We hit eight or nine camps each week, usually at least two a day, sometimes three if one of the other Clubmobiles was out of commission. Our faces ached from smiling, our throats hurt from talking, and our muscles were sore from everything else.
Quite a few of the GIs we came in contact with were from the Eighty-Second Airborne, and though many of them were young, they had the eyes of old souls, their invisible battle scars apparent after all they had endured in Africa and Normandy. They didn’t speak of it, but you could see it in the way their hands shook when they were smoking a cigarette, or in the moments of grief revealed in their faces when they didn’t think anyone was watching.
Viv, Dottie, and I grew fond of “our boys in the Eighty-Second,” and though it took some of them time to relax and trust us, eventually they accepted us.
“There’s this fierce, quiet pride about these men,” Dottie said as we loaded trays of doughnuts onto the Cheyenne that morning behind headquarters. “I think they’re finally warming up to us, though.”
“I agree,” I said. “They never complain, and they’d never, ever say they’re sick of training in the countryside and need us to cheer them up, but something has changed in the last week or so. They don’t treat us like visitors anymore.”
“Well, I think they’ve adored us from the start,” Viv said, coming out of the doughnut kitchen, struggling as she carried one of the huge tin cans of lard. “Where’s Jimmy? Can we get on the road? I want to decorate the outside of this thing now that I’ve finally got paints.”
“He went to the loo,” I said. “And he stinks of booze. Again.”
“Ain’t had one drop to drink,” Jimmy said, looking defensive, not to mention very pale and sweaty as he ran over to help Viv load the lard. “Are we ready to go, then?”
“Yes. Later today I need to recruit some GIs to help us scour the Clubmobile from top to bottom before Miss Chambers’s visit tomorrow,” I said. “We’re going to be so great, she’ll want to ship us to Southampton by the end of the week. We could be in Normandy by the weekend. You’re going to play some songs, right, Dottie?”
“Yes, I’ll play a couple,” Dottie said. She had remained shy about playing in front of the troops, despite the overwhelmingly positive reception she had received the few times she’d done it so far.
Just as we were about to pull out of the alley, we spotted Liz Anderson waving at us from the back door of headquarters, and she came over.
“I’ll be escorting Miss Chambers tomorrow, and we’ll most likely see you midmorning,” she said. “And remember: no ribbons or jewelry or anything nonregulation—she’s a stickler. Go easy on the lipstick too—no bright red, Viv.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Viv said, rolling her eyes, and then added, “but thank you for the reminder. I know it’s not you, Liz.”
“And Fiona, I did send her a note about your fiancé right after I left Mrs. Tibbetts’s that night, but she still hasn’t responded,” Liz said.
“I know you did,” I said. “Thank you for trying.”
For some reason, I doubted Miss Chambers would ever make my search for Danny a priority.
The last camp of the day was the very first one we had visited on the job, and the men there were some of my favorites. Viv and I recruited Tommy Doyle, Patrick Halloran, shy Sam Katz from Pennsylvania, and a few other GIs to help us clean the inside and outside of the Cheyenne until it shined. After the army green was as sparkling as the color army green could be, Viv got out the paints Liz had procured for her and went to work. Dottie was helping Eddie from Mesa write a letter home, and a few other GIs were waiting in line after him, so we told her to keep at it.
As I scrubbed the counters inside the Clubmobile, the Victrola was playing an Andrews Sisters record. I was surrounded by soldiers armed with brushes, cloths, and sponges as they helped me clean every inch of the Cheyenne’s interior. Vera Lynn was sitting next to the Victrola like a queen on a small dusty-pink-and-white-checkered pillow Sam had found for her. The smell of cleaning agents and doughnut grease almost overpowered the odor of sweaty soldiers, but not quite.
“Looking good, Viv,” I heard Patrick say. He was outside cleaning the windows.
“Are you talking about me or the Cheyenne?”
“Both,” he said with a laugh. “Seriously though, that’s some nice painting.”
