I had wrapped my hair in a red kerchief to try to cover it, but several strands had escaped and were sticking to my neck. I could feel the grime and grease caked on my face, and my fatigues were filthy.
I spotted two large shiny black leather boots standing next to Norman’s worn brown shoes as I crawled out. The sun had come out, and I had to shield my eyes to get a look at the officer. He was well over six feet with a broad chest, and his nose looked off-kilter, like it had been broken and put back together not quite the same. His thick black hair was cut military short, and he had big dark eyes with a small scar through one of his eyebrows. The boots were different than those of most GIs I had seen, and he had a distinct silver parachute badge on his chest and a patch with double A insignia on his shoulder.
“Oh, hi,” I said, trying to at least tuck some of my hair back in my kerchief. I was sure that in that moment I looked like the opposite of a fresh-faced Red Cross girl. “We’re just finishing up, Norman.”
“Hi,” the officer said, nodding, distracted. He was the first soldier not to smile at me. Now I was sure I looked even more of a mess than I thought I did.
“So, Norman, you think you’ll be able to fix the jeep in the next few days if I bring it by tomorrow morning?” the officer asked. “We’re heading out to Leicester soon.”
“Yeah,” Norman said. “For you? ’Course I will.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said. He looked over at me again, still no smile. “Red Cross?”
“Yes,” I said. “Clubmobile. Leicester—that’s in the Midlands, up north, right? I think we might be headed that way too.”
“Oh?” he said. “Well, if you do, don’t get yourself in any trouble out there. We don’t need to be worrying about a bunch of girls driving trucks of doughnuts around the countryside.”
“We’ll have a driver there,” I said, annoyed. I cocked my head and crossed my arms. “But what’s the matter with girls driving trucks?”
“Nothing,” he said, raising his eyebrows in amusement. “I’m sure you’ll be perfectly fine; just take care of yourselves.”
“Hey, can we come out now?” Viv called from under the truck. “I think we’re done.”
“I’ve got to go,” the officer said. “Thanks, Norman. Good luck, uh . . .”
“Fiona. Fiona Denning,” I said. “I’d shake your hand, but . . .” I looked at my hands covered in black grease and dirt.
“It’s fine,” he said. He held up his hands and finally gave me a tight, lopsided grin. “I’m Captain Peter Moretti, Eighty-Second Airborne. I’ve got to run. Thanks again, Norman.”
He nodded and jogged off toward the administrative buildings on the opposite side of the field from the garages. Viv and Dottie had crawled out from under the truck and were brushing themselves off.
“Who was that?” Dottie asked.
“Some captain in the Eighty-Second. He doesn’t think girls should drive trucks.”
“Yup, he’s totally right,” Viv said.
“Viv!” I swatted her arm. “Not helping.”
“Fella’s not just any captain,” Norman said. “That was Peter Moretti. He’s a boxer from New York City. Heavyweight. He was risin’ up the ranks before he ended up with the Eighty-Second. Almost fought Joe Louis.”
“He looks like a boxer,” I said.
“Those boys from the Eighty-Second just got back from Normandy,” Norman said, shaking his head. “Thirty-three straight days of bloody ’ell, with no relief. Almost half of ’em are gone.”
“Oh Jesus.” Dottie sighed. “Dead?”
“Most dead. Some missin’. Don’t matter, though, does it?” Norman said, waving his hand in sad resignation. “So brave and such good American boys. Ain’t like some of your lot that’s come over, drinkin’, disruptin’, and runnin’ around with not-so-proper British girls. Eighty-Second Airborne is brilliant, though.”
“Can we learn to drive this thing now, Norman?” Viv asked, trying and failing to wipe the grime off her face with her lacy pink handkerchief.
“All right, if you girls can change this tire in less than thirty minutes, we’ll start drivin’ lessons right after,” said Norman.
“But that tire looks like it weighs five hundred pounds,” I said. “There’s no way we can lift it.”
“Yeah, you can. Last bunch of Red Cross girls could,” Norman said, looking at his watch. “You got thirty minutes. Get on with it, then.”
