The War Dames

By Valerie Notarbartolo

The War Dames is an American story about an era in history, not unlike the present, where love of country and its preservation are well worth defending. It’s a novel about women ahead of their time who made provocative choices that effected generations to come.
It’s August 1942 and America is at war. Twenty-five year old Beth Adamson volunteers to be part of the first American Women’s Army Corps, known as the WACs. The War Dames tells the story of one woman’s adventure from boot camp to her assignment with Eisenhower’s North African Campaign and return to civilian life.
Interspersed with historical facts and events of a world at war, the story follows Beth Adamson and four sassy WACs, who learn military life is not for the faint hearted. Adversity looms with a severe commanding officer threatening the women with court martial for insubordination and suspected same sex relationships. Then in exotic Algeria, the women finds themselves in a hot bed of cultural, political and moral diversity illustrated by some of the eccentric characters they meet.
Amid turmoil and adversity, Beth finds romance with the man of her dreams while one of her buddy's encounters it with a woman and another with the enemy.
Sharing a common bond of patriotic verve and a desire for personal fulfillment, the young women, with humor and pathos, come of age as friends, soldiers and lovers to people they meet along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie Notarbartolo
• Release date: Sep 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465891020

Valerie Notarbartolo

Born and educated in New York City, Valerie Notarbartolo started her career writing articles on cultural affairs for local newspapers and periodicals. Later, she worked as a contributing Editor for a leading art newspaper where she met her late husband, artist, Albert Notarbartolo, Marchese di Villarosa. Valerie obtained a B.A. at Fordham University and a M.S. at Columbia University. Her first novel, The War Dames was inspired by two women she met while at Columbia who had served in the Women’s Army Corp during World War ll. Their recollections of that era encouraged her to write about women who made provocative choices to change their status quo. Valerie states; “I’ve always believed in the concept of challenging oneself to be more than who we think we are. I guess it all started when I was a child and saw women in the movies depicted as resourceful and empowered characters that were atypical of the female stereotype”. She presently lives in South Florida with her family where in addition to cooking and gardening, she is forming an art foundation for her late husband and is writing her next novel about women of the 1940’s.

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The War Dames

by Valerie Notarbartolo

www.thewardames.com

Copyright © 2011 by Valerie Notarbartolo

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise.) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Some names and characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The historical events used as the backdrop for The War Dames have been researched and to the best of my knowledge, they are accurate.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011960831

ISBN Number: 978-1-4658-9102-0

DEDICATED TO:

My dearest Eddie

My beloved late husband Albert Notarbartolo

And to all the real war dames who

gallantly protect our country.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

HOME FRONT

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

ALGERIA

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

AFTERMATH

Chapter 14

PLACE OF HAPPINESS

Chapter 15

TURNING POINT

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

POST WAR

Chapter 21

EPILOGUE

INTRODUCTION

By direction of the President under the authority contained in War Department, radio, SPXRR, Aug 112131Z, the following Enrolled Auxiliary WAAC is ordered to active duty effective 29 August 1942. On that date the said Enrolled Auxiliary Beth Adamson, will proceed to Fort Des Moines, Iowa, reporting upon arrival to the Commanding Officer, WAAC Training Center for duty…

1

HOME FRONT

Welcome to the Army, Ladies, said the grey-haired Captain with the chest full of medals. The sound of the gavel hitting the lectern brought 150 women to attention. Those who were standing smoothed out their skirts and quickly sat down. Others fiddled with their hair and hats making sure they looked presentable.

The officer held back a winsome smile. He was amazed how well women primped themselves without a mirror. Don’t fuss Ladies. We’re not taking pictures of you today. A few giggled at the remark. Others like Beth Adamson sat quietly attentive.

My name is Captain Morgan, he said hugging the microphone. "Your presence today marks a new page in the history of the American Armed Forces. You are the first women to ever serve as an Auxiliary Army Corps in the United States Army. Because you are the first, you will be observed to see if you can cut the muster. Let me warn you being a non-combatant soldier won’t be easy.

