(Special thanks to hey-fangirl-hey for the Part 2 graphic)
Part 2: “I dream of home and of you.”
Her foot presses down on the pedal in rapid succession with the effortless ease of experience. Hunched over the machine, the motor below her workspace hums as her foot tap, tap, taps over and over again forcing the needle up and down. The synchronization of her hands stretched out and tugging the forest green fabric in various directions as her foot powers the needle is as natural to her as breathing.
If an artist has brushes, oil paints and canvasses to create their masterpieces, MC has her needle, thread and Singer Sewing Machine.
She pauses, her breathing suddenly labored. Beads of sweat dot her forehead and she wipes her forearm across her skin to clear the dampness away. She has felt clammy all morning. Gulping in air, she feels her stomach lurch. It’s been four days of this. She swallows in a vain attempt to squelch the nausea, but soon the turmoil in her belly becomes unbearable and she thrusts her chair backwards as she scrambles to her feet, running full speed to the restroom. She fears she will not make it, her feet feeling slow and lead-like despite her sprint, the retching violently rising in her throat and impossible to suppress.
She throws open the door to a stall, lunging forward and on to her hands and knees. Her body spasms as she watches this morning’s breakfast fall into the porcelain bowl. Vanity is gone. She grips the side of the toilet as another wave strikes her. When the spells finally cease, she reaches above her and pulls the chain on the toilet, watching the remnants of her food swirl away and into the abyss.
MC sits up onto her knees, steadying herself before she slowly pulls herself up and stands.
Her skin is muted, her face still damp with sweat, the clamminess chilling her even in the stifling air of the facility at Fort Lee. She still feels the tumultuous nausea but she knows there is no way anything is left in her stomach. She took a gamble in eating breakfast this morning. Four consecutive days of this stomach sickness. She thought it had passed and tested her appetite with some oatmeal and scrambled eggs before leaving home this morning. She lost her own bet.
When she turns to exit the stall, she freezes. A woman whose face is familiar is standing at the sink, drying her hands on a towel. She faces MC, a mixture of curiosity and concern on her face.
“You alright, honey?” the dark haired woman asks. She sits the towel down next to the sink and puts a hand on her hip.
“Yes,” MC replies meekly. “It’s just a stomach bug.” She walks to the sink and the brunette reaches for a clean towel and hands it to her. “Thank you…” she replies softly.
MC turns on the faucet, wetting the towel before pressing it against her lips, wiping at her mouth. She runs it over her forehead and cheeks, feeling the soothing coolness as she looks up into the mirror.
The brunette studies her silently, thoughts swirling in her head. She is not much older than the young woman at her side. Her eyes travel over the sickly girl’s attire before surveying her expressionless face again.
“You work here on base?” she questions.
“Yes,” MC replies. “I’m a seamstress.” She looks away from the mirror and again at the brunette. Her face is pleasant and welcoming, her eyes concerned without appearing judgmental. “I think I’ve seen you here before. You work on base too?”
“Oh, no,” the brunette chuckles softly and waves her hand. “No, no. My husband is a sergeant with the 94th,” she explains. “I’m Lizzie, Lizzie O’Sullivan,” she says.
“Nice to meet you Lizzie. I’m MC,” she says. She feels nauseated but swallows and composes herself.
“My Jack was getting his checks and then seeing to them being deposited while he was on base, before he shipped out,” Lizzie explains. As she speaks, MC detects the softness of her R’s and the prominent accent of a Bostonian. She tries to keep her focus on what Lizzie is saying but a lurch in her stomach and Lizzie’s words fade to the background. “He forgot to have it changed so they’d come home to us while he’s gone. Came over to pick up his check today. Only bathroom on the whole base for us ladies,” she grins some and despite her illness, MC feels her tension eased by the small smile when she looks at her.
“Oh, I see,” MC says, vaguely having heard Lizzie’s explanation. “I’m sorry he was sent overseas,” she offers politely with sincerity. She feels her stomach churn and places her hands on the edge of the sink.
