Martha paused for a second before answering. Some of the fullness had gone out of her round face, probably from too many K ration meals.
“On my farm back in Iowa, we have to slaughter animals sometimes, and it’s absolutely awful. The first time I saw my father slaughter a pig? I was probably nine years old. I’ll never forget it—the sounds, the smell. I cried all night long. I never got numb to the horror, but over time, I got used to it. I think that’s what witnessing a war is like—what you see is still so terrible, but you soon realize it’s part of life here and you have to deal with it.”
“Martha’s right,” Blanche said. “We’ve seen some horrible stuff: soldiers wounded like you wouldn’t believe, dead Germans, just . . .” She shuddered. “But you’ve got to get used to it, or you might as well go home, right? They don’t need Red Cross girls that are blubbering messes, falling apart all the time. We’d be useless to them.”
There was a pause in conversation as we all pondered this. Blanche put out her cigarette in the tin ashtray on the coffee table and said, “Enough grim talk. Who’s in love? Got any scandals?”
“Martha’s in love,” Frankie said with a mischievous grin, taking a cigarette from Viv. She was still standing, tapping her foot and leaning against Dottie’s chair. “He’s an undertaker from Topeka, Kansas. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Seriously?” I said, trying not to laugh. The color in Martha’s cheeks grew deeper by the second.
“Oh, be quiet, Frankie,” Martha said. “His name is Arthur. And yes, that is his job back home.”
“He’s a very nice undertaker,” Blanche said, nodding, her expression serious, but then she covered her mouth and started giggling, waving her hand in front of her face. “I’m sorry, Martha, I know we tease you about him way too much.”
“Way too much,” said Martha, kicking her foot.
“We can’t wait to meet him,” Dottie said, trying to make Martha feel better.
“Any word about Danny, Fiona?” Frankie asked, sounding hopeful.
“Nothing since you left,” I said, and all of my mixed feelings came bubbling up. “No mail from home at all since you left. No news from the IRC. Nothing.”
I didn’t want to dwell on it or get into anything else, so I said, “Viv, you have to tell them about running into Harry Westwood again.”
“Where and when?” Blanche asked Viv. “Spill the beans, Viv. He is gorgeous. We want all the dirt.”
“I saw him the night of the Glenn Miller concert a couple of weeks ago,” Viv said. “Oh girls, I wish you had been there, because that was a pretty fantastic night.”
Our three friends gasped at the mention of Glenn Miller. Blanche and Martha could not get their questions out fast enough as we proceeded to tell them all about the secret concert, including Dottie’s big singing debut, which made Frankie spit out her Coke.
That led to the story about Joe Brandon professing his love for Dottie. And I could tell Viv was itching to say something about Peter Moretti. I was silently warning her not to with my eyes, when Liz walked into the lounge, files and clipboard in hand.
“Ladies, you’re the last Clubmobile group I’m meeting with today,” she said. “Are you ready to hear what’s next?”
“Yes, please, Liz, let’s get this show on the road. We want to go drink champagne,” Blanche said.
Liz rolled her eyes, pulled up a chair to sit with us, and opened one of the file folders.
“Even with eight more Clubmobiles since yesterday, we still have a huge number of troops to cover, so I’ve mapped out a way to reach as many units as possible.”
She showed us a map with pinpoints marking the different camps in this part of France as well as some lists of different groups that I couldn’t read from where I was sitting.
“I’m splitting the Clubmobiles over here into groups of two and three,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect before continuing. “I’m not sure Miss Chambers would approve of this decision, but the Uncle Sam and Cheyenne are going to be together moving forward.”
The six of us caused a small scene, again, and soldiers and Red Cross workers looked over with curiosity as we all cheered at this news.
“So, good decision?” Liz said, clearly pleased with herself.
“Such a good decision,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
“Don’t let me down, girls,” she said, getting serious again. “You all are going to be out in the field with not much contact with me or any other Red Cross personnel. For that reason, you’ll have an army liaison assigned to you at all times. He’ll be your mother superior over here. He’ll drive the supply truck, take you to the different camps, and help you navigate the often-insane routes. Of course, he’ll also help keep you safe, get you out when you’re too close to the action.”
