The Beantown Girls

by Jane Healey

  That afternoon we headed to Wimbledon Park to rendezvous with the group going to Southampton. Liz came over to us as soon as we arrived, looking worried and frazzled, which was very unlike her. And then the air raid sirens started.

  “That’s a sound I haven’t missed,” Dottie said. We had been lucky in the Midlands not to have any close calls with buzz bombs the entire time we were there.

  “Helmets on. Jimmy, you too. Word is there’s a large number of V-1s incoming,” Liz said, looking around, silently counting heads. “I think we’ve got everyone, so we’ll be getting on the road to Southampton any minute. I want to get out of here before the brass change their minds and tell us we have to take shelter and wait. That will screw up our crossing; it will screw up everything.”

  With our helmets on, and the sound of explosions in the distance, we drove out of the city in an enormous caravan of eight Clubmobiles, four supply trucks, five Hillmans, twenty jeeps, and twelve trailers. Escorted by motorcycles, we made a grand exit out of London, waving good-bye to everyone we passed.

  The trip took longer than we expected because, despite the impressive look of the caravan, a number of things went wrong as soon as we left the city. Two of the trucks’ batteries died, a few vehicles ended up with flat tires, and the Clubmobile Dixie Queen ran out of petrol.

  We pulled into the staging area in Southampton later that evening and awaited word from Liz as to whether we would be shipping out or would have to camp overnight. Jimmy had been particularly quiet on the trip.

  “Jimmy, you okay?” I said, as we all got out to stretch our legs, eat our K rations, and socialize.

  “Better than I’ve been in a long time.” He looked at me and smiled. “Just sad to be sayin’ good-bye.”

  “Now?” I said. “You’re not going to drive us to the docks?” I felt panicked as it occurred to me that I was going to be our driver from this moment on.

  “It ain’t that far,” Jimmy said with a laugh. “You’ll be all right. Last time you’ll have to drive on the left side for a long time.”

  “But how are you getting back?” Dottie asked. She was holding her helmet on her hip, and Barbara was curled up in it, fast asleep.

  “Got a ride arranged with one of them Red Cross service trucks,” he said. “Headin’ back to London, then Leicester in a few days.”

  “Now don’t forget to take Mrs. Tibbetts to the pub,” Viv said. She kissed him on the cheek and gave him a huge hug. Dottie and I followed suit. He turned red from all the affection, and his eyes welled up.

  “Will you fetch me Vera Lynn? Think it’s for the best that she and Barbara are goin’ their separate ways,” he said. He looked at Barbara; her poor nose was covered in scratches from her failed attempts at feline friendship.

  “Oh, you can’t forget Vera Lynn.” Viv nodded. “I’ll go get her.”

  Liz came over with a clipboard, looking happy and relieved.

  “Huge luck: they can get us on the ship tonight,” she said. “We’re heading to the docks now. I thought we might be stuck here for days. Fire up the Cheyenne, ladies.”

  Viv handed Vera off to Jimmy, and the four of us stood there for a quiet moment, sad but not sure what else to say.

  “Fiona, remember everythin’ I taught ya now. Don’t forget to double clutch to—”

  “Climb the steep hills,” I said, interrupting him. My heart ached. Another good-bye to add to the chain of them in this war.

  “You girls have been me favorites,” he said, shaking his head and showing no embarrassment at the tear sliding down his cheek.

  “Jimmy, you’ve lost so much in this war that I can’t even imagine,” I said. “I hope you find love and happiness again. I wish that for you more than anything.”

  “Wish the same for you, my girl,” he said in a whisper, his hand on my shoulder. “Be safe and remember everythin’ I taught ya.”

  I gave him a final hug and climbed into the Cheyenne.

  Chapter Eighteen

  September 24, 1944

  “Fiona, wake up. You can see Utah Beach.”

