Letters From Home (10 page)

10

Late August 1944
Chicago, Illinois

A
lthough vacant for lunch hour, the room felt full around Betty, gapless with her teeming eagerness. The fan oscillating on the file cabinet spread equal attention across the office. A futile attempt to loosen the knotted heat. From its ticking blades, a gentle gust ruffled a browning fern in the corner, stacked documents on the neighboring desks.

This was meant to be, she told herself while waiting in her seat. Having barely caught the sergeant on his way out was a sign: Her life would soon be turning around.

Giddiness, which had sprouted during her rush from the bus stop, flourished now as she studied the posters, an array of Army recruitment plastering the wall. She’d seen them a million times—the vibrant drawings of gorgeous gals in uniform, posed before waving flags, proclaiming a need for women with Star-Spangled hearts. Then there was the portrait of old Uncle Sam, in dire need of a visit to the barber, scaring boys into the service with his menacing eyes and accusatory finger.

Until today, though, it hadn’t dawned on her that those messages were also meant for
her.
Not the way they were intended maybe, but in the same realm.

“Afraid we don’t have anything stronger than water round here.” The uniformed sergeant approached with a pair of paper cups and handed one over. Easing into his desk chair, he reclined with the same cloying arrogance he wore when they’d met at the diner. He didn’t deserve to be as good-looking as he was.

“Water’s perfect, thanks,” she said, and drew a polite sip.

“So tell me, Betty. What brings you down to my neck of the woods?” Smugness lingered in his smile. It was clear he believed she’d hunted him up in hopes of a rendezvous; no doubt plenty of other girls had done the same. Awaiting her answer, he took a drink, eying her as if examining a rack of lamb at the butcher shop.

That’s when Betty realized why she had actually remembered his name: J.T. Wessel sounded remarkably similar to
Just a Weasel.
Fitting. She could have opted for another recruiter, but seeing J.T.'s reaction would be worth every second.

She straightened in her chair, and with her chin determinedly set, she reported, “I’m here to enlist.”

His cup crinkled slightly in his grip. He pulled his water away and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, did you say you—”

“Wanted to enlist.” Evidently, his enticing pitches about overseas service had filled his little black book more than his enlistment quota. She grinned with satisfaction. “Why, yes, I did.”

To his credit, he gathered himself quickly. “I see,” he said. Then he scrounged a pencil from his torrent of papers. “Did you have a particular area in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Time to unleash her idea on the world: essentially, a civilian’s role with all the perks. “I’d like to sing,” she replied.

He went still for a moment before raising his head. “You …wanna sing. For the Army.” Confusion stretched his words, his eyes. She was rather enjoying this.

“The Army has bands, doesn’t it?”

“Well…yes …”

“Then it should have vocalists as well. Obviously, the USO sees the importance of singers in raising soldiers’ morale. I think the Army would agree, don’t you?”

He opened his mouth, but no argument formed, which only fed her confidence to continue.

“The military believes in promoting entertainment. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have the likes of Joe DiMaggio playing baseball for the Armed Forces. And I for one don’t see how this is any different.”

J.T. nodded slowly, as if receiving the information through Morse code. Then a broad grin returned. “Betty, I’d be happy to look into that. For now, though, let’s just get some basic paperwork going.” He poised his pencil. “How about we start with your full name and age.”

Right away, she rattled off her information, enunciated all but her middle name—“Betty Jo” sounded like such a hillbilly.

“So you just turned twenty?” he confirmed.

“That’s right.”

“In that case, as you probably know, you’ll need parental permission.”

“Say again?”

“Since you’re under twenty-one.” He scribbled and looked up. “Is that a problem?”

A problem? He could say that.

But how could she tactfully phrase that her father had been some married guy who’d split before she was born, and that her mother, the fool who fell for him, was the last person Betty wanted help from? Besides, her communication with her mom had slimmed to mere holiday cards years ago, after Betty was dumped on relatives in Evanston—supposedly a means to curb the high schooler’s rebellious nature.

At least in the end, with all her aunt’s plastic-covered furniture and earmarked Bibles, Betty had realized that living with a mother who was home every minute of the day, versus always out working like her own, could be just as miserable.

“My mother,” Betty explained, “actually lives in Kansas.” She couldn’t say the state name without it sounding raspy and rushed. Like a sneeze from a cold she couldn’t kick. “Do you need to see her, or is there any other way?”

“We do need her signature in person, but I could send a local recruiter to get it.”

“Great,” she said, before catching the disappointment ground into the word. She was about to divert with a peppier sentence when the clicking of footsteps interrupted, saving her.

“Afternoon, Sergeant,” a uniformed female called from the doorway. She was hardly as attractive as the WAC on the poster, but was just as magnetic. Everything from the shiny captain’s bars on her shoulder loops to her authoritative chin commanded attention.