“Who is this liaison? Do we know him?” Frankie asked, looking skeptical.
“No, you’ll meet him first thing in the morning,” Liz said, distracted and shuffling through her files. “Finally, I’m going to designate Fiona as the captain of your group. She’s great with keeping things organized and paying attention to the important details of life on the road. Are you all okay with that?”
My five friends nodded in agreement, and I looked around at all of them with gratitude.
“Told you she’d be the best,” Viv said to Liz.
“Aw, thanks, Viv. And everyone,” I said, feeling my face grow warm.
“Happy to be your second-in-command,” Frankie said. “Only if you need one.”
“Okay, now can we go have champagne?” Blanche said. “Liz, you’re welcome to come with us.”
“Now you may go. I’ll go over the rest of the details in the morning when we meet down here at six a.m.,” Liz said. “I’m finally going to shower myself. Maybe I’ll join you for a glass later.”
Our friends took us to a café next to Cherbourg’s city hall that had some minor shell damage, but by some miracle it had been spared the devastation of some of the surrounding buildings. The owner, a slight gray-haired man in his sixties wearing a black apron, had done his best to clean up the rubble on the street outside to make room for the café’s rickety wooden tables and chairs. He pushed a couple of them together for us, threw a few ashtrays on them, and made a gesture for us to sit.
“Filles américaines,” a French soldier sitting at the table across from the front door called over to us as he nodded. “Bonsoir. You like champagne?”
“Blanche wasn’t wrong,” Frankie said. “It happens every time we come here.”
“Non, merci,” Martha said, giving the man a shy smile and waving her hand, signaling no thank you.
“The trick is to refuse once or twice, and then they will insist,” Blanche whispered to us.
Just then the old man came back with a younger woman wearing a simple floral dress, her hair tied with a red bow. She had a tray of six glasses, and he had two bottles of uncorked champagne. We looked over at the table of the French soldiers as the two employees served us, but they shrugged.
“Pas nous,” the one who had offered champagne said, raising his hands, making it clear it wasn’t them.
The young woman pointed behind us, to the table farthest away, on the corner of the street. The four American officers sitting there raised their glasses to us and smiled.
“Vive la France!” one of them said, and the whole café shouted, “Vive la France!” in return.
“Does anyone know any of those officers?” I asked.
“Never seen them,” Blanche said as Viv lit her cigarette. “But that one with the mustache is a looker. I’d consider burning toast for him in the morning.”
“So, Martha’s in love with the undertaker,” I said.
“His name is Arthur, Fi,” Dottie said, kicking me.
“Yes, sorry, Martha,” I said. “But what about you, Blanche? Frankie? No romantic interests?”
“No, nobody that’s really caught my eye. Well, except for Mustache over there,” Blanche said. “You know what it’s like. So many of these fellas are so damn young, and some of the officers are charming, but it’s not like there’s much time for real dates, and certainly no privacy for . . . well . . . anything, not even a kiss.”
“And I’m not interested,” Frankie said, taking a sip of champagne. “Too much to do over here. Besides, I had one love of my life—no one else could come close. I’m sure you understand that, Fiona.”
“Um . . . yeah. Of course,” I said, my face growing warm, that uneasy feeling in my stomach. What was wrong with me that I had been able to let someone else into my heart? I saw Dottie and Viv watching my reaction.
“Are you enjoying the champagne?” The mustached officer was standing next to our table. He was very handsome with thick dark hair, gray-green eyes, and prominent cheekbones.
“We are, sugar, thank you,” Blanche said. The officer put his hands to his heart.
“Do I detect a New Orleans accent?” he said.
“Yes, you do,” Blanche said, clearly pleased. “Where are you from?”
“I’m from Portland, Maine,” he said.
“Oh,” Blanche said, frowning.