by Jane Healey
“I’m not going to sing,” she whispered to me through gritted teeth.
“You don’t have to sing,” I said. “Just play one song.”
“What song?” she asked, looking at the two of us in a panic.
“‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,’” a GI called out. Other soldiers echoed this request.
“There you go,” I said. “You know that one.”
Dottie closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Oh, hell, Dottie, just play,” Viv urged.
Her hands were shaking as she strummed the first notes of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,” and the soldiers started clapping. And then, a whole bunch of them started to sing.
The three of us looked at each other, surprised at the spontaneous sing-along. It was amazing to hear all these soldiers, in a dusty field in the English countryside, singing an Andrews Sisters song at the top of their lungs with pure joy. And the more they sang, the more comfortable Dottie became. The three of us, and even Jimmy, started singing.
The crowd clapped in delight when the song was finished, and the soldiers begged for more, but it was time for us to go. We waved good-bye to our new friends and promised to come back soon.
“Look at my hands,” Viv said, clicking her tongue. Once again all the nail polish had worn off, and they looked raw and red from mixing the dough.
“I’m proud of you, Dottie,” I said as we cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. “I know that wasn’t easy for you.”
“Me too,” said Viv.
“Thanks,” Dottie said. “I was terrified. But I felt better as I went along. All those soldiers singing was something to see.”
“Why don’t you sing and play for them next time?” I said. “I know you do it at school. I want to hear a solo; don’t you, Viv?”
“No,” Dottie said, shaking her head. “I can barely do that in front of my students.”
“Before I forget, we were invited to an officers’ dance on Friday night by Major Bill,” Viv said. With a shrug, she added, “Might be fun. And maybe we can get Martha, Blanche, and Frankie to come.”
We talked more about the day, exhilarated and relieved that we hadn’t completely failed on our very first Clubmobile assignment. Viv dozed off on my shoulder. I felt myself nodding off too, when Jimmy announced we were at our next stop.
It was past five o’clock when we arrived at the base the US Army Air Force shared with the British RAF. We pulled up expecting an American officer to be waiting to greet us. Instead, we were greeted by Harry Westwood.
“You’re coming in the jeep with me,” he said, as the three of us looked at him with skepticism. I could tell Jimmy was more than happy to drop us and search for some whiskey, but even he hesitated.
“What in the world are you doing here?” Viv asked, with her hands on her hips, face flushed, and hair wrapped up in a red kerchief.
“It’s a RAF base, my dear; we just let you Americans borrow it,” Westwood said, smiling. “Come along now, we’re going to watch some of your boys coming in. I’ll explain what your job is here on the way; you won’t need that big truck of yours.”
“Yes, but why are you taking us?” Viv said, annoyance in her voice. “You’re not even American.”
“You don’t say?” Westwood said. “I’m a RAF liaison officer, which means I may pop up in unexpected places whenever I please. In this case, the American officer who was supposed to be here took a two-day leave. He went to Stratford-upon-Avon with a lovely English gal he met. So here I am.”
“Did you know it was going to be us three?” Viv said, still eyeing him with suspicion.
“Well, of course, I had no idea,” Westwood said, feigning shock at the accusation. “How could I have known that?”
We asked him to give us five minutes to grab our helmets and some candy and cigarettes to pass out.
“Pretty sure he’s lying,” I said to Viv.
“Of course he’s lying,” she said. “He’s here because I am.”
“And . . . that bothers you?” Dottie asked.
“Yes,” Viv said as she reapplied her lipstick and brushed her hair. “No. I don’t know. I’ve no interest, really.”
“Nobody would blame you for being interested,” I said. “He’s, well, he’s pretty dashing . . .”
“Don’t you fancy him?” Dottie said. “He really is the spitting image of Cary Grant. And that accent . . .”