J.T.'s posture stiffened like a pole. “Ma’am.”

“Busy recruiting, I see?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Nice to see you’ve been paying attention.” After a brief pause, the captain produced a chiding smile. “Back at it, then. We need every fine lady we can get.” She tipped her billed hat at Betty and strode into her office, shutting the door behind her.

How fascinating to see a woman in power for a change, specifically over a man.

A down-to-business look tightened J.T.'s face, only an ounce of resentment leaking through. He glanced back at his document. “So tell me, is there any other area you might be interested in?”

“Other
area?”

“Outside of singing, that is. An alternative you might consider.”

She was about to say no—why would she need one?—when he added in a whisper, “Just have to put something on paper. A formality for the file.”

“Oh. Oh, right.”

He resumed his spiel. “You know, there’s lots of exciting things you can do in the WAC, and with skills you already have. For instance, do you know how to drive?”

She shrugged. “Never been a need, with me living around Chicago.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, understanding. “How about cooking? You like to cook, don’t ya?”

“Once in a while. Unless it requires heat.”

He started to laugh, then stopped when he saw she wasn’t kidding. Betty was tempted to explain. But there was no sense relating the hazardous brownie episode that could have burned Liz’s house to the ground. She swiftly pointed out, “Cold things, though, are a breeze.”

“Uh-huh.” He dragged in a breath. “What about typing?”

“Mmm, not really.”

“Shorthand?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t …speak another language?” The doubt in his voice made the question rhetorical.

She shook her head anyway.

“Didn’t think so,” he murmured, before shifting to a lighter tone. “Well, like I told you, there’s loads of exciting duties out there. Everything from weather forecasting and glass blowing to working as a control tower operator. Even issuing weapons. Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Not really,
she wanted to say, but held back. The reply could come off as unpatriotic, which she undoubtedly was not. On the contrary, she was no less patriotic than, say, that nurse near the bus stop. What with her fancy cape, her white exclamation of a hat, both serving as badges from years of schooling.

Oh, there had to be another option. Something similar yet more appropriate for her personality. Granted, it was just an unlikely backup she was choosing, but Betty preferred not to have anything remotely ordinary in her file.

She then thought of her roommates. For extra spending money, Liz and Julia held jobs in a nursing home—a semi-medical field—and they’d never indicated it being strenuous.

“What about hospital work?” she asked him.

“If you mean the Army Nurse Corps, the Red Cross handles all—”

“No,” she broke in. “Just something like it. But without the blood and mess. And not all that long, tedious training. After all, I
do
want to help out before the war’s actually over.” She smiled.

The fan in the corner ticked away the seconds. A useless breeze passed by.

J.T. gave his head a weary rub. Lacing his hands on the desk, he sat forward as though it took great effort. As though being back in action would be a relief in comparison. “Look, Betty. You’re a nice, pretty girl …”

She cringed at the familiar phrase. It had been a favorite from her guidance counselor, a guy who smelled like pickles and always ended their conversations with a verbal pat on the head, a
why don’t you run off and play with your dolls
conclusion.

Though tempering herself now, she interjected, “Are you trying to say that pretty girls can’t be WACs?”

“Of course they can,” J.T. countered. Then he threw a conspiratory glance around the empty room and continued in a hushed tone. “You already got a gig as a singer, right? Why not just focus on that, sweetheart, and forget about all this Army stuff. Didn’t you say something about touring with the USO, trotting the globe?”

The USO tour. The aspiration she had so often boasted about. Suddenly, tossed back at her in the presence of her filthy diner dress, the possibility seemed stripped down, naked in its unlikelihood.

“But I wanna help,” she managed to assert.

“And I’m sure you’d be great at…something. I’m just not confident the Army is the best place to utilize your talents.”

Like serving malts and meat loaves was?

“Thanks for coming by, though. It was swell seeing you.” That cocky recline again. “Hey, maybe we can go out to dinner some night, after one of your shows.”

Disgusted by his nerve, she couldn’t bring herself to reply. She stood up, head pressed against the ceiling of her crushed hopes, and started for the door. When she reached for the handle, however, a harsh truth slammed into her, one she never saw coming:

She needed this. Needed the change, needed to escape. Even if it didn’t involve a stage. She was no Ella Fitzgerald, she knew that. But that didn’t mean one patronizing heel should stand in her way of finding her prince—and how could she not in a tropical paradise? Plus, if she was able to help the war effort in the process, all the better.

Betty swung around and found J.T. flipping through a magazine. Hand posed firm on her hip, she smiled. “Sergeant,” she sang out. “I was curious. Do I need an appointment to meet with your commanding officer? Or should I just knock and see if she’s free?”