As members of the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps, you will be put through the rigors of basic training to make you physically fit. Then we’ll find out what jobs suit you best so you can replace men being sent to battle. We will teach some of you to be top notch office personnel, capable of handling classified information. Many of you will be taught to drive Jeeps, trucks and repair them. Others will be instructed how to appropriate, process and dispense supplies, and weapons. Some will learn how to be x-ray, dental and medical technicians. Then, when you’re fully prepared, you will be sent off to those areas where you are needed. Now Ladies, he said without his notes, remember these words: your initiative and dependability must never fall short of excellence. As WAACs, you are pioneer women here to do your country a service. Either do it well, or go home to your families. There’s a war on and expectations are high. Do a good job and you will win the respect of a nation. Now remain seated until further orders. Good luck to all of you!"

Beth watched the Captain leave the podium. She took a deep breath, wondering if she would indeed cut the muster and meet Army expectations. She thought about the old lady on the 8:40 morning train out of Grand Rapids. Maybe she was right when she said: Women in the Army? Lands Sakes! You should be home tendin’ to the children and the kitchen. Let the boys do the fightin.’ Seems to me you gals are just looking for an excuse to run away from doin’ chores.

Beth didn’t think she was running from wifely duties – just a failed marriage with Bill Slocum, a dull job and a dead-end future. But that wasn’t the reason she joined up. World War Two was raging in Europe and the Pacific, and she was anxious to do her part.

It was muggy day at the old brick Field House in Fort Des Moines. The air inside the austere hall was stale with the odor of tobacco from the night before. Whirling fans did their best to circulate the dead air, still it wasn’t enough to cleanse the room. Tall windows stood wide open anticipating a summer breeze. Yet, all that blew in from outside were muffled voices in conversation.

Tiny beads of perspiration formed on Beth’s brow. Carefully, she blotted them with an embroidered handkerchief she used earlier that morning at Union Station when Mama, Perry and her grandparents said, Goodbye darling. God bless you. It was then she wept in their presence.

Perry, Beth’s stepfather, helped her climb the three lofty steps onto the train. Then he handed her the one-piece luggage containing some clothes and a few mementoes. It’s not easy trying something new, he said in a soft manner. But I know you have what it takes to do the job. His steel grey eyes seemed to pierce her soul with truthful conviction. Gently, she rested her hand on his and smiled without parting her lips. Thanks Pop, you always did believe in me.

Beth’s eyes welled up again at that recollection, but now she didn’t allow the tears to flow. Instead, she diverted her attention toward all the gussied up-poker-faced WAACs fanning themselves with whatever was at hand. She wondered: How will we ever adjust to Army fatigues?

Longing for something to quench her dry throat, she searched the field house like a desert animal looking for water. Flanking the back walls were a slew of American flags behind a refreshment table. She wondered if there was time enough to fetch a drink before the next speaker. Rather than risk it, she decided to just moisten her prune-dried lips. Deftly, she fingered the inside of her navy-blue clutch bag in search of Elizabeth Arden’s Red Rose balm. With a few twists of the tube, she aptly applied a fresh coat to her mouth without a mirror. A voice whispered in her head: My daughter, it’s not lady-like to primp in public! Critical words heard too often from her mother. However, this time she mentally fired back. Hush Mama, I’m not a lady anymore; I’m a private in the U.S. Army!

Beth had grown impatient waiting for further orders. Her backside hurt sitting on the hardwood folding chair and was tired of maintaining good posture. She considered herself an even-tempered Mid-Western, Presbyterian girl, unlike her emotional outspoken mother. Yet, it was times like this when she wanted to be more like her and yell, Damn it! Let’s get the show on the road.

Instead, she bolted out of her chair and found herself wobbling on two feet; one of which was dead below the knee. Trying her best not to look too impaired, she teetered gingerly on one leg pretending to smooth out her navy and white cotton polka dot dress. It was then she felt a tug at her sleeve.

You need a safety pin, Lady? a voice asked. You look like your bloomers just snapped! It was a boisterous remark that made heads turn.

Beth chuckled before turning to the WAAC beside her. Does it really look that way?