“Oh please,” Viv said with a wave of her hand. “I didn’t come here to meet a man. I could have done that at home. I’ve been thinking lately that I may never get married. Look at my sisters—living in walk-up apartments in the North End, pregnant and fat with sniveling toddlers clinging to their legs. The only letters I’ve gotten from them? All they did was whine about their miserable lives. No thank you. I’ve got some living to do.”
“Who has some living to do?” Harry Westwood said as we walked over to the jeep. He held each of our hands and helped us climb in.
“Nobody,” said Viv, as he helped her in last, again holding her hand for a beat longer than necessary. “Explain what we’re doing again, please?”
“I’m to escort you to the field line to watch your American flyboys come in after their mission, because you really ought to see it,” Westwood said. “It’s the Thirty-Sixth Bombardment Squadron, and they’re brilliant. After they land, they’re taken straight to the interrogation room at headquarters. I’ll drive you over there. You’re supposed to help them get over their jitters, calm them down, pass out some cigarettes, sweets, coffee, and doughnuts if you’ve got them. You’ll help remind them they’re in safe territory again.”
We pulled up to the airplane hangars at the field line as the sun was starting to set. The sky was a gorgeous pink and purple, and a cool breeze was blowing. The air smelled like gasoline and grass.
Soldiers on bicycles arrived from all directions, many of them with dogs following behind. They sat together in small groups, leaning against their bikes, smoking cigarettes. Their mutts laid down at their feet.
The B-24s started to appear on the horizon, and for a moment it took my breath away.
“You okay?” Dottie said, touching my arm. We were all sitting on the hood of the jeep, watching the show.
“I am, yeah,” I said. “It’s something to see, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she said with a small nod.
I could hear the men nearby as they debated whether it was one of theirs or one returning to a nearby base. And then they started to count. Some of them were murmuring under their breath; others were counting as a group, calling out the numbers as if in prayer, collectively willing all of their planes to come back safely.
“Twenty-nine so far? That was twenty-nine, right?”
“I’ve counted thirty-one . . .”
As they started to land, a crew would run over and inspect each B-24 for damage. A few of the planes came in with one motor blown up; many were shot up with flak. One of the last planes in started to drop red flares just before landing.
“That means someone is injured,” said Westwood, pointing to it. “An ambulance will be here any minute.” He kept stealing glances at Viv, but she was staring at the sky.
“Oh no,” Viv said. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
At the sight of the flares, the atmosphere grew tense, and every one of the soldiers in the field stood up, pacing, swearing, and lighting up cigarettes, waiting to learn who it was and how grave the injury.
“You can see the buzz bombs, you can hear the ack-ack, you can talk to the soldiers at the bases, but this . . . ,” Dottie said in a quiet voice.
“I know,” I whispered, gazing at the plane with the red flares landing as an ambulance came speeding past us to attend to the injured.
We watched all of these American men coming back, filthy dirty, many of them shaking uncontrollably. Their friends breathed sighs of relief at their arrival, laughing and joking as they clapped them on the shoulders. My eyes filled with tears. It w
as humbling, witnessing the kind of bravery that many of these guys never knew they had until they got here, thrust into these circumstances because history required it.
As Dottie had sensed, I was thinking about my own brave soldier when I watched the planes come in. I would find out what happened to him; he deserved at least that after all he had sacrificed. And so did I.
Chapter Twelve
August 4, 1944
In our first week as Clubmobile girls, we were assigned two stops per day. Even though our days were over twelve hours long, they flew by. After serving the troops, there was always more work to be done—coffee urns to be filled, tins of lard and bags of doughnut flour to be lugged, floors to be scrubbed, and Lord knows how many pots and bowls and cups we had cleaned.
Some of the officers were dismissive upon meeting us, and it was clear they questioned our value and thought we were nothing more than an unnecessary distraction for their troops. But others were warm and welcoming, and the overwhelming gratitude from the GIs at every stop more than made up for the doubters.