His expression bent. “'Scuse me?”

“I thought she might be interested in hearing how a recruiter, in this particular office, turned away a perfectly willing and capable enlistee. And how, instead, this same recruiter used his work hours to seek out a date.”

He looked toward the captain’s closed office, then back at Betty. Setting his magazine aside, he shoved on a tight smile. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I might’ve been too hasty. Why don’t you have a seat? I’m sure I can find the perfect assignment for you.” He picked up his pencil. “A hospital, did you say?”

“That’s right.” She sat down with a triumphant smirk. “And I believe you mentioned something about palm trees. If memory serves.”

11

September 1944
Belgium

“Y
ou ever gonna write the dame back? Or you just gonna keep reading that damn thing till she forgets she even sent it?” Frank’s voice tugged Morgan from the wrinkled letter in his hand. Again, he was back to the stale-smelling grime of soldiers and warfare.

“Haven’t decided yet,” Morgan admitted.

“The gal’s a bombshell. What’s to decide?” Jack said, perched on his upturned helmet on the cobblestone road. Teamed up with Frank, he shuffled his worn cards for another round of euchre, their latest pastime between orders. “Hell, if you’re not gonna write to her, then I will.”

Charlie tossed a couple Lucky Strikes into the betting pile. “Now, there’s some motivation for ya,” he said to Morgan. “No girl deserves
that
much punishment.”

“Here we go again,” Morgan mumbled. Their very own Abbott and Costello.

“You know, Chap,” Jack said, “it must be hard for you. Having to use humor to compensate for your physical shortcomings. And I ain’t talking about just your height.”

Morgan laughed along with Frank, who reached past “Mouse” to give Jack two pats on the shoulder for that one. “Ahh, Callan,” Frank told him, “it’s nice to have you back.”

And that was the truth. The guy had gone missing after the chaos of a recent battle. In a leapfrog push toward the Meuse River, their unit had no choice but to continue on and hope for the best. Days later, Charlie’s greeting upon Jack’s return—
Glad you finally found your way from the Piggly Wiggly!
—seemed to aptly convey their unified relief.

“You planning to deal those cards anytime today?” Charlie prodded in return, apparently at a loss for a comeback. “'Cause I’d like to collect my winnings before sundown, if you don’t mind.”

“You hear this, Mac?” Jack puffed on his cigarette. “Your brother thinks he’s actually gonna win one.”

“Something changed we should know about?” Frank asked Charlie.

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Mouse, here, has a few extra jacks up his sleeve.” With a bantam frame and thick glasses, the new replacement had been a chess and pinochle champ back home, making the kid Charlie’s new best friend.

Frank pinned Mouse with stone-cold eyes. “Is that right?” he demanded, the GI cowering.

“Y-yes, right. I mean, no. No, I ain’t got nothin'.”

“Swell.” Frank winked. “Then we’re gonna get along just fine.”

Although entertained, Morgan felt his focus drawn back to the letter on his lap, the one he’d read at least a dozen times since its arrival.

When the company clerk had called out, “McClain, Morgan!” during mail call two days earlier, he was baffled—until he realized the sender had to be Aunt Jean, his mother’s only sibling. Three years ago, the bank had foreclosed on the McClains’ family farm just months after Morgan and Charlie’s father was killed in a tractor accident. Stripped of their Iowa home, they moved in with Jean and her husband in Belknap, Illinois.

The couple’s only child, a boy with angelic features, had drowned at an early age, taking their joy with him. So while Morgan never expected them to correspond, he couldn’t think of anyone else who’d have dropped him a line.

Then he’d read the return address.

Betty Cordell

821 Kiernan Lane

Evanston, Illinois

Several minutes of racking his brain had produced a vague image of the USO singer he had met in Chicago. He’d been so focused on Liz, the brown-haired beauty whose face only recently began dimming in his memory, he had almost forgotten about the blonde he rescued from the drunken Navy man.

Morgan now pulled Betty’s photo out of his jacket, took another look. She’d been popular at the dance for good reason. With smooth, pouty lips and long lashes framing her eyes, she was Hollywood material.

He uncurled the corners of the picture, regretting he had originally tossed it into his barracks bag without care. But how could he have known? Not until he read her letter did he realize how important the memento would become.

Dear Morgan,

Although our time together was brief, it was a pleasure meeting you at the dance. Fate can be such a curious creature, bringing new people into our lives when we least expect.

The disillusionment I had as a young girl, believing I actually possessed control over my circumstances, my loved ones, my feelings, should have ended long ago. Yet, still I find myself startled by the unpredictable. I suppose, in the end, all we can do is put our faith in the notion that our journeys, despite occasional rockiness, will be more rewarding than actually reaching the destination (or so I tell myself—sometimes even convincingly).

