“They were just prisoners of war yesterday, so many of them are still in rough shape,” Lieutenant Colonel Craighill told us when we met in his office. With glasses and a shock of white hair, he looked more like an Ivy League college professor than an officer.
“As of today, we have six hundred of them here, mostly British, with a few Americans and Indians.” He looked at us like a man with the world on his shoulders. “I’ll be honest, girls: we had set up an infirmary in this building, but other than that, we were caught unprepared for the numbers and the condition of these men. Some of them haven’t eaten much in days; we’re working on getting more food supplies. There’s supposed to be a shipment of K rations or ten-in-one rations—hopefully both—coming soon. The Red Cross is also supposed to be shipping a huge delivery of POW relief care packages with soap and toothpaste and all those necessities, but that may not get here until next week.
“We need more water for drinking and washing; we don’t even have a system for registering them and getting them assigned to barracks yet. They all need personnel records, and we need to interview each of them to make sure there’re no Nazi spies or sympathizers in the bunch.” He paused and then added, with sarcasm, “Other than that, things are going great.”
Craighill rubbed his face in frustration before he looked us over. “Just do whatever you can for them. Make sure they write letters home, that’s important. The letters will be censored, but they need to get them to their loved ones. Some of these boys have been away for a long time.”
We promised we would do our best for them. As we were walking out the door, he called to Liz, “Oh, Miss Anderson, you’ll need the rest of your group here tomorrow. I just received word that over two thousand more will be here in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Jesus,” Viv said. “This is insanity.”
“They’re going to need a hell of a lot more than coffee and doughnuts,” I said.
“Agreed,” said Liz. “We’ll figure it out.”
We drove the Clubmobiles out onto the airfield that had become a makeshift tent city across hundreds of acres. Men walked over to us from all directions: some clapping and cheering at the sight of us, others silent and gaping like they couldn’t believe their eyes. They were covered in dust and grime. Many were so thin, their cheeks appeared hollowed out and their uniforms hung on them like rags.
“God bless them,” Dottie whispered, looking out at the crowds descending upon our trucks.
“Come on up, sweetheart,” I said to a shy soldier with sandy-blond hair.
“Where are you from?” I said, handing him a doughnut.
“Manchester, England,” he said in a British accent, staring down at the doughnut. “I was captured at Dunkirk.”
“I’m sorry, did you say Dunkirk?” I said, frowning. “But . . . that was five years ago.”
His eyes filled with tears, and he just nodded. I bit the inside of my cheek like I had learned to do to keep from crying.
“Honey, we’ve got hot water for tea,” I said, forcing myself to give him a reassuring smile. “I know how you English like your tea. Can I get you a cup?”
“Thank you,” he said, wiping his dirty face with the back of his hand. “That would be . . . thank you.”
Men came in steady streams for hours, lured by the smell of coffee and doughnuts. We gave out all the candy and cigarettes we had, and then with the help of Colonel Craighill and our own inventory of supplies, we put Blanche in charge of a “personal service counter” to supply the men with soap, toothbrushes, razors, and blades.
Late that afternoon, a few more trucks rolled into camp, this time all American soldiers. Viv and I walked over to greet the first truck and hand them doughnuts as they got out.
They gasped when they realized we were American girls. Blushing and speechless, they stood around us, just staring as we tried to talk to them.
“What’s wrong, fellas?” I said finally, looking around at them. “We keep asking questions, but why aren’t you all talking to us? You’re free now. You’re safe.”
A soldier stepped forward, his hair so covered with dust, it was hard to determine the color. He had big brown eyes that looked too large for his gaunt face. “Miss Red Cross?” he said to me.
“Yes, sweetheart, what is it?”
“Could I touch your hand?”
“Why, of course you can,” I said, my voice quiet. I smiled and held out my hand.
He reached out and took my hand in both of his and turned it over as if in awe. He looked up at me, tears running down his face, his lips trembling. And this time, no matter how much I bit my cheek or blinked, I couldn’t stop my own tears from falling. I looked over at Viv, and she was crying too.
“We’re here now,” I said, squeezing his hand and looking around. Other soldiers were weeping too. “We didn’t forget. There’s a whole world out here that didn’t forget you.”
The day turned into night, and those scenes happened over and over again. Some ex-prisoners were elated, shaking our hands or just holding them for a moment. But more than a few broke down crying. It was impossible not to get emotional when you heard some of what they had been through. We’d no sooner get back to the Cheyenne and compose ourselves when another truck would pull up and it would start all over again.
When we had a lull, Dottie took out her guitar, and I had never seen such happiness on men’s faces as she played some of the upbeat American favorites, like our old standby “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”
More trucks kept arriving, and we worked to do whatever we possibly could to get the men comfortable and fed and adjusted to their new reality as recovered Allied military personnel, or RAMPS, as they were now called.
“That’s it, girls.” Liz came over to the Cheyenne at ten o’clock. “Just told the others we should call it a day; we need to be back here with everyone at the crack of dawn tomorrow. A supply of ten-in-one rations just came in, so we’re going to start a soup line in the morning. I’ve got a group of GIs that will build us some extra field ranges for it.”
“There’s another truck coming,” I said, pointing to the headlights in the distance.
My feet were aching, and we were all in need of showers and sleep. I looked down at my coffee-stained uniform and mud-crusted shoes. I wanted to leave, but it was just one more. “Should we just greet them and give them whatever we have left? I’d feel terrible if they watched us drive away just as they’re getting here.”
Liz watched as the lights got closer and nodded. She looked as tired as I felt. “Okay, one more truck, and then we’ll hit the road.”
Dottie grabbed the cigarettes and candy. Viv and I both took our last trays of doughnuts from the third supply that our GI bakers had dropped off earlier.
“If any of them want coffee, send them over here,” Frankie called to us from the Uncle Sam. “We’ve got two urns left.”
“And plenty of toothbrushes and razors,” Blanche added.
Viv and I stood ready to greet the soldiers as they descended from the truck. It was immediately clear that this group was in dire shape, worse than any of the others we had encountered that day. They were so thin, their chests concave and their pants practically falling off; many of them hobbled when they walked. A few smiled and thanked us, but most had dazed expressions, a look of shock that I had seen often in this war.
“Wow, American Red Cross girls,” a soldier with pale-blue eyes said as he accepted a doughnut and a candy bar from me. “It’s like I’ve gone to heaven.”
“Welcome back, soldier,” I said. “Feel good to be free?”
“You got that right,” he said. “All these guys with me, we were all on the march together, goddamn hell on earth. They forced us to march in the freezing cold and snow when they knew the Allies were closing in.” He shuddered and shook his head as if to shake out the memories. “But now we’re free, and here you are with American doughnuts. I’m not even sure my stomach can handle real food after all this time.”
“Well, I think we’ve still got some soup or warm milk and Cream of Wheat if that would be better for you,” I said.
But he took a bite, tilting his head and studying my face carefully. “You look familiar, Miss Red Cross,” he said. “Like I’ve seen your picture before.”
“Maybe you saw the LIFE magazine photo?” I asked. “My friends and I were on the cover of a recent issue.”
“Sweetheart, I haven’t seen a LIFE magazine in two years,” he said with a laugh.
“American Red Cross girls and doughnuts.” Another of the more talkative soldiers got off the truck and limped over, wearing just pajamas, a German raincoat, and straw slippers. He looked terrible, but seemed overjoyed to be liberated. “Almost makes marching three hundred miles worth it.”
“I think we can get you some decent clothes and shoes, honey,” I said, looking at his raw, blistered feet in the slippers. “They just brought some in from a quartermaster salvage depot.”