I sat on my bed, finishing up my paperwork for the week. On Thursday, August 3, we made 1,833 doughnuts (with the help of the British bakers) and brewed 120 gallons of coffee in our fifteen-gallon urns. I knew the exact numbers per day, because in my new job as the Cheyenne’s captain, I had to log these tedious details for the Red Cross brass. I silently cursed Dottie and Viv for volunteering me.
My hands were raw and red, a result of both hand-mixing the dough and washing dishes for so many hours. I had a couple of burns up my arms from getting splashed by doughnut grease, and my shoulders ached from the heavy lifting. As I examined my logbook, I felt my eyes grow heavy. I was falling asleep right there in my uniform.
A loud knock on our bedroom door startled me and woke me up. I told whoever it was to come in, and there was Blanche, blonde curls tucked under her Red Cross cap.
“Hello, friend,” I said, giving her a tight hug.
“You reek of doughnuts, Fi,” she said, smiling.
“Ha, so do you,” I said.
“Also, there’s a brown baby goat wandering around the sitting room downstairs. Pretty sure she just ate a book.”
“Mrs. Tibbetts loves her animals,” I said, laughing as I tidied up the paperwork on my bed. “They’ve been her only company out here for a long time, so they have the run of the place.”
“Ew,” Blanche said, making a face. “You ready to go? The girls are waiting for us downstairs. Mrs. Tibbetts is pouring rum and Cokes—excuse me, Cuba libres—but not really, because no limes to speak of around here.”
We went downstairs to join the party. Frankie and Martha gave me hugs as Mrs. Tibbetts handed me a rum and Coke in a teacup. Benny Goodman was playing on the record player, and the windows were open, letting in an evening breeze that smelled of garden flowers with a touch of manure. Blanche had been right, the brown baby goat that Mrs. Tibbetts simply called “Baby” was roaming around the house, and two skinny chickens had wandered in from the garden.
“Mrs. Tibbetts, are you coming to the dances tonight?” Frankie said, putting her arm around the woman’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“Oh no,” Mrs. Tibbetts said, finally making a drink for herself, her cheeks glowing. “My dancing days are over, but I love having a house full again. It makes me miss my boys a little less.”
“I thought we were only going to one dance?” I said, frowning.
“Well, we were thinking of stopping by a GI dance first,” Martha said. “Then we can go to the officers’ dance at the golf club. One of the majors told us we need to socialize with the GIs sometimes too. They get jealous, there’s so few American girls here.”
“But most of the GIs are so young,” Viv said, pouting. “It’s like going to a high school dance. They’re nice kids, but some of them are kind of rough.”
We sat around, sharing stories of our first week. All of us had the same complaints of aches and pains but also some funny stories of doughnut making gone wrong and overenthusiastic soldiers trying to help out.
“And that damn doughnut machine is the devil,” said Blanche. “It makes a total mess and only seems to work well half of the time.”
I heard the sounds of a jeep through the open window.
“I think Jimmy’s here; he’s offered to be our chauffeur for the night,” I said, getting up to open the door.
“Can he stay sober enough all night to do that?” Dottie asked, echoing my own thoughts. “If he passes out, you’re driving.” She pointed at me.
Mrs. Tibbetts got up to open the door, but it wasn’t Jimmy, it was Liz.
“Oh, I have the log for the week upstairs,” I said, getting up.
“You can give that to me Monday,” Liz said, smiling. “I just know you’ve all been eagerly waiting for mail, and the first batch finally came in.”
She held up a bunch of letters, and I felt anxious at the sight of them.
Dottie had a letter from her younger brother, Richie, and some students from her class had sent her adorable letters with childish scrawl and drawings on the envelopes.
Both of Viv’s sisters and her parents had written her, and she also received a couple of amorous letters from two fellas from the Queen Elizabeth she couldn’t even recall meeting.
“Finally, here’s some for you, Fiona,” Liz said, holding the last few letters in her hand. I had been standing there barely breathing, praying I had mail too. “There’s one here from your sisters, one from your parents, and one from an Evelyn Barker. Is that a friend?”