Lizzie steps to her side and places a gentle hand on her back.
“You got a fella too?” she asks as MC closes her eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. She prays the tornado in her belly will calm.
“No,” MC says softly. “Well, no husband. I met someone but he shipped out too.”
Lizzie nods slowly and tucks her lips. She thinks of everyway imaginable she can speak the next words without causing a panic in this young lady. It’s not her business she tells herself. Still, she feels a duty in the name of womanhood.
“How long have you been filling sick to ya stomach?” Lizzie asks, weaving the words with a gentle tone.
“Four days,” MC groans. “I don’t know if it’s something I ate, or bug I picked up but it is miserable.”
“Just throwing up?” Lizzie asks.
“Yeah,” MC shakes her head. “I must have caught something.”
Lizzie parts her lips and then closes them. She grits her teeth and the hand on MC’s back moves gently in small circles.
“Sweetie…I don’t think it’s a stomach bug,” Lizzie says. MC’s brow creases as she looks over at her. Perplexed she looks into Lizzie’s eyes, squinting. Confusion etches itself on her face before a slow recognition sets in and her eyes go wide, her mouth falling open.
“Is there any chance you…you could be pregnant?” Lizzie asks softly.
MC begins to shake her head no but then stops herself.
Private First Class Christopher Powell has never been far from her thoughts since the night they met at Tantilla Garden Dance Hall seven weeks ago. Thoughts of oceanic blue eyes, soft plump lips, strong hands and a disarming smile have been with her every minute of her waking hours. She remembers their overtures of love during the nights she feels lonely. She has visited the mail room of Fort Lee each work day for the letters he promised he would send. She hangs on to lovesick hope that one day she will arrive and there will be an envelope just for her. Afterall, he said he would comeback. He said he would write. Chris did not strike her as the type of man to lie just for the sake of seduction. He had been just as much of an amateur with affairs of the heart and body as she had.
Lizzie’s question thrusts memories of their one and only night together into her mind like a flipbook before her eyes. Her mouth falls open as she stands up straight and peers back at her stupefied and afraid.
“I went through it with our son,” Lizzie nods and puts both hands on MC’s arms. “I was sick as a dog for weeks: Morning sickness. I just…I looked at you and I saw myself,” Lizzie frowns at the inexplicable and prophetic moment she looked at MC and knew.
Tears brim at MC’s eye lids. This cannot be. She gasps before a sob escapes her, her shoulders slumping. Lizzie pulls her into a hug.
“We need to get you to a doctor,” Lizzie says embracing her and trying to calm her.
MC begins to shake her head no emphatically. She pulls back enough to look Lizzie directly in the eyes. “No,” she says her mouth trembling. “No doctor. No!” She half shouts and covers her face. Lizzie keeps her arms around her, feeling MC’s body shake as she tries to stifle her cries.
MC drops her hands from her face, her eyes filled with more than a plea. They are begging in the deepest way possible. “No one can know.”
****
The evening sun is setting, giving him pause as he looks out over the River Thames. There is black smoke billowing over the city as factories churn out more supplies for the war efforts on the hour. Rubble and fragmented buildings line the few recognizable streets that remain open in London. Charred chunks of brick and cement and twisted support beams are piled high where churches, schools and office buildings once stood. The Blitz had left much of the city in ruins and a year later, London was inching slowly and cautiously towards recovery.
The sun does not come out here very often. The dreariness of overcast skies and fog greet PFC Powell each morning he wakes at his battalion’s encampment on the outskirts of town.
The orange and purples cast by the suns fading light draw his attention. It is a rare moment of beauty in what he has already seen to be the hell caused by war. This sunset reminds him of home. It reminds him of late spring and summer evenings leaving the blueberry farms of Cherryfield. He would hop into the back of the delivery truck, arms and denim overalls soiled with dirt, huddled next to the blueberry filled crates, staring up at the sky as the cool breeze coming in off of the Atlantic floated over his skin.
