July 30, 1944
I stood looking in the mirror in our tiny dorm bathroom and adjusted my Red Cross cap over the two combs in my hair, pulling the chunk of blonde strands down the side of my face in a flattering sweep. Some powder, blush, a touch of mascara, and a sweep of pink lipstick, and I was ready to go. It was the morning of the Red Cross Clubmobile presentation ceremony to the military, and it felt good to wear our dress uniforms and feel clean and pretty, not covered with mud, dough, or car grease.
“Fiona? You in there?” I heard Dottie call from outside the door.
“Yes?” I said, adding a little more blush but still failing to conceal my freckles. “I’m all done if you need to get in here.”
“There’s been a change of plan,” Dottie said when I opened the door. She was standing in just her underwear and glasses, looking annoyed.
A few Clubmobilers hurried past us in various states of dress. A girl from New York named ChiChi stumbled and swore as she ran by, pulling on the high-waisted dark-blue pants that were part of the battle dress uniform. The Andrews Sisters were singing from the dorm’s sole record player, and laughter and chatting spilled out of the rooms. There was a palpable sense of relief in the air now that training was over.
“What’s the change?” I said.
“We have to wear our new battle dress uniforms.”
“What? Why?” I asked. “Those are wool; we’re going to be roasting.”
“It’s for publicity,” Dottie said. “LIFE magazine is going to be there, and the Red Cross top brass want us to be in the uniforms we’re going to be wearing out in the field. They want to get a bunch of photos of us holding doughnuts and stuff.”
“But that’s crazy. We’re all going to be so sweaty and overheated, we’ll be passing out.”
“I know, it’s ridiculous,” Dottie said. “But we’ve got to go change now. The bus will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“I’m wearing a clown suit,” Viv said to us as we walked in the room. She was frowning as she twirled around and modeled the new uniform for us.
It included a short belted jacket with two deep pockets on the front and matching high-waisted pants, all in the same deep grayish blue as the Royal Air Force uniforms.
“I know they altered it to fit me, but I still don’t like it,” Viv said with a sigh. “Do you think we’ll have to wear the jacket in this heat?”
“I’m sure we will for the pictures at least,” Dottie said, slipping on the requisite white button-down shirt.
“Well, at least the hat’s not bad looking,” I said, taking off the cap I had so carefully adjusted and replacing it with the blue hat, which had a wider brim. “I think I like it better; at least it won’t slide off my head.”
“Fi, how are you doing? Are you still upset about the doughnut explosion?” Viv asked.
“Oh God, don’t remind me.” I put my head in my hands, reliving the moment, feeling the mortification all over again. I leaned against my bedroll. We had spent the whole day packing, and everything I owned, minus a few changes of clothes, was in my footlocker.
“I know training didn’t go as well as you had planned . . .”
“That’s an understatement . . . ,” I said.
“But, Fi, this was just training. What better way to show her what a top-notch team we are than to work well in the field together?” Dottie said. “We’ll be so good, we’ll be noticed for all the right reasons.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself,” I said. “We will do better. And we’re lucky we’re already friends.”
“No kidding,” Viv said. “I heard three girls fighting like cats at doughnut training the other day.”
“And I’ll take driving lessons from our driver in the Midlands,” I said. “One of us has got to get better at driving. I want ours to be one of the first Clubmobiles in this group to be sent to France. We have to be.”
“We will be, I have no doubt,” Dottie said, brushing her glossy black hair and putting her new hat on.
“Buses are here. Come on, girls, hurry up, let’s go,” Frankie said, as she ran by our door.
“All right, girls, time to meet the RC brass,” I said. I put on my white gloves, threw my white scarf around my neck, and shut our door behind us for one of the last times.
The ceremony was grand, with more pomp and circumstance than any of us had anticipated. A large part of its impressiveness was due to the natural setting of the event. It took place at Royal Holloway, University of London, several miles outside of the city center, most likely by design, as the risk of buzz bombs dropping on us was somewhat diminished. On a gorgeous, expansive lawn, we assembled in front of an enormous brick building with spires that made it resemble a castle more than a college.
The sun managed to break through the clouds just as the ceremony began. We were lined up in our battle dress, white gloves, and scarves, trying our best not to look as sweaty and hot as we felt. Behind us, our newly painted Clubmobiles shined in the sun.
Miss Chambers was there, along with all the new Red Cross field captains, including our own Group F captain, Liz Anderson. Harvey Gibson, commissioner of the American Red Cross in Great Britain, was also on hand, as were most of the Red Cross headquarters staff and, of course, several high-ranking military officials.
The army band started to play, and the Military Police Battalion marched past us in perfect formation for the ceremonial review. They were resplendent in their white helmets, belts, and gloves, and I wasn’t the only girl blinking back a tear as they passed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a photographer, dressed in a light-brown blazer and black fedora, taking pictures of us from various angles. He caught me looking over at him and waved. I gave him a small, close-lipped smile, and he snapped a couple more pictures, giving me the thumbs-up.
After the music ended, two of the generals came up to the podium and made some remarks about how grateful they were for the Red Cross, and for the Clubmobile program specifically.
Finally, Mr. Harvey Gibson, a stout, balding man with a warm, generous smile, approached the podium. The first part of the speech was for the dignitaries, but the final words were directed at us.
“We at the Red Cross are enormously proud of the Clubmobile program and of all of you, this latest class of Clubmobile girls. Our ‘Doughnut Dollies.’”
“Ugh, why does he use that nickname? I hate it,” I whispered to Viv. “It makes us sound like little girls in sailor dresses.”
“Agree, it’s totally awful,” Viv said.
“You will be leaving London to serve our troops tomorrow,” Gibson continued. “And it couldn’t come at a better time as we are short-staffed after sending so many Clubmobilers to the Continent. The Clubmobile program is now two years old and hugely successful. It sprang from a simple idea, that the most useful service to the soldier in the field would be to bring him a symbol of the warmth of home when he needed it most. And that this could be done with a cup of coffee and doughnuts served by an American girl.
“Now, girls, trust me when I say I know doughnuts and coffee are merely your props, that you do so much just by being there. I thank you for leaving your homes and families behind to come here to volunteer for this important job.”
With a round of applause, the ceremony concluded and everyone headed over to the Clubmobiles, where doughnuts and coffee were already waiting.
Our Clubmobile was named the Cheyenne. It was a newly refurbished, two-and-a-half-ton GMC truck with American-style gears and steering. The outside was freshly painted army green with “American Red Cross Clubmobile” in red-and-white block letters across the side, and there were two large windows from which we would be serving the troops.
We found our Clubmobile but could not find our driver, a British civilian named Jimmy English. He hadn’t shown up at the ceremony to meet us for reasons nobody could explain.
Harvey Gibson came up to me just as I was pouring myself a cup of coffee out of an urn on a table in front of the Cheyenne.
“Hello. Harvey Gibson,” he said, shaking my hand. He had an undeniable charisma and warmth. “I like to introduce myself to all of the new girls.”
“Hello,” I replied. “I’m Fiona Denning from Boston.”
Mr. Gibson was about to say something when the photographer with the black hat snuck up behind me and said in a strong New York accent, “Hey, Mr. Gibson. Gary Dent, LIFE magazine. A picture with the young lady for the piece I’m doing?”
“Of course,” Mr. Gibson said with a smile. We stood together. I tried to wipe some of the sweat off my face and gave the photographer an awkward smile.
“Perfect. You’ve got that all-American-girl look, freckles and all,” Gary Dent said.
“Take as many as you need,” Mr. Gibson said.
“Will do. Can I get a few of you two talking together? Just act natural.”