I saw Dottie and Viv give each other a look, and I felt myself get woozy, so I grabbed on to one of the chairs.
“Oh God,” I whispered, gripping the arm of the chair for support. “It’s Danny’s mother.” I had that floating feeling, like right before you’re going to faint. “It’s got to be news; she said she would only write if there was news. What do you think it is?”
“Oh, Fiona. I had no idea that your fiancé’s last name was Barker. Shame on me, I’m so sorry,” Liz said, looking distraught.
“It’s okay,” I said.
Everyone sat down, waiting on me.
“I can read it,” Frankie said, holding her hand out.
I gave her the envelope, and Dottie and Viv came over and sat on either side of me. Blanche and Martha inched over too. Mrs. Tibbetts got up and went to fetch us more drinks.
“You ready?” Frankie said, carefully opening the envelope so as not to rip the letter inside.
“Not really,” I said. There was no need to lie about it. “Just read it. Don’t skim it first, just out with it.”
Frankie took a deep breath and started,
Dear Fiona,
I struggled to write this letter, mostly because I picture you somewhere in Europe when it arrives—and I know seeing my name will fill you with dread about possible news. I received the enclosed telegram two days ago:
Frankie quickly flipped to the Western Union telegram, looked up at me, and said, “It’s stamped June 30, 1944.” She continued to read.
An intercepted unofficial shortwave broadcast from Germany mentioned the name of 2nd LT. Daniel Barker as a prisoner of war STOP No personal message STOP Pending further confirmation, this report does not establish his status to be a prisoner of war STOP Any additional information received will be furnished. STOP
So now you know this new information too, which raises more questions than answers. I have prayed that Danny was still alive, and this is the first glimmer of hope that he might be. But I am sure you feel the agony and frustration that I feel right now. Is the intercepted report accurate? If he’s alive and captured, where is he? What condition is he in? When will they tell us more?
The International Red Cross in Geneva, Switzerland, keeps track of prisoners of war across the globe and reports back to the US regarding the location and status of its citizens. Families are supposed to be notified right away of any details, so I’m hoping we hear more soon.
/> I’m sorry to be the bearer of this news. Joseph and the girls are more hopeful and optimistic than I am. They all send their love. I hope your work with the Red Cross is going well so far. I envy you, as I’m sure you’re kept quite busy without as much time to dwell on Danny’s whereabouts.
I will write as soon as I learn anything more. If by chance you find anything out in the meantime, please let me know.
Love,
Evelyn Barker
Frankie put down the letter, and the room was quiet. Everyone was waiting for me to say something. To cry or scream. To react.
“Thank you for reading it,” I said. “I feel numb.” I was still light-headed, and my hands felt clammy. “It’s hard to know how to feel. She’s right—all the telegram says is he might be alive and a POW. It’s news, but it’s not very precise news.”
“I can ask Judith if we can find out anything from the IRC,” Liz said. She was standing near the door, and I had forgotten she was there. “Harvey Gibson must have connections there; he has connections everywhere.”
“I’m not sure if Miss Chambers wants to do me any favors,” I said.
“I’m not sure Miss Chambers wants to do anyone any favors,” Viv said.
“Well, we’ll see; it’s worth asking,” Liz said. “In any case, I’m truly sorry, Fiona.”
“Thank you, and thank you for trying with Miss Chambers,” I said.
“Of course. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” she said, and we said our good-byes.
“I still want to go out,” I said. “Jimmy should be here soon. It beats sitting here reading this telegram a hundred more times to try to pull some other clue from it.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it?” Dottie asked, eyeing me critically. “I could stay back with you and Mrs. Tibbetts.”
“I could make us some more drinks,” Mrs. Tibbetts called out from the kitchen.
“I’m happy to do that too, but I think Mrs. Tibbetts might not need any more drinks,” Viv said, eyes wide with amusement.
“No, I’m okay, I just need to get some air,” I said, standing up, straightening out my uniform. “Martha, you said you’d give me some dance tips?”