I leaned out to take a look at what she was doing. She had painted a delicate bright-green vine with red, white, and blue flowers framing the Clubmobile window. In the left-hand corner near the door to the front cab, she had added our names in bright red with a flourish:
VIV DOTTIE FIONA
THE BEANTOWN GIRLS
“Nice, Viv,” I said. “Although I suspect you’re painting today just to get out of cleaning in here.”
“Me? Never,” she said with a wink. She stepped back and admired her work. “I was supposed to be designing advertising campaigns by now. Instead, I’m standing in a muddy field in England, stinking of doughnut grease and trying to make this jalopy less ugly.”
“Do you think you’ll go back to your job after this?” I asked.
Viv sighed. “I don’t know. They said I could have it back. But I didn’t get to actually do anything beyond secretarial work, despite their promises. None of the women at Woodall and Young were allowed to manage any of the accounts—even the Kotex account, for Christ’s sake. What the heck do men know about Kotex?”
“Hey, keep it down; you sound like my sistah,” Tommy said from behind me, frowning in disgust, revealing his Boston accent. “We don’t need to hear about that girl stuff.”
“Sorry,” I said, and we both started giggling.
Just then a truck pulled up and parked about twenty feet away. Captain Peter Moretti got out, along with another officer.
The young GIs fell over themselves to greet the two officers. Even though they weren’t required to salute, all of them did.
“Please keep working, soldiers. I don’t want to interrupt,” Moretti said as he walked over. His cheeks were sunburned, and I had forgotten how tall he was. I hadn’t run into him since the night we left London. I hardly knew the gruff captain at all, so I wasn’t sure why the sight of him was like seeing an old friend.
“Good to see you, Captain Moretti,” I said, smiling. “We’ve still got a few doughnuts left. Would you like one?”
“No, thank you, but maybe Lieutenant Lewis would like one or two?” he said, nodding to the thin man beside him with the sandy brown hair. Then he added, in a softer voice, “It’s good to see you too, Fiona.”
We made introductions all around. Lieutenant Lewis happily took three doughnuts and some lukewarm coffee and started talking with the GIs, teasing them about doing women’s work.
“All spiffed up for tomorrow, Beantown Girls?” Moretti said to me as I jumped down to admire Viv’s artwork.
“Oh, so you’ve heard? Yes, our director is coming from London.”
“Not just your director. All the top Red Cross officials, including Harvey Gibson. And I heard some photographers too,” he said.
“Oh no, please tell me you’re joking,” I said, feeling my stomach turn at the thought. “Do you know for sure?”
“Yes, a couple of my superiors are going to be giving them the tour,” Moretti said.
“Hey, Fi, maybe you can bypass Miss Chambers altogether and just ask Mr. Gibson himself, see if he knows someone at the International Red Cross that can help,” Viv said. She was now painting the silhouettes of three women wearing Red Cross uniforms under the Beantown Girls lettering.
“What do you need from the International Red Cross?” Moretti asked, frowning.
I looked away and bit my lip. There it was. The question. Here was another person who didn’t know about Danny. I had to explain again, see the look of pity again, or hear another person stumble over their words. Again. Or did I?
“I had a question about a . . . um . . . a neighbor from home who might be a POW here. I know the IRC keeps track of those things; we thought Gibson might have a contact at the IRC,” I said, realizing I was talking too quickly but not able to help myself. I wasn’t a natural liar. “Although my neighbor’s family may have heard more by now. The letter they sent was dated almost a month ago.”
Viv flashed me a questioning look, but I ignored her.
Moretti tilted his head and examined my face. I self-consciously smoothed my hair, tucking the blonde strands in front under my cap. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d brushed it or put on fresh lipstick.
“Look, if you don’t have any luck with Gibson, I might be able to get some information for you,” he said. “I have an old friend from New York who works for them. Tracking Allied POWs is part of his job.”
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you, um . . . I’ll let you know.”
Now Viv was glaring at me, mouthing, “Tell him,” behind his back.
“Lewis, we’ve got to go,” Moretti said and smiled. “It was his idea to stop; he was hoping for doughnuts. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Captain,” I said, noticing that his smiles came easier now than when we first met. “We’ll need it.”