His battalion from the 94th Infantry has yet to see battle, a fact Private Powell does not lament. Since their four day ship ride across the Atlantic, they have been stationed in London awaiting their orders and deployment for almost six weeks. There have been rumors of travel to Northen France to take on the Germans. Chris does not give much attention to the rumblings, knowing the army could change their fate at any moment during this war.
Four days on a ship had not had much physical impact on Chris. As Mainers, he and Charlie both were used to spending time out on the water. Mentally, he had felt like he was going to go stir crazy. Each time he went above deck and looked out, all he saw was sky and water in every direction. He could not wait to set his feet on soil, even if it would be unfamiliar ground. Archie had not taken the ride over so well. Sea sickness seized him and several members of their brigade. He laid on his bunk bed, groaning and pale, Army medics supplying him with medicine that only made him sleep, doing nothing to ease the sickness.
Chris had dreamed of seeing Europe as a child, hearing stories of kingly palaces, churches hundreds of years old and decadent food and drinks while in school. He had hoped he would have enough money someday to travel on a vacation. He never dreamed he would be a soldier awaiting battle when he stepped foot on foreign soil.
“Sort of reminds you home, doesn’t it?” Charlie says reflectively standing at Chris’s side.
“Yeah,” Chris says in a hush and takes a deep breath. “Doesn’t smell like home though,” Chris sighs as the industrial scent of burning coal and city garbage wafts under his nose.
Charlie falls quiet. He and Chris are both dressed in uniform, green jackets and slacks, khaki ties and shirts, their Garrison of Forage hats titled on their heads. It is Friday, May 29, 1942 in London and as the work day winds down, the streets become busy with evening commuters and those trying to carry on as normal of an existence as possible.
Each American soldier was issued a pamphlet by the Army: Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain. Chris has a copy tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket. The intention of the pamphlet was to help American soldiers navigate British culture, slang, history and to keep things nice between the allies. Filled with advice like “Don’t be a show off,” “NEVER criticize the King or Queen,” and “The British don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee. You don’t know how to make a good cup of tea. It’s an even swap.” Chris had looked at it a time or two trying to understand the terminology he was not familiar with. He was finding it odd that he was settling into existence in London when he craved the return home.
Despite the ease of life in London the past few weeks, there are constant reminders that the world is at war. Not just the sights of bombarded buildings, but the sounds as well.
Air raid sirens often wail in the night and Chris, Charlie and Archie have been out on more than one occasion when they had to seek refuge in one of many air raid shelters in town. Archie never minded. The air raid shelters always seemed to come in handy when he was courting a girl. The handsome American soldiers would not have to remain bachelors for long, their arrival after the influx of US troops attracted the attention and eyes of many British girls.
Chris has ventured out with his friends but has ignored and flat out declined the advances of women. His heart is back at Fort Lee. He thinks often of her and first moment he saw her. The moment he fell in love.
“Do you think we’ll see home again?” Charlie asks shoving his hands in his pockets.
Chris frowns slightly as he looks down at his shorter friend. “Of course we will Charlie,” he nods and places a hand on his shoulder. “You gotta stop thinking like that buddy.”
Charlie chews his lip and nods slowly, his eyes vacant for a moment. He blinks and his eyes suddenly flicker with a happy thought and he whips his head over to Chris, flashing a grin. “Let’s go meet up with Archie and the boys.”
***
The Anchor Pub is packed to capacity. Charlie and Chris enter the front door, looking around at countless GI’s seated at tables or leaning against the bar chatting with girls. A phonograph in the corner is blaring loudly with jazz from the American south.
Chris and Charlie ease through the sea of bodies before spotting Archie and Sergeant O’Sullivan along with a few other boys from their brigade occupying a table. A dish-water blonde with painted red lips and a form fitting black dress is sitting in Archie’s lap as he laughs and takes a sip of his ale.
