Dottie and I sat talking with the Clubmobilers who remained at the table, including Ruthie Spielberg and Helen Walton, two friends from North Dakota who could talk the bark off a tree. As Ruthie was telling a story, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I felt someone watching me. I looked around the hall again and spotted a group of officers sitting in a dark corner on the opposite side of the dance floor. They were drinking beer, their faces serious as they talked quietly. In the middle of the group was Captain Peter Moretti. He was looking right at me.
I got aggravated all over again, recalling our conversation about women in war. I considered ignoring his stare, but I took the high road, waving and giving him a small smile. He just turned and started talking to the blond officer sitting next to him.
“How rude,” I whispered under my breath.
“What?” Dottie asked.
“Hey, Boston girls, how are you?” Joe Brandon came over to our table and greeted us like long-lost friends. “So glad you came. Dottie, you going to join us up there tonight?”
“Never! I don’t know how you do it,” said Dottie with a laugh, her cheeks flushed at the sight of him.
Oh boy. It didn’t matter if he had a girl at home, Dottie was smitten.
“Why aren’t you onstage?” she asked him.
“I had one of my bandmates jump in for me so I could at least grab a beer or a Coke; it’s so hot under the lights up there,” he said, wiping his brow. “You girls want to come to the bar with me?”
“Sure,” Dottie said, grabbing my hand and pulling me up.
At the bar, Joe ordered drinks for the three of us.
“Hey, Joe, have you heard from Mary Jane yet?” I said as he handed us our drinks. He had to come clean. I didn’t want him breaking Dottie’s heart. Joe looked at me and then at Dottie’s face, turning pale.
“I . . . ,” he said, taking a deep breath, nervously wiping his brow again. “Yes, I did yesterday for the first time. She’s getting her classroom ready for the start of school.”
“Your fiancée?” Dottie said.
“No, she’s my girlfriend,” he said in a quiet voice. “Dottie . . .”
They were looking deep into each other’s eyes, and suddenly I was interrupting a private moment.
“I have to find the ladies’ room,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few.”
I made my way through the crowds to the ladies’ room, which was in a narrow hallway near the front doors. There was a line, of course, so I queued up behind a gaggle of British girls who were swooning about some GIs they had just met. One of them was wearing lavender perfume that was so strong it made me gag a little.
“I thought you’d be out on the dance floor with your friends.”
I looked up to see Peter Moretti, who was taking up more than half the narrow hallway with his broad shoulders.
“And I thought you’d wave back when I waved to you across the hall a few minutes ago,” I said with a frown, feeling slighted and still annoyed by our last conversation.
“When did you do that? I didn’t see you,” he said.
“How come I don’t believe you?” I stepped out of my place in line.
That lopsided grin again. “Honest, I didn’t see you.”
“Why aren’t you dancing?” I asked.
“I don’t dance.”
“Ever?”
“Ever,” he said. “I am a—well, I used to be a boxer, so I’m pretty good on my feet . . . but I don’t dance.”
“I heard you were a boxer. Norman is quite a fan.”
“Norman’s a good man.”
There was an awkward silence as the line to the ladies’ room moved up and guys pushed past us to get to the men’s room.
“Well, see you,” he said.
“Yes, I guess I’ll see you in Leicester—or thereabouts,” I replied.
He looked up at the ceiling, sighed, and said, “Yeah, you Red Cross girls are heading there too. They also sent a bunch of you over to Normandy with the troops in July.”
“I’m sure you were thrilled about it,” I said.
“It’s nothing against you girls personally,” he said. “I know I upset you the other day. But I just don’t see the point of putting American women at risk so they can pass out doughnuts. It makes no sense.”
“It’s nothing against us, but you keep insulting my whole reason for being here,” I said. “I know you don’t see the value in it, but we must be doing something right or they wouldn’t keep hiring more of us.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Again, no offense, I just don’t get it. Maybe you just look like you’re helping, and that’s all that matters. Maybe it looks good in pictures for the folks back home.”
I thought of the LIFE magazine shoot, and my face grew hot. Did he know about that?
“I’m not going to try to convince you,” I said and, seeing that the line to the ladies’ room had disappeared, decided to make my exit. “I don’t think I could if I tried. I only hope someday you’ll see our value. See you,” I said and made a beeline for the swinging door of the restroom.
