by Jane Healey
“We were,” Dottie answered her. “Some of it is a little worse for wear, but we’ve got it.”
“Then we really saved all five truckloads,” Liz said, nodding, with an expression of relief and pride. “We did it.”
“Come see, we’ve got more mail for you too,” Liz said. “Christmas packages from home and cards and—”
“Oh, and something like two dozen letters for Viv from Harry Westwood,” Blanche said.
“What?” Viv asked, her cheeks growing pink.
“I’m not kidding, he’s crazy,” Blanche said. “Come see.”
No one was feeling much like a party with the fresh grief over Martha, but the girls had done their best to make things festive for the holiday. There was a Christmas tree in the corner by the window decorated with red bunting and cotton balls. A buffet table had been assembled, and I tried not to pile my plate too high with some of the treats we hadn’t had in months, most of which had been donated from Christmas packages from home—cheese, bread, canapés made of anchovies and lobster, melba toast, nuts, figs, stuffed dates, and Christmas fruitcake.
We found some seats by the fireplace, and Blanche and Frankie brought over our mail. My parents and sisters had sent me an amazing care package that included another red wool scarf and matching socks, two new Chanel lipsticks, and several cakes of Harriet Hubbard Ayer soap. It also included jars of jellies, lollipops, cocoa packets, and a package of Mallomars, still intact, which I immediately opened and passed out to my friends.
“I haven’t had one of these in ages,” Dottie said, closing her eyes after biting into one.
“So Viv, are you going to open at least one letter from Harry?” I said.
“I can’t decide,” Viv said, twisting her mouth, trying to make up her mind.
“I’ll open one for you,” Blanche said. “I’m dying to know what he has to say in all those letters.”
“Not yet,” Viv said. “I need to enjoy my punch and think about it. What’s new with Captain Guy, Blanche?”
“We’re keeping in touch,” Blanche said, her face lighting up at the mention of him. “He’s pretty dreamy.”
“What’s in the package, Dottie?” Frankie said.
“It’s a bunch of new records I ordered from a shop in Boston,” Dottie said, lifting some out to show us. “‘Rum and Coca-Cola’ by the Andrews Sisters, ‘Long Ago and Far Away’ and ‘Take the “A” Train’ by my new friend Glenn Miller and his band.”
“Oh my God, you haven’t heard,” Blanche said, looking at us. “Of course, you wouldn’t have, you were cut off.”
“Heard what?” Dottie asked. “Oh no . . .”
“Glenn Miller is missing. He was on a small plane heading over the channel to Paris,” Blanche said.
“What?” Dottie said, hugging his record and looking like she might start crying again.
“It’s true.” Frankie nodded. “Everyone has been following the story. I’m afraid he’s gone.”
“But . . . no, he can’t just be gone,” Dottie said. “What about his band? They must be devastated. That night, meeting him? That was one of the best nights of my life.”
We sat there in silence for a moment, and I could tell Dottie and Viv were also remembering that beautiful night in Leicester when Dottie finally revealed her talent.
“Enough sad talk; Martha wouldn’t want us sitting around here crying all night. I’m getting us some more punch,” Blanche said, grabbing our glasses. “And when I get back, I want to hear all about the great adventure you were just on, especially any romantic parts.”
“And, you know, then I think we might have to put those records on and jitterbug,” I said. “In honor of our beautiful friend and her dance skills that put us all to shame.”
Liz gave the three of us the next few days off to recover from our ordeal behind the lines. We had real mattresses for the first time in weeks, and we spent most of the time sleeping, writing letters home by the fire, or catching up with friends, sharing stories about Martha and crying when we needed to. All of Group F was devastated by her death, but for the five of us who had known her the best and loved her dearly, it was hard to comprehend that she would never be coming back to us. It was also a grim reminder for all the Clubmobile girls that we were more than just spectators observing the tragedies of war. If it could happen to Martha, it could happen to any of us.
