by Jane Healey
My mood was still low, but if nothing else, driving offered me a distraction. I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than not getting the two of us killed.
“How am I doing, Jimmy?” I asked, making sure he was still awake next to me.
“Goin’ a bit slow, but you’re all right,” he said. “Just a few more miles ’til the turn.”
He seemed to be sobering up. Mrs. Tibbetts had given him another strong cup of tea on our way out the door.
“You’re stuck with us for a while longer, you know,” I said. “We found out today we’re not going to the Continent yet.”
“Don’t mind at all. Like you loads better than the last crew I drove. Your lot are more fun,” he said. I looked over, and he was smiling. “More up for a laugh.”
“Really?” I said. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Thanks.”
“Really. Dottie reminds me of me own daughter—small and dark like she was, loved music,” he said quietly. “I loved listenin’ to her play the guitar.”
“Jimmy, you didn’t tell us you have a daughter,” I said.
He didn’t say anything for a few moments. I glanced over at him, and he was staring into the darkness.
“Had a daughter named Anne,” he said. “And a wife, me Shirley. Lost ’em both in the Blitz in September of ’40.”
For a few seconds, I was speechless, stunned by this fact about our driver, whom I realized I didn’t know that well at all.
“Jimmy, I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling physically ill. “I had no idea . . .”
“Don’t talk much about it,” he said, his voice sounding thick. “Ain’t much to say. I was comin’ home from work, missed the blast. Finally got there; there was nothing left. Me darlin’ girls were gone. Whole city was on fire. Don’t know how I survived it really.” He paused before adding, “Sometimes wish I hadn’t.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, swallowing hard. I reached across to squeeze his hand, unable to wipe the tear running down my face. “So incredibly sorry.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, glancing over at me in the dark, squeezing my hand back. “I know you’ve got troubles of your own. I hope you find him.” He looked up and added, “Oh blimey, here’s the turn.” He pointed to a road with no sign that I had nearly missed.
I took a sharp swing to the left almost on two wheels as we turned onto a narrow country lane. In the moonlight, you could see the outline of a cement mixer housed in a huge framework, and at the far edge of the field was a low, thatched-roof cottage snuggled into a hollow, an odd contrast to the modern machinery.
I wiped my face, pinched my cheeks, and even put on some lipstick in the rearview mirror. Jumping out of the jeep, I forced myself to smile as the men looked up from their work.
“Hey, fellas!” I said over the noise of the mixer. “Anyone up for a coffee break?”
They started walking over as I opened the back of the jeep to get out the coffee urn and trays of doughnuts. Jimmy started pouring them all cups.
“It’s like a mirage,” the first man to reach the jeep said to me, an enormous smile on his face as he took a cup from Jimmy.
“Nope, not a mirage, just a Red Cross girl and her driver on the job,” I said, handing him two doughnuts. The others started coming over, all expressing surprise and gratitude that we had shown up at their tedious all-night job.
“I cannot believe you came out here,” said another GI, his long face covered with dust and grime. “My name’s Paul Coogan. Where are you from, Miss Red Cross?”
“Boston,” I said, ready to play the geography game that we played at every camp.
“You’re kidding?” Paul said, nearly spitting out his coffee.
“No, why?” I said.
“I’m from Burlington, Vermont,” he said, pointing to himself. “I mean, we’re basically neighbors.”
“Okay, I guess you could say that,” I said, laughing.
“Hey, wait, the two girls you work with are from Boston too, right?” he asked.
“Yes, but how do you know that?” I said, curious now.
“I’ve heard of you,” he said. “Everyone says you three are the prettiest Red Cross girls in England.”
“Well, thank you, Paul, that’s awfully flattering, although I really doubt it’s true,” I said.
“I think it’s true,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee, and a couple of the other men started nodding. I felt my cheeks turn red.
“Well, jeez, you guys have made my night. I needed that today, thank you.”