“’Thought you two might not make it,” Archie grins as the blonde drapes her arms around his neck and leans into him. “Boys this is Charlotte, Charlotte, the boys,” Archie motions with a sweep of his hand.
“It’s Abigail!” The blonde corrects and pretends to pout.
“Doll, I’m so sorry. That beautiful face of yours says to me Charlotte. Forgive me Abigail?” He says peering back at her from under his lashes.
Charlie and Chris exchange as glance before Abigail pokes out her bottom lip and then lets out a giggle. “Forgiven,” she says and plants a kiss on Archie’s cheek, leaving some of her crimson lipstick on his skin.
Chris sighs loudly and Charlie laughs. “Pull up a chair boys,” Archie adds.
Chris and Charlie search for a few vacant chairs before finding them and sliding into them around the table.
Sergeant O’Sullivan’s eyes are on the table, silently as he sips a dark brown liquid poured over ice. Chris watches as his thumb toys with the ring on his free hand.
Charlie looks around at the busy pub and catches a petite brunette looking his way. She gives him a wink and he blushes.
“Serg, you doing alright?” Chris asks O’Sullivan.
“Yup,” he replies gruffly, lifting his glass. He swirls the contents inside and before taking another sip.
Chris eyes him. For all of Sergeant O’Sullivan’s surliness and frank words, he always seems to be right there with them.
Chris’s eyes wander to Charlie and he spots him smiling back at the brunette. She giggles and waves her fingers at him.
“Go talk to her,” Chris nudges him with his arm.
Charlie’s sideways grin can’t be contained. He looks back at Chris ecstatic. “I think I will,” Charlie says and pushes his chair back. He heads to towards the brunette and Chris smiles to himself. Since their night at Tantilla, Charlie has been bolstered in the confidence department with the ladies.
“Waitress, waitress!” Archie says to a young woman passing by and looking stressed. She spins around, an empty tray on her hand and looks at him. “An ale for my friend,” he points to Chris. The waitress nods and heads towards the bar.
Music, drinks and women are all around but Chris does not feel enticed to enjoy any of them. He looks around the pub absent-mindedly and scratches behind his ear. When he returns his attention to the table, Sergeant O’Sullivan is staring at him.
“Powell, I want a smoke and some air,” O’Sullivan shrugs. “Step outside?”
Chris is surprised and his eyebrows lift. “Uh, my ale-“ he begins but the sergeant frowns. “Yes sir,” he nods. The two men rise to their feet and weave their way through the crowd before reaching the door and stepping outside. There are still people heading inside and Chris is not sure where there will be space for them all.
Night has fallen on London and street lamps glow above the sidewalk.
Sergeant O’Sullivan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tin. He flips the lid open, grabbing a cigarette before closing the container and shoving it back in his pocket. He pats his chest and locates the pocket with his matches. Putting the tobacco wrapped paper between his lips, his face is illuminated with the strike of a match as he lights the cigarette. A flailing of his hand and the fire is extinguished, the match drops to the pavement before he crushes it under his foot. Chris smells the sulfur from the match.
He takes a long drag and it seems to give him relief. Chris watches his shoulders drop as his entire body relaxes.
“Smoke?” Sully offers the private.
“No sir,” Chris shakes his head.
They stroll in silence down the street as GI’s coupled with girls and young men and women make their way to other pubs along the street. Chris looks back at the Anchor Pub, wondering how Charlie and Archie are faring. From his last look, they were doing quite well for themselves that night.
“Long way from Maine,” Sully says taking another drag and looking at Chris through narrowed eyes.
“Yes sir. Long way from Boston too,” he adds.
Sully shrugs. “Soon as I got called up, the Misses moved down with me. Got her and my son a little apartment in Prince George, not far from the base. Her mother comes down from Boston sometimes to help her.”
