Battle Hymns (6 page)

“Maybe I can find a dress to wear to tonight’s dance.
The hems are fraying on my favorite dresses. I need to stitch them,
but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

Charlotte trailed her fingers along the fringe of a
beaded handbag from the twenties. “You’re going to the USO again
tonight? Is there someone you’re looking forward to seeing?” She
smiled as she watched for Sandra’s reaction.

“No. Why?” Sandra replied without reticence.

“You’ve been going to a lot of dances lately. You
haven’t met anyone?”

Sandra shrugged and pulled out a blue dress. “No one
in particular. The USO isn’t really an atmosphere where you get to
know someone. We dance, have fun, and that’s it. I rarely see the
same guys. Is that why you decline our invitations? You think
Evelyn and I are there only to find beaux, and you already have
your own.”

“I decline your invitations because I have no desire
to dance with anyone but Nick. Now don’t change the subject. Don’t
you want to find a beau?”

Sandra returned the blue dress to the rack. “I do. I
don’t like being single and alone. But I also don’t want to get
married anytime soon. I couldn’t even imagine my life revolving
around housework and children.”

“And your husband,” Charlotte added.

Sandra chuckled. “Sure. Him, too.” She pointed to a
hunter green dress. “Oh! Look at this one!” She held it to her
figure and looked into a nearby mirror. “The color complements my
eyes, don’t you think?”

They left the consignment shop twenty minutes later
with their purchases. While they waited at the bus stop, Charlotte
set her shopping bag on the bench with Sandra and moseyed along the
wall of the adjacent building.

Promotional posters were plastered to the concrete.
Uncle Sam wanted her to buy war bonds. A portrait of Hitler
reminded her that the enemy was all around her, listening and
watching. A blond girl at a typewriter said she was winning the war
by becoming a stenographer. A brunette girl in a blue and white
nurse’s uniform looked to the painted blue sky, a portrait of
dedication, as the poster asked women to save lives as a volunteer
nurses’ aide.

Charlotte turned to Sandra. “What are you doing this
summer?”

Sandra looked up from her manicure. “Summer reading,
volunteering at the USO, and filing papers in my father’s office.
Why?”

“I need to find something new to do with my time. Now
that the semester is over, the victory garden work with the tennis
club is also over.”

“You have plenty of options. What do you want to
do?”

Charlotte sat beside Sandra and shrugged. “I don’t
know. I’d really like to make a difference, but I don’t have any of
these skills.” She gestured to the posters. “I don’t know how to
use a typewriter, and I haven’t had any sort of medical training.
I’m not good at writing, at least not enough to write on behalf of
the government like Natalie does.”

“You can learn those skills. Take a stenography class
if you really want to.”

“But then what’s the use? As soon as the war is over,
Nick will come back and we’ll get married. A stenography class
won’t do me much good at home.” Charlotte sighed. “I just need
something to do this summer. I’m not looking for a career.”

Sandra pursed her lips. “You know, this war might
last longer than you think. You might not be getting married this
year or even the next. Pretend Nick doesn’t exist. It’s just you.
Don’t think about it for too long, and tell me your first thought.
What do you want to do?”

Charlotte shut her eyes, mainly so Sandra wouldn’t
see them roll.

How could she possibly pretend Nick didn’t exist? He
was the biggest part of her life, more than her friends, her
parents, and her interests. Within her social class, young women
worked only if they couldn’t find husbands by the time they
finished their studies. Charlotte didn’t have that problem.
Twenty-two years earlier, her mother didn’t have that problem,
either. She married Charlotte’s father halfway through her
education at Vassar, never finishing her degree. She told her
daughter she didn’t have any regrets. Family was more important
than classical studies. And Charlotte wanted a family with Nick
more than anything.

“You’re overthinking it,” said Sandra.

Charlotte opened her eyes. “Honestly, my first
thought is that this is nonsense.”

Sandra prodded her to continue. “Then tell me your
second thought. Pretend you’re not as pretty, your parents aren’t
as well off, and you have to make a living for
yourself . . . like most other people in the
world.”

