted jacket with two deep pockets on the front and matching high-waisted pants, all in the same deep grayish blue as the Royal Air Force uniforms.
“I know they altered it to fit me, but I still don’t like it,” Viv said with a sigh. “Do you think we’ll have to wear the jacket in this heat?”
“I’m sure we will for the pictures at least,” Dottie said, slipping on the requisite white button-down shirt.
“Well, at least the hat’s not bad looking,” I said, taking off the cap I had so carefully adjusted and replacing it with the blue hat, which had a wider brim. “I think I like it better; at least it won’t slide off my head.”
“Fi, how are you doing? Are you still upset about the doughnut explosion?” Viv asked.
“Oh God, don’t remind me.” I put my head in my hands, reliving the moment, feeling the mortification all over again. I leaned against my bedroll. We had spent the whole day packing, and everything I owned, minus a few changes of clothes, was in my footlocker.
“I know training didn’t go as well as you had planned . . .”
“That’s an understatement . . . ,” I said.
“But, Fi, this was just training. What better way to show her what a top-notch team we are than to work well in the field together?” Dottie said. “We’ll be so good, we’ll be noticed for all the right reasons.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself,” I said. “We will do better. And we’re lucky we’re already friends.”
“No kidding,” Viv said. “I heard three girls fighting like cats at doughnut training the other day.”
“And I’ll take driving lessons from our driver in the Midlands,” I said. “One of us has got to get better at driving. I want ours to be one of the first Clubmobiles in this group to be sent to France. We have to be.”
“We will be, I have no doubt,” Dottie said, brushing her glossy black hair and putting her new hat on.
“Buses are here. Come on, girls, hurry up, let’s go,” Frankie said, as she ran by our door.
“All right, girls, time to meet the RC brass,” I said. I put on my white gloves, threw my white scarf around my neck, and shut our door behind us for one of the last times.
The ceremony was grand, with more pomp and circumstance than any of us had anticipated. A large part of its impressiveness was due to the natural setting of the event. It took place at Royal Holloway, University of London, several miles outside of the city center, most likely by design, as the risk of buzz bombs dropping on
us was somewhat diminished. On a gorgeous, expansive lawn, we assembled in front of an enormous brick building with spires that made it resemble a castle more than a college.
The sun managed to break through the clouds just as the ceremony began. We were lined up in our battle dress, white gloves, and scarves, trying our best not to look as sweaty and hot as we felt. Behind us, our newly painted Clubmobiles shined in the sun.
Miss Chambers was there, along with all the new Red Cross field captains, including our own Group F captain, Liz Anderson. Harvey Gibson, commissioner of the American Red Cross in Great Britain, was also on hand, as were most of the Red Cross headquarters staff and, of course, several high-ranking military officials.
The army band started to play, and the Military Police Battalion marched past us in perfect formation for the ceremonial review. They were resplendent in their white helmets, belts, and gloves, and I wasn’t the only girl blinking back a tear as they passed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a photographer, dressed in a light-brown blazer and black fedora, taking pictures of us from various angles. He caught me looking over at him and waved. I gave him a small, close-lipped smile, and he snapped a couple more pictures, giving me the thumbs-up.
After the music ended, two of the generals came up to the podium and made some remarks about how grateful they were for the Red Cross, and for the Clubmobile program specifically.
Finally, Mr. Harvey Gibson, a stout, balding man with a warm, generous smile, approached the podium. The first part of the speech was for the dignitaries, but the final words were directed at us.
“We at the Red Cross are enormously proud of the Clubmobile program and of all of you, this latest class of Clubmobile girls. Our ‘Doughnut Dollies.’”
“Ugh, why does he use that nickname? I hate it,” I whispered to Viv. “It makes us sound like little girls in sailor dresses.”
“Agree, it’s totally awful,” Viv said.
“You will be leaving London to serve our troops tomorrow,” Gibson continued. “And it couldn’t come at a better time as we are short-staffed after sending so many Clubmobilers to the Continent. The Clubmobile program is now two years old and hugely successful. It sprang from a simple idea, that the most useful service to the soldier in the field would be to bring him a symbol of the warmth of home when he needed it most. And that this could be done with a cup of coffee and doughnuts served by an American girl.
“Now, girls, trust me when I say I know doughnuts and coffee are merely your props, that you do so much just by being there. I thank you for leaving your homes and families behind to come here to volunteer for this important job.”
With a round of applause, the ceremony concluded and everyone headed over to the Clubmobiles, where doughnuts and coffee were already waiting.
Our Clubmobile was named the Cheyenne. It was a newly refurbished, two-and-a-half-ton GMC truck with American-style gears and steering. The outside was freshly painted army green with “American Red Cross Clubmobile” in red-and-white block letters across the side, and there were two large windows from which we would be serving the troops.
We found our Clubmobile but could not find our driver, a British civilian named Jimmy English. He hadn’t shown up at the ceremony to meet us for reasons nobody could explain.
Harvey Gibson came up to me just as I was pouring myself a cup of coffee out of an urn on a table in front of the Cheyenne.
“Hello. Harvey Gibson,” he said, shaking my hand. He had an undeniable charisma and warmth. “I like to introduce myself to all of the new girls.”
“Hello,” I replied. “I’m Fiona Denning from Boston.”
Mr. Gibson was about to say something when the photographer with the black hat snuck up behind me and said in a strong New York accent, “Hey, Mr. Gibson. Gary Dent, LIFE magazine. A picture with the young lady for the piece I’m doing?”