As soon as I walked back into the hall, Martha and Viv pulled me onto the dance floor. The band was playing again, and they had brought up a vocalist, a soldier named Marty. He was no Bing Crosby, but he wasn’t half-bad.
“No more sitting in the corner, Fi,” Viv said, squeezing my elbow. “We’ve got another guy out here that needs a partner.”
“Any sign of Harry Westwood?” I said.
“Nope, disappeared,” Viv said, shrugging. “His loss.”
They introduced me to a fella named Timmy, a tall, skinny guy who didn’t have a dance partner. Joe Brandon was back onstage at the piano, looking sullen. Dottie was laughing and dancing with a GI who didn’t look old enough to shave.
Timmy proved to be a better dancer than he looked, and I actually relaxed and enjoyed myself as he gave me dancing tips and whirled me around the floor. The band had just started another song when Harry Westwood appeared again and rushed up to the stage. He signaled for the band to stop playing, and some of the soldiers in the audience booed. Harry grabbed the microphone and turned to the audience. The look on his face made the booing stop.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the club has to be evacuated immediately,” Harry said, as he looked out across the crowd, calm, serious, and dignified. “It’s too loud in here to hear the sirens outside. We have reports of an unprecedented number of V-1s coming into the city in the next twenty-four hours, and we need to take all the necessary precautions. Please exit the club in an orderly fashion and be cautious getting back to your lodgings. Be safe and God bless.”
There was no panic in the crowd as people downed the last of their drinks, started finding their friends, and filed out of the Paramount. The feeling in the air was one of resignation. The carefree bubble of the club had just burst, and it was time to head back outside to the war.
The sirens were so loud outside, I was amazed we hadn’t heard them. I brushed my hair back from my face with shaking hands. I had almost adjusted to the constant threat of bombs . . . but not quite.
“Viv, darling, there you are.” Harry Westwood came up to us as we were waiting for the rest of the girls to file out. Viv gave me a sideways glance with her eyebrows raised.
“I can arrange for your group to get a ride to where you’re staying on the back of one of the RAF trucks,” he said. “My apologies as it’s not exactly riding in style, but it will get you there safe.”
“Okay, thank you; it’s about two miles from here,” Viv said. “There are eleven of us.”
“Good,” he said. “Gather the rest of your friends and wait right here. I’ll be back.” He disappeared into the crowds.
“Darling?” I said. “He doesn’t even know you.”
“Who cares, he’s getting us home.” She paused before adding, “And yes, it is a bit forward, but you have to admit, with that British accent? Anything sounds delicious.” We both started laughing.
Dottie and Blanche came out, followed by Frankie, Martha, the chatterboxes Ruthie and Helen, the Dixie Queen crew, and the rest of our group. We were looking for the RAF truck when Peter Moretti stepped in front of me.
“Some of my guys have jeeps; we can bring you girls home,” he said. “They’ll be pulling up here in less than a minute . . .”
“Our chariot has arrived,” Viv announced as a RAF pickup truck pulled up. Harry Westwood was in the passenger seat, and he jumped out and started helping all the girls climb into the back.
“Oh, it looks like we’ve got a ride,” I said. “But thank you. It was kind of you to think of us.”
“A RAF truck, huh?” he said, unmistakable annoyance in his voice. “Well, be safe and get home quickly. You’re pretty exposed in the back of that truck, so stay low. Get shelter if you hear a V-1 even remotely close by.”
“I’m sure we’ll be okay,” I said. It was a total lie, and we both knew it. No one was ever sure.
“I also just wanted to say I’m . . . I’m sorry if I offended you earlier. Again.”
“Don’t worry about it. You know more about this war than I do.” I relaxed after his apology, not even realizing how tense I had felt.
“Yeah,” he said. “Now I . . .”
“Fi, come on, we’ve got to go now!” Frankie said, standing in the back of the RAF truck.
“Thank you again,” I said.
I climbed into the back of the truck with my friends. As it pulled away, I turned back to see Peter Moretti looking at me; he nodded and gave me a small wave before heading into the crowds.
“Who was that, Fi?” Dottie asked as I sat down next to her.