“Come on,” I said, as Viv let out a groan and Dottie looked like she might cry. “If we work together, we’ll be done with this damn tire before we know it.”
Chapter Seven
July 27, 1944
A fun fact about the Clubmobile trucks that we learned during our driving lessons is that, despite their size, the capacity of the tank is only four and a half gallons. Gas, or petrol, as the Brits call it, was so scarce in England, you could only get it at army camps. You needed to keep very careful track of how much petrol you had in the tank, or you risked running out of it “alone on a dark road somewhere, with bleedin’ Nazi bastards comin’ at ya,” as Norman drilled into us.
If you were having any other sort of suspicious gas trouble, the first thing you were supposed to do was check the gas line and connection for leaks and dirt. Then you checked the functioning of the fuel pump. And if you still couldn’t figure out what the heck was wrong with the damn truck, you checked the fuel pump to the carburetor.
During our training with Norman, he also taught us how to replace a worn-out bulb and check the battery and main cables, spark plugs, and all wire connections if there was electrical trouble. Changing one of the Clubmobile’s massive tires had proved to be one of the toughest obstacles and took us much longer than thirty minutes, but we finally succeeded. I had joked to Dottie and Viv that we should open our own garage when we got back from the war.
It was our last day with Norman, and we were finally sitting for the written part of the driving exam, proving our newfound knowledge in these areas. It was a fifteen-question test that I felt confident we would all pass, and for the hundredth time I wished that was all we needed to get our British driving licenses.
After the written exam, Norman was going to take us on the driving test required to receive our licenses. I prayed he would pass us. Despite his best efforts, the three of us remained terrible drivers. Maybe if we had another week to learn, but our time was up. After doughnut training over the next couple of days, we would be on our way to the Midlands, ready or not. At least we would have a driver while we were in England.
We had spent the last three days driving the roads in and around Bushy Park. Dottie had proved to be way too nervous. She would freeze up and hesitate at the wheel, with a load of army vehicles beeping behind her. Viv had constantly gunned the engine and slammed the brakes, no matter how many times Norman yelled at her. Of the three of us, I was probably the best, which wasn’t saying much. Driving the enormous truck felt awkward, and I didn’t yet have a real sense of control at the wheel.
“Almost done?” Norman came into the tiny office in his garage, where the three of us were sitting at a small wooden table, finishing up the written exam. I was queasy from nerves, and the strong smell of petrol that permeated the building only made it worse.
“Done, Norman,” I said with a smile, handing him my exam.
“All right, Fiona, you’re the first to go, then. You ladies stay and finish,” Norman said to Dottie and Viv.
“Wait, right this minute?” I asked.
“Yeah, we only got the morning before your lot have to head back to Grosvenor Square. Let’s go,” he said, already walking out the door.
“Good luck, Fi. You’ll do fine,” Dottie said.
“Yeah, definitely don’t screw up,” Viv said. “You’re our best hope.”
“Gee, thanks, Viv,” I said with sarcasm.
I walked out to find Norman talking to the boxer turned army captain, Peter Moretti.
“She’s all set for ya now. You’ll find her round back, keys in the ignition,” Norman said. “New carburetor, new battery, checked the spark plugs. That jeep ain’t going to give you no more trouble under the bonnet.”
“Let’s hope so. Thank you for getting it done so quickly. Oh, hi.” Moretti nodded to me, guarded and so serious. He was more mature, not like so many of the younger soldiers, who gave us huge, easy smiles and tripped over themselves to befriend some newly arrived American girls.
“Hello,” I said. “Driving test this morning, for my British license. Pretty excited.” I was doing that nervous thing, talking to fill the air. Pretty excited? Shut up, Fiona.
“Oh, I guess that’s good,” Moretti replied, clearly not excited for me.
“Good if she passes,” Norman said, raising his eyebrows. “That’s a big if right now if I’m bein’ honest with ya.”
“Jeepers, thanks, Norman. You’re worse than Viv,” I said.
Moretti just shook his head and, almost to himself, said, “Women aren’t meant for war.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I said, lifting my chin indignantly and looking up at his face, realizing he must be over six foot four. He was giving me a look somewhere between disapproval and skepticism.