On New Year’s Eve, Group F and some soldiers stationed close by planned a party for a nearby orphanage run by French nuns, and it was a welcome distraction from the fresh grief over our friend. When we arrived, it was clear that the soldiers had been spending most of their free time there, because they were greeted by the children as if they were movie stars. They played ball and tossed the kids around as they squealed with delight. It was a brisk day, but the sun was out, so the nuns insisted on having the party outside.
Dottie, Viv, and I passed out doughnuts, hot cocoa, and little bags of candy from the Cheyenne, and watched as one of the soldiers, who was dressed like a clown, performed basic magic tricks using coins and scarves. Two little girls, one with curly black hair, the other with light-brown braids, were in the simple navy-blue smocks that many of the girls wore, under frayed wool coats that were at least one size too small. The girls were standing together enjoying the clown, mesmerized. They didn’t speak to each other; instead, they just communicated with their hands, and I realized they didn’t speak the same language. The clown pulled a coin out of the curly-haired girl’s ear, and they both collapsed into each other giggling.
“Where are all these children from?” I asked one of the nuns who spoke English. She had dark-brown hair and gray-blue eyes and looked no older than me.
“Everywhere,” she said, looking around, delighted at the sight of many of her charges seeming so happy. “France, Belgium, Germany, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands.”
“Even Germany?”
“Yes,” she said. She had a wistful look as she watched the two little girls. “They have suffered too much for ones so young. They have lost everything, yet they still laugh. They still love.”
A jeep drove up, and I was surprised when Joe and Colonel Brooks, holding a cane, climbed out. Dottie quickly distributed the bags of candy in her hands and hurried over to greet them.
“Fiona,” the colonel said. “You’re one of the girls I came here to see.”
“It’s so good to see you. How are you feeling, Colonel Brooks?” I said, climbing down from the Cheyenne to take a break from passing out sweets. I’m not sure if he was embarrassed by it, yet I couldn’t help but give him a hug.
“Better,” he said, his pale complexion reddening a little at my affection. He looked much better than the last time I had seen him. He nodded to his brown wooden cane. “Can’t wait to get rid of this damn thing, though. I came because I wanted to let you and your friends know that I have kept my promise. I’ve talked to the major general of the Twenty-Eighth, and we’re writing to the War Office to recommend that the three of you receive Bronze Stars for meritorious achievement in a combat zone. Unfortunately, we’re not empowered to award decorations to civilians, or I’d do it myself.”
“Sir, I . . . I don’t even know what to say,” I said. “We were just doing what we had to. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“It’s deserved. You three saved my life, according to the doctors,” he said. “Well, you and that Kraut who stitched me up. I may not have let him touch me if I had been conscious.”
“Bronze Stars,” Dottie said, holding Joe’s hand. “I have to write my parents tonight to tell them.”
“Viv just went to get coffee. Here she comes, Colonel.” I spotted Viv walking toward us, carrying two cups, but her eyes were on something behind us. Another truck was approaching.
When she reached us, Colonel Brooks informed her of his recommendation for the Bronze Stars. She just stared at him, moved beyond words. She put the coffee cups down and gave him a hug.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for t
he honor.”
By this time, the truck had pulled into the courtyard of the orphanage and parked.
“Ah, the Brits are here too,” the colonel said. “Quite the New Year’s party.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Viv said in a soft voice, watching as a half dozen Allied soldiers got out, Harry Westwood the second to last one. He did a double take when he saw us standing with the colonel. He walked over slowly, sheepishly, not taking his eyes off Viv the whole time.
“What are you doing here?” Viv said to him, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was tied up in a red kerchief, and she had a streak of doughnut flour on her cheek.
“We’re heading to Germany like just about everyone else,” he said. “We heard about the party and wanted to stop by. Did you receive any of my letters?”
“Just last night,” she said. “I haven’t read them yet.”
“I think it might be time for the sing-along soon,” Dottie said. “Joe, want to come with me and lend a hand?” Joe nodded, and they walked away.