  Dottie was nudging me awake, and it took me a few seconds to remember where we were. The night before, the three of us had waited on the docks at Southampton for a few hours until they finally lifted the Cheyenne onto the deck of a sparkling new Liberty ship dubbed the Famous Amos. It had been a long process, and we sat around and watched as a machine wrapped it in a huge net like it was a big army-green elephant, and then a crane had to lift and lower it, ever so carefully, into the hold of the ship.

  After it was loaded, the captain had invited us on board, where we had received a friendly welcome by the crew. Many of them looked freshly shaven; some even had flowers in their lapels. The three of us and the other twenty-two Clubmobile girls on board were all wiped out after our long day of travel. Viv, Dottie, and I had found a spot on deck to lay out our bedrolls, and I had fallen asleep in seconds.

  “Viv, come see,” I said in her ear. “It’s our first morning in France. And I smell coffee—we need to go find it.”

  In the light of day, I realized the Famous Amos was part of a huge convoy of Liberty ships and other landing craft that had been escorted by minesweepers and destroyers. We stood at the ship’s rail under the splendid September sun and looked at the vastness of Utah Beach. Wrecked military vehicles had been abandoned on the sand, and battleships destroyed by German artillery jutted out of the water at frightening angles. I tried to comprehend the massive invasion that had happened just months before.

  “Say a prayer for the souls lost, girls. This is hallowed ground now.” The ship’s captain came up next to us. He was a little under six feet tall, with salt-and-pepper hair. He gripped the railing and gazed out onto the beach, his face solemn.

  “How many souls?” I asked.

  “Don’t know for sure yet,” he said. “In the thousands. And every time I’m back here, I’m moved by the scene. I feel their ghosts.”

  I shivered, feeling goose pimples as I made the sign of the cross and said a silent prayer. Viv and Dottie did the same.

  “Thousands,” Dottie whispered after a moment, her voice thick with emotion. “Good God.”

  “I still don’t know how any of them do it,” Viv said in awe. “Running straight into danger like they do. I’ve been thinking of the Eighty-Second leaving.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “They went to Holland most recently, yes?” the captain asked. “Operation Market Garden?”

  “Yes, do you know anything?” I asked, aware of the urgency in my voice. “We were with them before they left. We’ve been listening for reports on the wireless and asking—”

  “Ah, it didn’t go well,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “They were trying to secure some major bridges and roads deep behind German lines, but the German counterattack was ferocious. They were ordered back to France.”

  “Do you know if there were many casualties?” It hurt to even ask.

  He looked at me, furrowing his brow, like he was surprised at the question.

  “Of course there were, dear,” he said. “There always are.”

  “Goddamn it,” Viv said.

  I felt sick to my stomach. Dottie squeezed my hand. We were all thinking the same thing. These were our friends. Our boys. Tommy. Patrick. Nelson. And Peter. And too many more to comprehend.

  “Fiona, you look like you could use some breakfast, and I desperately need some coffee,” Viv said. “Please, do you know where we might find some, Captain . . . I’m sorry, sir, what is your name?”

  “Captain Fisher,” he said, and we all introduced ourselves.

  “I’ll be honest, I was expecting tanks, not dames,” he added with a smile. “But all these women on board have done wonders for my crew’s morale, and the ship’s never been so clean. You’re welcome to the mess hall for coffee and some decent navy food, and we have two showers on the second deck. We’re arranging times for you all to use those at a certain hour.”

  “B
ut when are we going ashore?” I said. We were so close.

  “Oh, not for at least a few hours, if not days,” he said. “The seas are too rough. If we try to get your vehicle on a landing craft barge right now? Well, we could hit a rogue wave, and you’d never see it again.”

  “Days?” I said.

  “We’ll just have to see,” he said. “Go get some breakfast. And how about this? When it’s time to go, you three will be the first off, I promise you.”

  Eggs, coffee, and a fresh shower made me feel human again, and while the waters were a little rough, the sun was strong, so we spent most of the day on the deck, waiting. Dottie even got someone to hook up the Victrola to a loudspeaker for an impromptu dance.