This time Charlotte rolled her eyes openly. “Fine. If
I had to work . . . Well, I wouldn’t want to sit at
a desk all day. It sounds awfully boring.”

“Stenography is out, then.”

“I don’t know . . . What am I good
at?” Charlotte shrugged. “I’m good at tennis, but certainly not
good enough to be a professional. I’m good at studying for my
exams, but that’s not a career.”

“Become a nurses’ aide.”

Charlotte chortled in bewilderment. “How did you jump
to that one so quickly?”

Sandra pointed to the Red Cross poster behind them.
“I can’t think of a reason why not. You’re friendly, you don’t mind
talking to people, and you’re not oversensitive.”

“I don’t know if I can be a nurse.”

“Well you wouldn’t be a nurse. You’d be a nurses’
aide. You don’t get paid, and you don’t have to go to nursing
school. You’ll probably need some training. You said you’re good at
studying, so you’ll pick it up quickly. You should do it.”

“Sandra, how do you know so much about this?”

The Number Twelve bus slowed to a stop in front of
them. Men and women in smart suits and hats descended the stairs,
and Sandra stood, the shopping bag hanging over her arm. “My mother
was a nurse, and before that, an aide. She once told me it was her
life’s calling. She loved her job until the day she died.” Sandra
exhaled a sigh and squared her shoulders. “Call me next week. We
can meet up.”

Sandra’s bus departed, and Charlotte was left to her
thoughts. She stared at the girl in the Red Cross poster. Her dark
hair was neatly pulled back. Her lips were painted red. Like all
girls in the posters, she was the epitome of style and glamour,
even as she worked and did her part for the war effort. Did she
also have a fiancé or a beau who trained for the war? The girl
didn’t fear the uncertain future as Charlotte did. Instead, she
looked forward bravely, her chin high.

Charlotte wanted to be like that girl. She was
determined to be.

The Number Five bus pulled up, and Charlotte chuckled
self-consciously. The girl in the poster was only a drawing, a
figment of the imagination of the artist who drew her. The
volunteer office wanted her to identify with the girl.

And by golly, it worked.

Seven

T
he Civilian Defense
Volunteer Office was located on the fourth floor of an
administrative building in downtown D.C. The agency was part of the
Office of Civilian Defense, which was established by President
Roosevelt only a year earlier in order to protect American
civilians should the enemy attack the United States. Its volunteers
organized air raid drills, protected industrial plants from
sabotage, and aided nurses in hospitals.

For all its importance, the staff was smaller than
Charlotte had expected. Three secretaries sat at a line of desks in
front of three private offices. Even though they opened only
fifteen minutes earlier at eight o’clock, the secretaries typed and
collated a flurry of paperwork. Charlotte approached the nearest
secretary who punched keys on a typewriter.

The clicking stopped. The middle-aged woman stared at
Charlotte over the top of her glasses, her eyebrows raised
expectantly. “May I help you?”

Charlotte smiled. “Good morning. I’m here to
volunteer my services as a nurses’ aide with the Red Cross. The
posters all said to come here.”

The secretary nodded. “Your name?”

“Charlotte Donahue.”

The secretary scribbled Charlotte’s name onto a sheet
of lined paper. Then she flipped open a file folder and fished out
a sheet of paper. She handed it to Charlotte, along with a
clipboard and pen. “This is an application to determine your
eligibility. Take a seat and fill this out. We’ll call for
you.”

“Thank you.” Charlotte sat on one of the
uncomfortable, wooden chairs in the waiting area. On the form she
specified her full name, age, birth date, and occupation. She
provided the name of her high school and her graduation year. She
acknowledged she wouldn’t expect compensation for her time and
services. Then she waited, staring at the wall clock and thinking
about Nick.

Twenty minutes passed before Charlotte was called by
a heavyset man with black hair and beady eyes who emerged from one
of the private offices. She stood, adjusted the skirt of her
short-sleeved cotton dress, and approached him. He took her
application and gestured for her to join him. He closed the office
door behind her and took a seat behind a desk covered in white and
yellow papers. A burning cigarette rested in an ashtray next to a
chipped coffee mug. The black nameplate on his desk read
Simon
Bartkowski
in capital letters. He signaled for her to sit in an
armchair across from the desk.