We sat under the stars and kept the conversation light, talking about the Red Sox, movies we had seen or wanted to see, and which big band we’d prefer to hear live.
The guys rarely wanted to talk about the war, but on this particular night we spoke about the possibility of Paris being liberated soon. It was the type of good news everyone craved. A sign that things were turning.
The men told funny stories of military life in Leicester, trying to outdo each other to make me laugh. When it was time to go, I promised to stop by their camp with the Cheyenne soon, and I realized I was in a much better mood than when I arrived. I was supposed to be the one boosting their spirits, but instead that’s exactly what these men had done for me. Sometimes morale was a two-way street.
After Jimmy and I packed up, I started to get into the passenger seat, but Jimmy shook his head and pointed at the steering wheel.
“Behind the wheel again, Miss Fiona,” he said. “You ain’t never gonna be a good driver unless you get more practice.”
I groaned and slid behind the wheel. After we turned onto the main road, it was a pretty straight shot back to Mrs. Tibbetts’s, and I was feeling more comfortable driving, which was a good thing, because Jimmy fell dead asleep beside me. We were more than halfway home when the engine started to sputter and make a whooshing sound.
“No. No, no, no, this isn’t happening. Come on!” I said, slamming the wheel as I stepped hard on the accelerator. Instead of speeding up, the jeep stalled out right in the middle of the road.
“Jimmy, Jimmy, wake up,” I said, shaking him on the shoulder. “I think we’ve run out of gas, I mean petrol. Do you have any reserve petrol in here?”
“Nah. No petrol,” he grumbled and rolled over, pulling his cap down low.
I got out of the car and looked up. Next to the road, there was a small herd of cows sleeping. They were black, but their farmer had painted white stripes on their bellies, to make sure they could be seen at night during the blackouts. It was at least a few miles until the next village, and it had to be after midnight.
I poured myself one of the last cups of coffee left in the urn and sat down on the back of the jeep. I was bone-tired, everything ached, and I longed for my bed at Mrs. Tibbetts’s. After an hour or so, just as I was about to fall asleep in the jeep, I heard the sound of a truck and spotted its lights heading in our direction. As it got closer, I shined my flashlight into the darkness and got out of the jeep, jumping up and down, waving my arms to get their attention before they crashed straight into us.
The truck pulled over, and the driver jumped out, but I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I recognized the officer.
“Of course. Of course it’s you, Captain Moretti,” I said.
“What do you mean of course?” he asked, amused when he saw it was me.
“You question me about why the Red Cross Clubmobile girls are even here. You think we’re these damsels in distress that are a nuisance you have to protect. So it’s absolutely perfect that you find me here, out of petrol, in the middle of nowhere. Basically . . . a damsel in distress.”
“You’re out of petrol?” he said with a sly smile, eyebrows raised. “You didn’t think to bring any extra?”
“No, I didn’t think to bring any extra. This is my first time driving here since London for God’s sake,” I said, annoyed at how much he was enjoying this. “And Jimmy didn’t think of it because, well, he’s Jimmy.” I nodded at Jimmy sleeping. �
�Please tell me you have some?”
“You’re in luck. I might have just enough in the back to get you home,” he said. “Do you have any more coffee?”
“Probably. I’ll dig out a clean cup,” I said.
He went to his truck and brought back a small canister. “Do you want to do it, or will you let me?” he said.
“Oh, I can, I mean . . . oh God, will you please do it?” I said. It killed me to ask. “I’m afraid I’ll spill it all over the ground . . .”
He was already filling the tank.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked when he finished and I handed him his promised cup of coffee.
“Checking on the fellas out at the cement mixer,” he said. “They’ve had a hell of a time.”
“Wait. Were you the one who requested a visit from the Clubmobile girls?” I said, smirking.
“I was,” he said, smiling and raising his cup in a toast.
“You’re changing your mind about us, then?”