  “This is the best time I’ve had in months,” a young redheaded crew member said, as he patiently dealt with my mediocre jitterbugging.

  When there was a break in the dancing, Dottie went with one of the men to find us all some Cokes, and we sat down and enjoyed the feel of the sun on our faces. Someone brought out cards to play pinochle, and Viv pulled out a sketchbook she had bought in London. I sat next to her as she sketched a picture of the shore.

  “We’re off the coast of a place where thousands of American men died. And we’re dancing,” she said, squinting and tilting her head, looking out across the water. “It feels a little off, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve thought about that,” I said, nodding, leaning over the railing. “But honestly? I think any of the men killed here would say, Damn Hitler! Play that American music and dance. It gives these men some hope and cheers them up. Helps them fight another day.”

  Viv was about to say more, but we were interrupted.

  “Say, you’re really talented,” the redhead, whose name was Phillip, said as he came up behind us. He was looking over Viv’s shoulder at her drawing. “Do you think you could sketch a picture of me to send my mom?”

  Viv glanced over at me, annoyed at the request, but I just mouthed, “It’s for his mom.” How could she refuse?

  “Sure, Phil,” she said with a sigh. “Why don’t you stand against the rails here where the light is good?”

  When she was almost finished with his picture, a few other crew members came up behind her to watch.

  “Wow, are you a professional artist? That’s swell!” one of them said.

  “No, I’m an underpaid advertising secretary,” Viv said with sarcasm. I walked over to get a better look. It was a beautiful sketch; it captured the soldier perfectly without being cartoonish or overdone.

  “Underutilized secretary too,” I said. “Viv, you really are so good.”

  “Thanks.” She sighed. “Be nice if I could actually do something with it someday.”

  More men started coming over, to admire both Viv and her sketches, and many of them also asked for portraits to send to their loved ones. Soon there was a line of them waiting their turn.

  Dottie and her new friend returned with cold drinks and chocolate cake, and after the refreshments were passed out, she went to the Clubmobile and came back carrying Barbara, with her guitar over her shoulders.

  A few more Clubmobilers, including ChiChi, Rosie, and Doris from the Dixie Queen, joined us as Dottie played some songs, and soon everyone on deck was sitting around us singing along.

  I was on a blanket toward the back of the crowd, near Viv, who was still sketching portraits as fast as she could, when I spotted Liz and waved her over.

  “Any news?” I asked, handing her a Coke.

  “It looks like the seas have settled down enough that we’ll be getting on the barges in about an hour. Could you help me spread the word to the rest of the girls?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “Anything else I can do?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Liz, I wanted to say thank you for putting in a good word for us with Miss Chambers,” I said. “I know we’re here because of you.”

  “You’re all here because of you,” Liz said, taking a sip of Coke and looking out at the water. “I’ve been meaning to ask, do know what you’re going to do after the war? Have you thought about it at all?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea,” I said. “It depends on so much.” Mostly on whether Danny was dead or alive. The grief was still always there for me, in the background, like an enemy I’d made a truce with. I’d never like it, but I had grown accustomed to it.

  Liz nodded; she knew exactly what I meant.

  “I just wanted to tell you that whatever happens, the Red Cross is going to be here even after this war is finally over. In London, Paris, Berlin. There’d be a job for you if you’re interested. You’re even better at some of the management aspects of this work than I am.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said, smiling at her. “Thank you. I’ll think about that.” I felt a glow of pride, diminished only by the queasy feeling about my future.

  “Oh, before I forget, you must have charmed Captain Fisher, because he said you three have to be the first Clubmobile ashore. Are you okay with that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I smiled and went to spread the word that it was almost time to go.

  “Why won’t it start?” I said, feeling panicked, my palms sweaty on the steering wheel. “I can’t get it into low gear; nothing’s moving.”

  The seas had calmed, the tide was in, and the Cheyenne had been moved onto one of the barges. Now the three of us were sitting in the front seat, ready to be the first Clubmobile of our group to drive onto French soil. The only problem was, the truck wouldn’t start.