“As you may be aware, we’re experiencing a severe
shortage of nurses to support the civilian population. To fill the
gap, we’re recruiting aides to assist in unskilled medical duties
to ease the burdens of our nurses.” He pointed a finger at
Charlotte. “However, this does not mean we accept just anyone into
the Corps. This is not a summertime diversion, Miss Donahue, and
applicants must be aware of the required dedication. You will be
expected to serve as necessary—wherever, whenever, and for however
long. Is that understood?”

Charlotte was unaware she was expected to make such a
commitment. Nonetheless, she nodded. She couldn’t turn back now.
“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Mr. Bartkowski leaned back in his chair and tented
his hands under his chin. “Assuming you meet all the eligibility
requirements, here is what will happen. I will approve your
application, and we will send the approved application to your
local Red Cross chapter. You will then be scheduled for the
training course. Training consists of two units: Unit One will be
an instructor-led demonstration and practice at the Red Cross
chapter house, two hours a day, five days a week, for three and a
half weeks. Unit Two will be supervised practice at an approved
training hospital, three hours a day, five days a week, for three
weeks. Afterward, there will be an examination. If you pass the
examination, you will receive a certificate, and the Red Cross will
assign you to another hospital. That’s almost two months of
training.”

Charlotte nodded.

Mr. Bartkowski scanned her application. “You’re a
student at Trinity College. Will you continue your studies in the
fall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re willing and able to complete one hundred
and fifty hours of service in each calendar year, in addition to
your studies?”

She calculated that completing the minimum hours in
one year wasn’t a demanding commitment. “I am.”

He laid the application onto his desk and made a
note. Then he stared at Charlotte, his eyes moving from her hair to
her bosom and down to her legs. “Are you physically active, Miss
Donahue?”

She shifted in her seat and nodded. “I enjoy playing
tennis.” While he jotted down another note, she pulled the hem of
her skirt further over her knees.

“And do you have any injuries that would prevent you
from doing your job?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Bartkowski perused her application again and
reached for a rubber stamp. He pounded it into the pad of black ink
and onto her application. He held up the paper so she could see the
stamp of approval. “Miss Donahue, you’re one step closer to helping
your country in a time of crisis. Thank you for your time and
commitment. You may leave.”

“Thank you, sir.” She stood and exited his
office.

When Charlotte returned home, her mother was in the
backyard, pulling weeds from her victory garden. She kneeled in the
dirt on makeshift pads fashioned from oven mitts and ribbons. Upon
seeing her daughter, she wiped away the sheen on her forehead with
her arm. “How’d it go?”

Charlotte sat at the patio table and squinted at her
mother against the sunlight. “I got in. I have to wait for the Red
Cross to accept me into a training course.”

“What will they train you in?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know . . .
whatever nurses’ aides do.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re getting involved with
something this summer. It’ll keep your mind off Nick’s absence.”
Her mother resumed her weeding. “Speaking of Nick, another letter
came this morning.”

Charlotte excused herself and hurried back into the
house. A pile of mail sat on the table near the front door. She
found Nick’s letter and read it in the entryway.

June 1, 1942

Little Creek, Virginia

Dear Charlotte,

Training, training, training, training, training.
I’m confident in my abilities, but we’re doing the same thing over
and over and over and over and over again. It feels like this big
waiting game—we’re just waiting for our orders. God knows where
we’ll be sent, but I want to leave already. Perhaps that’s why
they’re taking so long. By the time we leave, we’ll be thrilled to
be shipped off to the war zone.

Sometimes, I entertain hope that one morning one of
my commanding officers will enter the mess hall and announce that
the war is over. Hitler has been killed, the Nazis have
surrendered, and we’re able to go home to our loved ones. This
training would have all been in vain, but I wouldn’t care, because
I’d get to see you again. However, I have a feeling this war won’t
be over anytime in the near future. At least that means I’ll be
able to do my part in the fight.