“Viviana, might I have a word with you, alone?” Harry said, anguished. “There’s so much I have to say to you.”
“Harry, whatever you have to say, you can say it right here,” Viv said to him. Viv shot me a look, making it clear she didn’t want me leaving too.
The colonel kept looking back and forth between the two of them, not hiding his amusement at the drama playing out in front of us.
“All right, if that’s the way you prefer it,” Harry said. “I was a daft fool in Paris. I regret what I said about my family. I’ve regretted it ever since. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, Viviana. I want you to meet my family, and I don’t give a damn what they think about my being in lo—” He stopped himself and looked at me and the colonel. “Being with an American. I want you to be a part of my life, a part of my future. Please, darling, I’m begging you to give me another chance.”
There was a crack in Viv’s cool facade. Her eyes glistened; the pink glow in her cheeks also gave her away.
“Are you sure you can handle me, Harry Westwood?” Viv said, cocking her head, her hands now on her hips. “An American woman who’s not going to bow down to you or your family even if you end up heir to the throne? I’m not exactly some delicate English rose.”
“With that I would agree.” Harry looked at her, then up at the sky and back to her with a smile that could launch a film career. “And I love you for all of that and more, Viviana; do you understand that? I love you. Also, I assure you there’s no chance I’ll end up king. So you should have no worries about that.” He paused for a few moments, and she just gazed at him, her face softening, the hint of a smile on her lips.
Harry threw up his hands. “For God’s sake, I’m British. We don’t generally announce our feelings in front of the world like this, so please say something. Anything.”
She stepped toward him and held out her hand.
“Come on,” she said, a real smile now. “Help me serve some doughnuts and candy, and we’ll talk.”
He smiled back and let out a huge breath as he took her hand, and the two of them headed into the Cheyenne.
The colonel looked at me with such a mischievous smile that I had to laugh.
“Hell, that was like watching one of those romantic movies my wife loves,” he said, and we both started laughing. “You’ll have to let me know how it ends for them.”
“I will,” I said. “And I have to ask you something. A favor.”
“Tell me,” he said. I told him the story of Danny, from the very beginning to the latest news about Stalag Luft IV.
“When the German POW camps are finally liberated, which I hope will be soon, I’d like to be there,” I said. “I’m sure that the Red Cross will be sent to help. Can you pull some strings, make sure Clubmobile Group F is one of the first groups sent in?”
The colonel studied me with a combination of pride and compassion, like a favorite uncle.
“That’s a reasonable request,” he said. “I’ll get you there if I can, my dear.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. I gave him one more hug.
“Just know that if you do find your fiancé, he won’t be the same person he was when he left for war.”
I thought back to Danny and me, sitting on that checkered blanket on the grass at the Bunker Hill Monument days before he left. It was a lifetime ago.
“I do understand that. And that’s okay. Neither am I.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
April 21, 1945
Dear Deidre, Darcy, Niamh, and Mum and Dad,
Hello from somewhere in Germany (yes, you read that right—that’s all the censors will let me say!). I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve written; I’ve barely had time to breathe these past weeks. And it’s very hard to read and write by flashlight or candlelight, so I’ve tried to start this letter many times and given up.
In my last letter, we had just retreated to France after our adventures over Christmas. By the end of January, we were happy to be back on the front lines with the soldiers again, first “somewhere” in Belgium and now here in Germany, as this war is moving very fast these days, and I hope that’s a good thing.
The counteroffensive has been nonstop, and it’s exciting and rewarding to be a part of it. Relaxation is rare as we are constantly on the move, serving various units. We’ve been so busy, we’re now having a few GIs make the doughnuts for us—which is just fine with me, Dottie, and Viv, as we’re all sick of that part of the job. Our days are so long and we’re so tired in the evening, we rarely even make it to dinner. Still, I wouldn’t trade being here for anything, though I miss you all terribly!