“Well, let’s just say you’ve definitely lifted the spirits of the men in the Eighty-Second, so that’s something. Especially after what some of them have been through, it’s . . . some of them are still in pretty rough shape.”
He leaned against the truck next to me. He smelled woodsy with a hint of gasoline.
“Will you put in a good word with my supervisor, then? She’s not a huge fan of me and my friends,” I said. I told him about my day, and by the end we were both laughing about it.
“I was kidding about putting in a good word. But I do have to ask you something before you go.”
“What’s that?” he said. I still had the flashlight on. His face, with its rebuilt nose, wasn’t classically handsome, but there was a ruggedness about him that was undeniably attractive. And tonight he didn’t have the hardened look in his eyes that I’d seen there in the past, like he was waiting for the next shot to be fired.
“You mentioned that friend at the IRC. I was wondering if you could find out about my neighbor,” I said. “His name is Danny Barker. He was reported missing last fall after his plane was shot down in Germany. He was in the air force, second lieutenant in the 338th Bombardment Squadron.”
Why couldn’t I just say it? Fiancé, not neighbor. I was so embarrassed I had lied in the first place, it was hard to come out with the truth now.
“Yes, my old friend Hank Miller, from New York, he works for the IRC now. He moved to Switzerland a couple of years ago to work with the Central Information Agency on Prisoners of War. His father was a POW in World War I—that’s how he got interested. I can’t make any promises, but if anyone knows anything, he will,” he said, tracing his finger on the hood of the jeep.
“Thank you. Thanks so much,” I said.
He looked at me, tilting his head, like he had more he wanted to say, but instead he just said, “No problem.” His hand was right next to mine on the hood of the jeep. I blushed and stepped away.
“Anything else?” he asked.
I considered for a few seconds. Tell him. Tell him now, Fiona. Out with it.
“Only that I owe you one. Maybe two favors now—for the petrol . . . and for asking about my neighbor,” I said. “I better go. Mrs. Tibbetts will be a nervous wreck that I’m still not back.”
“Okay, you owe me.” He nodded with that amused look again, but he had stepped away too. “I’ll be in touch if I hear anything. And I’ll make sure you get out of here okay before I leave.”
I opened the driver’s side door and climbed in as he shut it for me. Our faces were only inches from each other now as I started up the jeep and the engine roared to life. His breath smelled like coffee and peppermint gum. A quiet pause. I was barely breathing.
“You’re good to go,” he said, his voice quiet as he patted the door.
“Thanks again,” I said, feeling flushed. “Good night.”
“Good night, and drive safe,” he said.
Heading off into the night with Jimmy softly snoring beside me, I saw Captain Moretti wave good-bye in my rearview mirror.
Chapter Fifteen
September 9, 1944
A few days after our disastrous observation, we said our sad good-byes to Frankie, Blanche, and Martha before they left for their journey to France. Frustrated and more than a little envious, I was even more determined now to get to the Continent. Jimmy had started giving me driving lessons in the evenings whenever he was sober and able. I kept managing our supplies and keeping meticulous paperwork and logs. I had even taken on some of Liz’s work—compiling reports regarding output and productivity for London headquarters.
Viv and Dottie shared my frustration and had also begun doing everything they could to change Miss Chambers’s perception of us. Viv was working harder than she ever had, no longer handing off all of her chores to any adoring GI nearby. And the way she could charm the most downtrodden soldiers with her teasing and banter was truly something to behold.
To everyone’s relief, Dottie’s arm was healing quickly, and she had finally come out of her shell, playing guitar and leading sing-alongs more often, delighting the men with her large repertoire of songs. Despite their begging and pleading, she had yet to sing a solo for anyone, but we were hopeful she was working up the courage.
“So are you going to even give us a hint about who’s coming tonight?” Viv asked Dottie as she sat down at the mirror in our room, styling her curls into perfect victory rolls.