“Of course,” Mr. Gibson said with a smile. We stood together. I tried to wipe some of the sweat off my face and gave the photographer an awkward smile.
“Perfect. You’ve got that all-American-girl look, freckles and all,” Gary Dent said.
“Take as many as you need,” Mr. Gibson said.
“Will do. Can I get a few of you two talking together? Just act natural.”
“Of course,” Mr. Gibson said. “So, Fiona, what made you decide to become a Clubmobile girl?”
What should I say? How much should I reveal at a time like this? I hesitated for a few seconds but decided to trust my gut.
“I’m here because my fiancé is missing in action,” I said, and Harvey Gibson’s jaw dropped open, almost imperceptibly.
“He’s been missing since last fall,” I continued, trying to keep my voice steady, my emotions in check. “His plane went down somewhere in Germany. And now I’m here because I wanted to do something.”
“Wow, this is good stuff, keep talking.” Gary, letting his camera dangle on the strap around his neck, pulled out a notepad and pencil. “What was the name of your fiancé?”
“His name is Danny Barker,” I said. “He’s a second lieutenant in the US Army Air Force, 338th Bombardment Squadron.”
“Miss Denning, um, Fiona, I am so sorry about your fiancé,” Harvey Gibson said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “And I admire you for being here.”
“Thanks, Mr. Gibson,” I said. “My friends Viv and Dottie are here too. We’ve all wanted to do something to help with the war effort. And we’re happy this offered us a way.”
“So am I. I’m sure you’ll make your fiancé proud,” he said, his eyes full of kindness, not pity.
“Where are these friends? Let’s get a picture,” said Gary.
“Right here,” Viv said, raising her hand, and this time it was Gary Dent’s jaw that dropped open as he started clicking away. Dottie joined us, putting her coffee down and taking off her glasses.
“Well, look at you three,” Gary Dent said, whistling. “One with Mr. Gibson and then a few with just the three of you.”
After a few clicks, Mr. Gibson stepped aside, and it was just us. People started looking over with interest. I saw Miss Chambers watching. She was standing with a few other Red Cross officials, and she did not look pleased.
“I feel like a movie star,” said Dottie, giggling nervously.
“Turn your body to the side and your face to the camera, girls; jut your chin out just slightly like this,” Viv said. “Trust me, it’s the most flattering.”
After he was done, we said thank you, and he ran over to Blanche and asked her to pose with a tray of doughnuts. She hammed it up, holding a tray in each hand and winking at him.
“Well, that was fun,” Viv said. “Wonder if we’ll make the final cut for the magazine.”
“Enjoy the photo shoot, ladies?” Miss Chambers walked over to us as we refreshed our coffee.
“It went okay, I think,” I said. “Good publicity, right?”
“Yes,” she said. “A quick word with you, Fiona?”
Dottie and Viv gave me looks of solidarity as they walked away.
“I didn’t know about your fiancé,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m truly sorry.”
“Thank you, Miss Chambers,” I said.
“Have you heard any news of him since you got here?”
“No, nothing.” I felt that familiar ache in the pit of my stomach. “I thought I would have heard something by now.”
“Well, I hope you do soon,” she said. “I understand more than ever your wanting to go to the Continent. And I admire your tenacity in becoming a Clubmobile girl. But frankly, I’ve observed you and your friends this week in training, and—”
“Miss Chambers, please wait. I think I know what you’re about to say,” I said, holding up my hand. “Just hear me out. Our training did not go as well as I had hoped, trust me. But we will prove to be one of the best Clubmobile crews you’ve got. I promise you. I will work harder than anyone, and I’m really organized. And Viv? The guys are going to love her. Dottie
can play any musical instrument you put in front of her. And they’re hard workers too. We won’t let you down.”
“It’s not about letting me down. It’s about being ready,” she said, frowning. “Being on the Continent in the midst of battle is very different than being here. You’ve got to be unflappable and have that Red Cross smile ready, even under the toughest circumstances. Are you sure you’re up for that part? Emotionally, I mean?”
“Definitely,” I said. It was like putting on a mask; I had to conceal my lingering uncertainty, my nerves and doubt. And my grief. This woman was the gatekeeper to the Continent. “You’re asking because of Danny, am I emotionally ready? I am.” Am I?
“You won’t be reminded of your fiancé at every turn?” she asked, examining my face, trying to see through the mask.
I remembered that first day on the Queen Elizabeth when I’d seen Danny on the boat. It hadn’t happened since, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t ever again. I shook my head.
“I must admit, I’m surprised you made it through the interview process without this coming out. You’re still grieving . . . understandably so,” she said. I just looked at her. There was no use protesting. “Are you sure you can you handle soldiers who are traumatized and homesick? You don’t know what it’s like . . .”
“You’re right, I don’t know what it’s like. But I can do this. I need to do this.” My impassioned plea was as much to convince her as it was to convince myself. Because I did have fears of failing at this job, of not being ready, but she didn’t need to know that.
“But I have other concerns,” Miss Chambers said. “I have no doubt all the soldiers are going to love the looks of the three of you, but there’s so much more to it. I happen to know you all barely passed your driving tests. And Viviana? I know you said she’s hardworking, but I didn’t exactly see that side of her during training.
“Dottie seems smart and capable, but she doesn’t fit the extroverted Clubmobile personality profile. I’m shocked she was accepted, to be honest. She has to try to be more outgoing, and she needs to finally share these supposed musical talents that so far I’ve yet to see.”