  “I don’t know, did you do anything differently?” Viv asked.

  “Did we run out of petrol?” Dottie asked.

  “Nothing different, and I just filled the tank,” I said. We were surrounded by Liberty ships, barges, and the amphibious jeeps known as ducks. Many of the barges were queued up to land right after us.

  “This is a nightmare,” I said. I looked up at the sky and tried to think what to do next. It was filled with Allied fighters and bombers headed for the Continent, and you could hear the echo of artillery fire in the distance. “My God, I am holding up the entire war.”

  “What’s the problem?” The young GI who had helped get the Cheyenne on the barge came over.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve done everything I can think of, and I can’t get this thing started,” I said.

  “Oh, wait,” he said, laughing. “It’s not your fault. We immobilized it in case we hit rough seas.”

  He showed me what he did, I got the Cheyenne into gear, and we couldn’t help but cheer when we drove down the ramp and our wheels hit the sand.

  The beach was a haunted obstacle course of foxholes, concrete pillboxes, and debris. It was by far the most treacherous terrain I had ever driven on, and I gripped the wheel tightly, sitting up straight and keeping my eyes on the beach. The enormous craters left over from bursting mortar shells were the hardest to navigate around. At one point my left front wheel slipped into one, and I swore as the steering wheel jerked out of my hand for a moment. I also had to keep turning on the windshield wipers to see because there was so much dirt and dust in the air.

  “The captain was right,” Viv said.

  “About what?” Dottie asked.

  “You can feel the ghosts.”

  I got goose pimples on my arms again when she said it, because it was true. There was a heaviness to the air that had nothing to do with the dust.

  We found the road to Transit Area B, which was just a nearby field with a few army tents. We’d be camping with the rest of the caravan before heading to the new Red Cross club in Cherbourg the next day.

  “Well, I’ll be damned—real live American girls.” A private with a thick Southern accent came out of one of the tents to greet us. He spread his arms wide. He was very thin with dirty-blond hair and at least a few days’ worth of stubble on his face. “Welcome to the Continent.”

  “Thanks, soldier. How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “In France? D plus
114,” he said with pride. On the ship, I had learned the D was for D-Day. “I’m an engineer, was in Africa, Sicily, and Italy. Come on, I’ve got a jeep. I’ll give you a quick tour before the rest of your group gets here.”

  We rode along the beach and then inland, covering our mouths to keep from inhaling the dust, as Dick, our GI host from Tennessee, started talking about his experience on D-Day.

  “It was miserable and cold, and we had to climb out of the boats, neck deep in water,” he said. “There were bodies floating all around me. And then when we got to shore, there were mines everywhere—the air corps had totally missed them! My buddy Butch was hit by a sniper and killed right in front of me. His head was just gone . . .”

  Dick kept talking as we drove, in a trance, giving us the play-by-play of all that had happened to him, like a confessional. We couldn’t have stopped him if we had tried. And from the way he was going on, I knew that he would be haunted by the images of that day until he was an old man.

  We pulled up to the first American cemetery, lines and lines of plain white wooden crosses. Soldiers were walking along the rows slowly, stopping to examine the dog tags draped over the crosses, reading the names, looking for their friends. I bit my lip and said some silent prayers as we got out of the jeep and started walking through.

  “I’ll show you Butchy’s cross; it’s a couple of rows over,” Dick said, tromping through the cemetery, leading the way. “Will you look at that?” Dick stopped and pointed. “The French people who live near here? They put a rose on every single grave. Every single one. Can you believe it?”

  There was something about this kind gesture that broke an emotional dam in Dick, and he kneeled down in front of one of the crosses and began to weep, and my heart ached at his raw grief. I kneeled down next to him and put my arm over his shoulder, which made him sob even more. I looked up at Viv and Dottie, and we were all trying our best not to cry. We didn’t want to make it worse for him or any of the other soldiers searching for their friends among the crosses. We walked Dick back to the jeep, where, once he composed himself, he started apologizing profusely.