We were getting ready for a night out, a private concert at Leicester’s De Montfort Hall for all of the soon-to-be-departing US troops. It was the biggest venue in the city and could hold up to three thousand people. The most curious thing about the concert was that nobody knew who was performing—the army had kept it top secret. Nobody, that is, except for key personnel, including one army bandleader named Joe Brandon. And he had shared the secret with Dottie, who refused to tell us.
“Is it an American band or a British one?” I asked. “Or maybe it’s not even a band, just a singer? Vera Lynn? Or Bing Crosby?”
“I told you, I am absolutely sworn to secrecy by Joe,” Dottie said with a mischievous grin. She was enjoying our curiosity far too much. “It’s the best surprise. The army wants to keep it under wraps because most of the Eighty-Second is heading out in a few days, and, well, it’s that big.” She clapped her hands.
“Oh come on, you can’t even give us a little hint?” I asked, applying my lipstick and trying to get my own hair to behave.
“Not even a little one,” she said. “I promised Joe. He’s helping with the setup right now, might even be playing tonight. Who knows?”
“Speaking of playing, when is he going to dump his hometown girl for you?” Viv said.
“Maybe never,” Dottie said with a shrug. “I can’t lie to you two, I’ve still got a crush, but we’re just friends. And he has been a perfect gentleman since our conversation the day I cut my arm.”
“He better be,” I said. “Or we’ll sic Vera Lynn on him.”
“He really has,” Dottie said. “Talking to him is like talking to a friend I’ve known forever. But I keep reminding myself that he’s leaving soon for God knows where. I may never see him again. This war is crazy, and it makes it hard to plan for anything. Or anybody.”
“Has he even mentioned Mary Jane lately?” I asked.
“He hasn’t, and I haven’t asked. I honestly don’t really want to know,” Dottie said, shaking her head.
There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Tibbetts peeked in on us.
“I know you’re getting ready for the concert—oh! Look at you—you all look beautiful in your dresses. Just gorgeous,” Mrs. Tibbetts said, smiling.
For the first time in weeks, we were allowed to don civilian clothes, so we were wearing the dresses we had worn to the Paramount our last night in London, the only ones we had with us.
“I forgot to give you these letters Liz dropped off earlier. I knew you’d want to read them straightaway,” she added, passing them out to us. We rip
ped them open like Christmas presents. I still had that anxiety in the pit of my stomach, fearing bad news, but I was feeling so homesick I tore into the letters from my parents and my sisters anyway.
“Any news about Danny, Fi?” I looked up to see that Dottie and Viv were watching me, their own letters open in their laps.
“Nothing, thanks for asking,” I said. “I scanned them quickly, and now I’m going to take my time and enjoy reading them.”
After we read in quiet for a few moments, Dottie broke the silence. “Well, Richie says he may never forgive me for the fact that I’m going to miss his entire high school football season. And my mother said cooking Sunday dinner is no fun without me.” She looked up at us, her eyes watering.
“I know I complain about my sisters, but I adore them, even though they drive me crazy. It’s just hitting me that I might not see Aria’s new baby, Gianna, until she’s almost a year old,” Viv said with a sad smile. “My first niece.”
“The twins are making me feel guilty about missing their last high school play,” I said as I traced the silly pictures they had drawn on the sides of their letter. “They’re doing You Can’t Take It with You, and Darcy is playing one of the leads.”
The three of us sat there, rereading our letters, each of us aching for home in our own way.
“All right, girls, enough; this is too depressing,” Viv said, waving her hands in the air and standing up. “We’re going to go out and have some fun; we deserve it.” She faced the mirror to apply one more coat of lipstick.
“You’re right,” I said, putting the letters aside and standing behind her, fussing with the flower in my hair one last time. “It’s Saturday night; no use sitting here feeling miserable.”
“And I promise you, this concert is going to be just the best,” Dottie said, standing up and smoothing out her dress. “I was about to start crying, and I would have ruined my makeup, so let’s go. Are you girls ready? I think I just heard Jimmy pull up out front.”