“How long you been married?” Chris asks. He thinks back on his six weeks of basic training. He knows in all that time he never had one personal conversation with Jack O’Sullivan. The sergeant was in command and Chris honestly was intimidated by him. Even now he’s not sure why he’s walking with him. There is a hint of reservation in Chris, wondering if this is some kind of a test.
“It’ll be four years in August,” Sully says. He frowns as he pulls the cigarette from his lips, holding it between his fingers. He thumps some of the ashes on the ground and returns it to his mouth. “First anniversary I’m going to miss,” he says, cigarette bobbing on his lips. He sighs and looks around. “How you feeling about this place?”
“It’s okay,” Chris shrugs.
“Yeah?” Sully eyes him skeptically, a hint of laughter in his eyes.
“I miss home,” Chris admits.
“Got a girl waiting for you?” Sully asks, a puff of smoke filling the air in front of him as he suddenly stops walking. Chris turns and looks at him.
“I do,” Chris smirks.
“You hold on to that Powell,” Sully nods. “Gives you something to look forward to, something to hope for.”
“I met her just before we shipped off. That night, at Tantilla,” Chris says with a tiny smirk.
“Yeah?” Sully smiles. “Something special?”
“Very special,” Chris smiles brightly.
“The love of a woman is a beautiful thing,” Sully says and puffs away. “Can tame even the meanest bastards out there.”
At this Chris laughs and Sully, despite himself, smiles. Chris nods at the sergeant’s words, finding something soothing about them.
He flinches and ducks when the first burst of the siren begins. An air ride siren erupts not 100 yards away from them. His eyes connect with Sully’s. The sergeant drops his cigarette, stamping it out.
“Get to the shelter!” O’Sullivan shouts and pushes Chris forward in the direction he last saw a shelter sign. The sergeant is always vigilant, always looking for entrances and exits.
Before Chris can speak a word, Sergeant Jack O’Sullivan dashes back towards The Anchor Pub to ensure that his men make it safely to a shelter.
Chris looks around him as people on the streets begin to rush up the road and he follows. He descends a pair of steps leading under the street and waits in line as one by one Londoners file into the shelter.
Chris enters, lights suspended overhead and pipes running back and forth across its ceiling. There are benches in one section and the massive space has bunk beds in another. Chris watches a little girl hugging tightly onto her father’s kneck in front of him as they shuffle through the space.
He takes a seat and waits, looking towards the door. The wail of the sirens can still be faintly heard as more and more people enter. There are some small frightened children, but the number of sirens and raids that have taken place in the last few years have made this surprisingly customary for people in the city.
Chris watches the entrance before spotting Charlie. Archie is behind him, Abigail holding his hand. There is no sign of the brunette that Charlie was speaking to.
“Charlie! Archie!” Chris shouts to them. Charlie lifts his head and nods when he sees Chris, slapping Archie on the chest and making their way to him. They take seats on the bench, Archie draping his arm around Abigail.
Charlie looks up at the ceiling. Chris sees the anxiety in his eyes. Charlie’s hand shakes slightly and he balls into a fist.
“Probably just precaution,” Chris encourages. “Just like last time.”
“Yeah,” Charlie gulps and looks around. “Probably.” He eyes the ceiling above feeling like he might suffocate.
The wail of the sirens lasts another 15 minutes before they cease. They will sit and wait for at least another hour before any all clear is given for them to return to their encampment.
***
She enters the mail room of Fort Lee and the private at the counter smiles at her. She pops in every time about this day on her first break.
Before she can ask, he smiles as he reaches below the counter and holds out an envelope to her.
MC’s steps halt, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. “For me?” She asks baffled.
“For you,” he smiles.
She is relieved and excited, stunned and enthusiastic. She knew he wouldn’t forget but it had been so long part of her had started to wonder.