A short pudgy young woman stared up at her with large Bassett Hound eyes. Yeah, but it’s okay, she said. sounding like James Cagney. I feel the same way. I’m so nervous my thighs are chaffing! Without pausing she looked away and pointed to the crowd, Look at these dames. I betcha everyone here is thinkin’ maybe they made a mistake. Natural, ain’t it…havin’ the heebie-jeebies like this? Beth was about to respond when the woman extended a handshake. My name is Dutch Nelson. What’s yours?

Beth Adamson, she said, looking at the woman’s flowery dress and hat that didn’t match her tomboy ways. Whew, you’re a whirlwind all right.

I know everyone says that, she said giving Beth an inspector’s glance. You know you look like a Beth and a little like Lana Turner, too.

Lana Turner? Well, thanks, Beth said with surprise. I’m flattered. It was a fine compliment she thought, and it flashed back memories when she didn’t think she was pretty enough to attract Bill Slocum, Reading High’s star athlete.

Dutch kept looking at her. I wish my folks knew how to see a face and put the right name to it. Scrunching-up her nose she added, I was baptized Edwina. My friends nicknamed me Dutch because I was always in trouble. With a snort and a wink she told Beth, Watch your step Blondie, I’m dangerous company.

Beth smiled a mouthful of pearl-white teeth. I’ll take my chances. So where are you from?

Dutch shrugged her shoulders. New York. Where else? I bet you’re from the Midwest. All blue-eyed blondes come from there. You know like Kansas and Iowa.

I’m from Michigan.

Same thing: Iowa, Kansas, Michigan. To me, those places are all alike.

But they weren’t, thought Beth. Michigan was different, especially after Pearl Harbor. It was the first state to mobilize their automobile and industrial plants to round the clock war production. She was going to tell Dutch this, but a twinge of pain hit her foot. I’ve got to sit down, she groaned. These new shoes are killing me.

Dutch sneered. That’s what you get from wearing high heels. Wear Oxfords like me. They don’t hurt.

Beth slipped out of the navy and white spectator pumps and rubbed her aching foot. She looked up at Dutch who remained standing. So tell me, what’s a wise-acre like you doing here?

Uncle Sam kept pointing that bony finger at me. Finally, I got the message. What Dutch didn’t say was that she wanted to live alone, but her mother wouldn’t allow it. Single girls don’t live alone unless they’re bums, or whores. Dutch solved the problem by joining the Army. And what’s a classy dame like you doing here?

Beth paused before answering. I guess I want to be more than I am.

Dutch was impressed. She always thought pretty girls were full of themselves. So what did you do before signing up?

I was a bank teller. Beth lamented, remembering the only thing she liked about her job was the paycheck.

Dutch rolled her eyes. Sounds boring.

Yes indeed! That’s another reason why I’m here, she said with a sigh. What about you?

I used to work in my father’s garage fixin’ cars. She looked down at her dress. I know I don’t look like a grease monkey in this frou-frou outfit and stupid hat. It was my mother’s idea. I’m better off in overalls.

It’s curious. Parents often want what their children don’t want. It brought to mind her mother’s words: When you learn to do things the way I do them, then you can call yourself an adult. Beth flinched at the recollection. She then patted Dutch’s hand in comfort. I bet you look real cute in overalls.

Dutch thought it was a kind thing to say. She wasn’t used to people saying nice things to her, especially from girls like Beth. Thanks, Sport! You know, I think you and me are gonna get along real good.

Beth agreed, even though they were unalike. Still, this was the Army where differences had to coexist. Tell me, what kind of cars did you work on?

Dutch was flattered by the attention, cocking her head with pride. Fords, Chevys, the usual jalopies.

Greasy work, huh?

Yeah, but you won’t find a bit of dirt under these nails, she said, showing them off. I hate ‘um dirty. She remembered her father’s dirty axel grease fingers. It made her want to puke every time he passed food around the dinner table.

The sound of chatter were growing louder. The women were becoming impatient waiting for someone to approach the rostrum. When someone did, it took several thumps of the gavel to get everyone’s attention. A robust young Lieutenant with wire rimmed spectacles put the gavel down and tapped the microphone. It squealed loudly before he spoke. LADIES, those standing in the aisles, PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR SEATS.

