“Women aren’t meant for this. No offense, but you aren’t built for war,” he said.
“Honestly? Is any civilized person meant for war?” I said. “And lots of women are doing their part. What about the Land Army girls here, or the WAAFs? There are plenty of us working in the war, built for it or not.”
“Yes, but your work isn’t like those jobs,” Moretti said, frowning at me, his tone tense. “At least the jobs those women do are actually necessary. You’re here to serve doughnuts. And for officers, you’re just another problem for us to worry about.”
I felt my face grow hot, furious that he viewed us that way. Unnecessary. And of course, I was insecure. How many other officers viewed us as a nuisance they had to deal with?
Norman was watching this exchange, not hiding the fact he was entertained.
“Well, I’m . . .” I tried to retain my composure. I didn’t want to give away just how upset I was. I breathed and crossed my arms in front of my chest.
“I’m really sorry you feel that way, Captain Moretti,” I finally said. “I think we’re going to prove you wrong. And if you and I do happen to be anywhere near each other in the countryside, I promise you my Clubmobile group will never be a problem for you. We’ll stay out of your way.”
He looked at me for a second, still serious, but then his mouth turned up in that lopsided grin.
“Yeah, we’ll see,” he said with a shrug. “I hope you’re right.”
“I know I am,” I said, snapping back a little too harshly.
“Okay,” he said with a wave good-bye. “I’ll let you get to your test. Thanks again, Norman.”
“Ta, Captain,” Norman said. “Stay safe.”
“I will, my friend,” Moretti said. As he walked to retrieve his jeep, he turned around and added, “And Fiona?”
“Yes?” I said, still fuming. And surprised that he remembered my name.
“If we do run into each other again? You can call me Peter.” He disappeared behind the back of the garage before I had a chance to answer. I stood there with my mouth open, still angry, and too late to have the last word.
Norman climbed into the passenger seat, which, to my American brain, was on the wrong side of the car. I was relieved we would have a driver in England. The opposite side of the road and the car had already proved too stressful.
“He’s one of the best, ya know,” Norman said. “Comes across as gruff, but those Eighty-Second boys . . .”
“I know, I know. The Eighty-Second Airborne is the best, top-notch, blah, blah,” I said, my face burning when I thought of how dismissive Captain Moretti had been. “He didn’t have to insult my entire reason for being here.”
“You ain’t got no understanding of what he’s been through,” Norman said. “I told youse, the Eighty-Second was over in Normandy for four weeks without relief. They lost so many blokes. And the things they seen . . . seeing their brothers blown up? You ain’t got no idea what that does to a man. He’s been beaten down by this war, he has. All he wants is to keep the men he’s got left alive, and he don’t want nothin’ to distract him from doing that.”
I looked at Norman, my anger receding. He was right, but I still hoped I didn’t run into Captain Moretti . . . Peter . . . again.
“Now, ya ready, then?” Norman asked as I buckled in.
“Do I have a choice?” I said, feeling like I was going to throw up.
“Nah. Let’s get on with it.”
It was a humid, drizzly day, so of course I was already sweating from the warmth and nerves as I put the truck in gear, gassed the motor, and drove straight ahead. We drove by a group of GIs playing football in an open field, and they started cheering me on, whistling and calling out things like, “Yeah, Red Cross, you can do it!” It did nothing to calm my nerves, but I couldn’t help but laugh.
We reached a hill, and I crossed my fingers that I didn’t have to shift again to make it over the top, so of course I had to. The gears didn’t mesh, I forgot to press the gas pedal at the right time, and there I was with Norman, stalled out, ten minutes into my test. I gave him a sheepish look and started to apologize, but he calmly grabbed the hand brake and said, “Relax. And remember to double clutch right away if you need to climb a hill like this one.”