I must apologize for my wandering thoughts. One might suspect that my pen has a mind of its own. I hope my message does not belittle the challenges you have surely faced. I can only imagine the uncontrollable environment in which you now find yourself, fighting in a foreign land against our enemies.

The amount I know of war is but modest. Through tales of the Great War, however, my late grandfather taught me much about life. He once told me it was in the shadows of his darkest hours spent in combat that he had discovered his most valuable lessons.

“Until you’re gliding at 5,000 feet at the mercy of a stalled engine,” he would say, “life’s small worries can carry too much importance and your loved ones too little.” I do my best to remember this whenever I place too much weight on my own petty concerns and need to put them in perspective. Thinking of soldiers like you, selflessly sacrificing for the good of our country, provides me with another humbling reminder.

Such was the case when I heard Glenn Miller and Lena Horne on the radio today. The carefree evenings of dancing to a swing band or gathering around a jukebox must seem faded dreams to you, having been replaced by scenes of the unspeakable. Although I cannot fathom what you are going through, please know that I, as a citizen whom you now protect, am ever grateful for the service you are providing our country.

It is with heartfelt wishes that I send this letter, and with trust that it will somehow find its way to you. Please take good care, and godspeed for a prompt and safe passage home. Sincerely, Betty Cordell

Morgan studied the flow of the cursive penned on the pages. The feminine loops and curves had managed to seep beauty into this masculine, war-plagued existence. But her words, her words were what truly moved him. Their kindness, their elegance. And all in a message he so desperately needed. In the aftermath of battle, it was too easy to forget that somewhere out there a compassionate world still existed. A world worth fighting for. A world waiting for their return.

“Morgan,” Charlie called out, “you want writing tips, you let me know. Dames go wild over my poetry.”

Jack smirked. “Ah, that’s right. Chap here’s that famous poet who wrote—now, how’d it go? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, your tits are so beautiful, thank God there’s two'?”

“Hey, asshole.” Charlie raised his voice. “You of all people ought to get my poem right, given that
is
about your last date. Goes like so….

“On the breast of a lady from Yale

Was tattooed the price of her tail.

And on her behind,

For the sake of the blind,

Was the same information in Braille.”

The GIs chuckled while Jack dealt his cards to the tips of their boots.

Morgan had heard his brother recite the limerick on more than one occasion; the first, before an audience of church volunteers who’d stopped by their house to drop off a basketful of pastries. Evidently, not even a few whips with their father’s belt had expunged the off-color rhyme from Charlie’s memory.

“What about you, Rev?” Charlie asked. “Got any hymns to save our souls?”

Frank ran his hand over the dark stubble of his two o’clock shadow. “Well, I think we all know where
your
soul’s headin'. But for these other God-fearing men, I do have a special verse taken straight outta the Good Book.”

“Oh, man,” Charlie muttered, as if dreading a sermon offering the spiritual guidance they all lacked.

“Gentlemen, a parable often overlooked in the Old Testament reads as follows….

“In the Garden of Eden sat Adam

Massaging the bust of his madam.

He chuckled with mirth,

For he knew that on earth,

There were only two tits and he had ‘em.”

Charlie raised his palms to the mottled sky, crying out, “Amen! Hallelujah!”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “Thanks, fellas. Real helpful. I was thinking of wooing her with some Emerson or Whitman, but you’re right, smutty poems about tattooed hookers are a helluva lot better.”

“Here, catch.” Charlie tossed him a pen. “Now, get at it already.”

“Might be out of ink, though,” Frank warned, “after the huge pile of dames’ letters that Chap’s had to answer.” He paused. “Oh, wait. He hasn’t received a single one, has he?”

Charlie glared. “For your information, Rev, I got a letter yesterday. It was a note from God. Said He knows you’ve been fornicatin', and He wants His Bible back.”

Morgan blocked out the verbal skirmish and homed in on Betty’s letter. He gave the stationery a discreet sniff. A trace of lavender. Maybe from her hand lotion. Maybe his imagination. Either way, how could he not write her back?

He tucked the pages into the envelope, stored them in his jacket pocket, and pulled out a blank folded sheet. He removed the pen cap with his teeth and steadily wrote his salutation:
Dear Betty.

That wasn’t so hard.

Now what?

Staring at the paper, he raked his mind for the first sentence, something worthy enough. Sure, he’d always been at the top of his class in high school, his head filled with dreams of going to college. Limited finances wouldn’t allow such a privilege, however, no matter how many books he’d read or tests he aced. He’d accepted that fact long ago. Yet now more than ever, he wished that hadn’t been the case. For even a paragraph of his best, most thought-out writing couldn’t come close to the eloquence of Betty’s post.