She finds her ability to move again as the initial shock wears away and takes hurried steps to the counter. She inadvertently snatches the letter out of the private’s hand, turning around swiftly as he heads to the door. Gripping the envelope in both hands, she notes the stamp with the Queen Elizabeth’s face and the London postmark.
MC throws the door open, dashing out of the administration office and across the base. She jogs in her heels as she heads to the private spot where she often sits under a shady oak tree and enjoys her lunch. In the last week, she has done so alone. There have been curious eyes and whispers each time she takes her seat at her machine in the mornings. Her mad breaks to the restroom in the mornings have not gone unnoticed amongst her female co-workers.
A few of the soldiers on base watch her, her dressing flowing behind her as she sprints towards the tree. She finds its shelter and solitude and leans against it, sticking her nail underneath the envelope flap, ripping the top of it open, her heart pounding from her run and in anticipation.
She unfolds the paper and her entire body feels as if it is floating breathlessly when she reads his salutation.
My Dearest MC,
I hope this letter finds you doing well.
She takes a seat on the grass, her back pressed against the tree trunk as she continues to read. Her face twists as she bites into her lip. Reading further, she unconsciously slides a hand over her belly.
We have been in London for two days and are still waiting assignment. It is a nice enough place, some of it resembles the states, but with each passing day, I desire even more to return to you.
I dream of home and of you. There have been nights that I lay on my bed with such vivid dreams that waking up only caused my heart to ache. I dream of your smile and your laugh. Though I only knew it briefly, I can now say having crossed the sea it is the most beautiful sound in all the world. I dream of your soft skin, the warmth of your embrace, and sweetness of your breath and lips. There is no woman on this earth who can challenge your beauty or what I feel for you. While the other guys may spend their nights enjoying the company of many girls, my heart and body have remained faithful to you and the promise I made you.
MC places a hand against her chest. A tear spills down over her check and onto her arm but she does not take notice.
I pray each day that this war ends soon and that I may come home and see you again. It is you, the promise of you, the dream of you, that has helped me when I am filled with dread and grief.
When I come home, I cannot wait to take you dancing again. I will take you any place you would like to go and buy you a Coca-Cola.
MC laughs out despite her tears, recalling the drink her bought her during their first night together.
We will travel the coast and I will take you to Maine. We will explore together because I know with all my heart that you and I were meant to be together.
I will continue to write to you and I hope you continue to think of me. Keep me in your prayers. Keep us all in your prayers.
Dreaming of the day when I can hold you and kiss your lips again, forever yours,
Chris
MC clutches the paper against her chest as the tears flow.
Her hand spreads over her belly, Chris’s child growing inside.
He has no idea. Half a world away and he has no idea the young woman he shared his one and only night of passion with his carrying his child.
He does not know the hardships she will face as a single mother. There are few resources for women in her situation at this time. The wives of soldiers never coming home and raising children on their own are respected and revered. But MC is neither married to Chris nor were they even engaged. His promises to her are just that: promises. There is nothing official between them, no ring on her finger to hold up to her family. She knows their judgment is coming. She knows she cannot conceal her expanding stomach from the world for too much longer. The bump continues to grow. She has let out a few dresses to fit her tiny frame loosely, but soon eventually, her pregnancy will no longer be a secret.
Chris’s letter drops to the ground as she covers her face, leaning her head back against the tree , tears streaming down her face.
***
Early on a June morning, just at dawn, the shouting of voices in the encampment stirs Private Powell from his deep slumber on his cot. The flap to their tent opens and Sergeant O’Sullivan is there as Chris squints him into focus.
“Get packed, we are moving out!” Sergeant O’Sullivan shouts and just as suddenly as he entered their tent, he spins on his heels.
“Serg! Where?” Charlie calls after him frantically, sitting up straight in his cot.
“France,” O’Sullivan spits over his shoulder and keeps walking. As the flap to the tent whips back in the wind, Chris spots Lieutenant Thomas standing with a group of officers, his brow furrowed during their conversation.