I nodded and took a deep breath. My dreams of confidently acing my driving test shattered, I stomped on the starter, the engine roared, and we took off once more. We went by barracks and huts and the mess hall. I was feeling better as we headed out toward the tank course and up over a hill, when a tree seemed to sprout up in the middle of the road as we came down the other side. I turned sharply to the right, cursing as we veered off the road, down through some bushes, surprising a couple of deer grazing. I managed to hit the brakes just before we ended up driving straight into a pond covered with camouflage netting.
I closed my eyes and heard Norman let out a long sigh.
“You think you’re pioneerin’ or somethin’, Miss Denning?” he said, and I was relieved to hear amusement in his voice.
“I’m so sorry, it was just that tree . . . ,” I said.
“Back it up now, turn it around,” he said. “You can do that, can’t ya? There’s an actual road to the left, round that tree. Downshift in order to slow down without them brakes.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said, wiping away the sweat dripping down my forehead.
As I backed up, I glanced over at the deer, who were looking at me as if to say even they could do better.
We got back on course, and the rest of the trip was mercifully without incident. I drove through a few bomb craters, lots of mud and ditches, and we finally made our way to the smooth and steady roads around Camp Griffiss. I stopped the truck a few hundred feet away from the garage. If Norman wasn’t going to pass me, I wanted to hear it from him out of earshot of Viv and Dottie. I wondered how many Clubmobile girls before me had flunked the driving test. I leaned on the wheel, my head resting against my hands, holding my breath for the verdict.
“Well, wasn’t a complete disaster, was it, then?” Norman said, emphasizing “was it” with the now-familiar-to-me British inflection. He rubbed his hand over his face.
“Look, none of you are very good, are you?” he said, and I started cracking my knuckles, waiting. He paused for what felt like an eternity, looking out the windshield before finally adding, “But you’ll get along all right if you have to.”
“Yes!” I said, and without thinking about it, I leaned over and gave Norman a hug. “Thank you, thank you so much, Norman.” When I pulled away, he was blushing but smiling.
“Promise me,” he said, “you’ll keep practicin’. You ain’t ever going to get better if not. And you have to be if they ship you to France. You’re the best hope of the lot, though Dorothy is pretty good under the bonnet—she’s got that part figured out. Viviana is rather hopeless, isn’t she? Used to fellas driving her round, maybe.”
“Maybe,” I said, feeling my stomach knot up again. “Are you . . . Do you think they’ll pass too?”
“I think if they don’t crash into nothin’, yeah, they’ll pass,” he said. “Despite what the captain said, the army needs you girls too much for them not to. Now let’s go get you that British license, then.”
I wanted to hug him again, but I knew one hug was more than enough for our kind old British mechanic.
The next morning, the three of us were newly licensed despite ourselves as we reunited with a bunch of our Clubmobile friends for the final training session: doughnut and coffee making.
“Well, this will be much better than yesterday,” I said to Viv as we walked into a cavernous garage where there were multiple stations set up with doughnut-making machines.
“Again, as long as it doesn’t mess with my manicure, everything will be fine,” Viv said.
“Hey, gals, Dottie says you’re going to the Paramount Sunday night to see some music. Can some of the other girls and I join you?” Blanche said as she walked up behind us with Dottie.
“Of course,” I said. “We’re going to make Dottie look particularly glamorous that evening.”
“Oh no, you don’t really need to do that. It’s fine,” Dottie said, but it was clear she wasn’t over her crush on Joe Brandon.
“Gather round, gather round, girls,” Miss Chambers’s distinct voice echoed off the walls when she called out to us from one of the stations at the opposite end of the garage.
“Very exciting, your final days of training before you head off,” she said when we were all in a semicircle around the station. “In front of me is one of the machines loaned to the Red Cross by the Doughnut Corporation of America. The good news is they can produce massive amounts of doughnuts in a short period of time—forty-eight dozen an hour. The bad news is that they are delicate, temperamental, and filled with hot oil. We just had to send a girl home because of severe burns, so you must be extremely careful operating them.”
“Lovely,” I whispered under my breath.