All the American flags here have been flying half-staff at the news of Roosevelt’s death. There is something so tragic about the fact that he didn’t live to see the final chapter of this war, that he didn’t see the results of the Allies’ enormous sacrifices and hard work.
Our captain, Liz Anderson, has joined our friends Blanche and Frankie on their Clubmobile the Uncle Sam. The other member of their trio, our dear friend Martha, was killed when the hospital she was staying at was bombed. It’s still so difficult for me to write those words. Losing Martha has devastated all of us. She was the sweetest person and a wonderful friend.
I stopped writing and stared at the peeling, pink floral wallpaper in my room. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I realized I would have to rewrite the last part of the letter. It had been almost four months since Martha’s death, and we were all still feeling the loss. But sharing the news would only alarm my family.
Since Martha’s passing, long days and hard work had been our solace. It was a distraction and a comfort to serve the troops, and it reminded us all of why we were there, despite the ever-present dangers.
By mid-March, we had been ordered to move into Germany near Cologne. The Nazis had put up roadblocks of double rows of logs every hundred yards or so, so getting there was like driving through an unending obstacle course. Witnessing the destruction of the German countryside had been depressing: many towns had been demolished to splinters and rubble, and a grim, deathly pallor permeated everything. The smell of dead bodies was so overwhelming, at times we had to cover our faces with our scarves.
As in France, there were refugees trudging along the roads, pushing wheelbarrows of household goods or carrying shawl bundles or shiny suitcases. Unlike in France, the condition of the German refugees varied greatly. The difference was in the extremity of the condition of the German people we saw; it was varied and shocking. Some were barefoot and emaciated, like walking corpses, while others were deeply tanned and wore German military boots.
Clubmobile Group F was now billeted in a large shell-damaged home on the outskirts of Cologne. With eight bedrooms, it was large enough for all of us, and the local GIs had rigged up stoves in the bedrooms so we weren’t cold at night. We were so close to the front, some nights it was impossible to sleep with the constant blasts of artillery fire and the roar of fig
hter planes overhead.
I wanted to tell my sisters about all of our adventures, about being trapped in Vielsalm and Christmas Eve, about Dottie and Joe Brandon and Princess Viv finding a British aristocrat. I even wanted to tell them about Peter, who was somewhere on the front with the rest of the Eighty-Second, if he was still alive. If. I tried not to think about that. In any case, those stories would have to wait.
Someone knocked on the bedroom door, and I called for them to come in.
It was Liz, holding a pile of paperwork per usual.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“It is,” she said. “But we just received new orders, and I wanted to tell you first.”
“Oh?” I said, feeling nervous now. I started to crack my knuckles.
“I’m not sure what your friend Colonel Brooks said, but Group F has been assigned to a Luftwaffe base over an hour away.”
“What has this got to do with Colonel Brooks?”
“Several hundred Allied POWs have just been liberated over the past forty-eight hours—they’ve been taken to that base. It’s the first word of POWs being liberated anywhere in the ETO.”
“So we’re going there when?” I asked.
“As soon as you’re ready,” she said.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I felt slightly ill.
“He honored your request, Fiona,” Liz said. “We probably wouldn’t have even heard about this if it wasn’t for Colonel Brooks.”
“He did,” I said. “And I can’t quite believe we’re going there today.”
“But are you really ready? For where we’re going?” Liz said, examining my face. “This is what you’ve been waiting for.”
“I’m ready,” I said, my stomach still churning. “But I’m trying to keep my expectations low. It’s not like Danny’s going to walk off the first truck that arrives.”
The first Clubmobile convoy to the Luftwaffe base consisted of just the Cheyenne and the Uncle Sam. It was led by none other than our friendly liaison, Captain Guy Sherry. I’m not sure how exactly the captain ended up getting assigned to our group again, and I was surprised Liz approved it, but Blanche was thrilled. Though the two of them were discreet, somehow it just made their romance all the more obvious.