They women moved quickly, stumbling over legs and feet trying to get back to their chairs. Within minutes everyone was seated and attentive. Ladies, thank you for your patience. Mind you, this is the last time you’ll be called ladies, the Lieutenant said with attempted humor. You’re privates now so get used to the title.

He down at his notes for guidance. The plan for today…is to get you settled…in your barracks. By now you should know your company number. It’s listed on your acceptance orders. You should have it with you as requested.

Without taking her eyes off the Lieutenant, Beth opened her purse and reached for hers.

The Lieutenant cleared his throat. "In a few minutes you will form three lines. Company 1, will file to the left of the room, Company 2, to the center and Company 3 to the right. Be certain you’re on the right line and in the right company. After formation, you will be escorted to your quarters where you will be assigned to your bunks. Settle in, unpack your belongings, get to know your neighbors and wait until mess call.

Now Ladies, he blushed, I MEAN PRIVATES, they’ll be three groups of fifty women occupying several barracks. You will be living as a unit of twenty-five. There is no privacy in the Army. You will be training and working long hours together. We expect you to make every effort to GET ALONG. Remember there are no individuals here, no operatic prima donnas. You’re part of a team ready to help win this war. I’m counting on each and every one of you, so give it everything you’ve got. Don’t let the Army and America down. That’s all I have to say for now. We’ll get underway shortly…until then -- AT EASE, SOLDIERS."

Chatter filled the air with relief. Dutch, on the other hand, was preoccupied. She mouthed a silent prayer, hoping she and Beth were in the same unit. Say Blondie, what company are you in?

Company 3. What about you?

Dutch was jubilant. HOT DAMN! WE’RE TOGETHER!

Beth cringed seeing they were again the focus of attention.

You better simmer down lady, we’re getting dirty looks.

Who cares? Dutch said waving the comment off.

I care. Beth said with certainty.

Ah, shucks, you know they’re just a bunch of nosey dames. When she saw Beth was not convinced, she smiled coyly as if asking for forgiveness. Hey Mate, aren’t you glad we’re in the same company?

Beth hesitated. She saw Dutch had quickly bonded to her. It wasn’t the same for her. She learned early in childhood to be independent; what with an absentee mother and living on a rural farm with elderly grandparents; there were no siblings or friends to play with. Clearly, Dutch was unlike anyone she knew. Thus far, they had little in common. Yet, she liked her and was willing to give the relationship a try because they were a sorority of the U.S. Army. Beth then put her arm around Dutch’s shoulder. One thing Sweetie, mate is a Navy term.

Oh! Well then, hi ya buddy!"

Hi ya pal. Beth said with sincerity.

It was late afternoon that same day at Fort Des Moines. The sun was still shining as fifty women lugged their suitcases across green bladed grass that once was pasture land. They were escorted by a young man, no more than eighteen or twenty who led them toward their barracks. He didn’t speak, mindful he was on duty. But when a couple of the WAACs commented on how cute he was, his face flushed red.

The women came from all parts of the United States and from different cultural, ethnic and religious backgrounds. They were all white and mostly in their twenties and thirties. There were no Negro women among them, having been segregated into a colored platoon on base.

A few of the white women were in their forties and a couple as old as forty-seven. The majority of them were young high school graduates holding down blue and white-collar jobs before the war. There were some who were college educated and some with advanced degrees, like teachers and nurses, lawyers and doctors. Some were married, but most were not. There were blondes and brunettes, and a few with red hair. They varied in height and weight, but most were of average proportions. There were those who were more attractive than others, yet, they were all neatly dressed in what looked like their Sunday best. A number of women toted expensive leather suitcases, most carried valises made of fabric or painted cardboard, depending on what was affordable.

On the open field, Beth shaded her eyes with her hand trying to get a sense of the surroundings. As far as she could see there wasn’t a mountain in sight. There was something graceful about the sprawling Iowa flatlands.

Up ahead, Beth got a glimpse of Clayton Hall; a masterpiece of Victorian architecture that was now used for visiting officials. Further on, there was an imposing complex of newly constructed and refurbished buildings recently assembled to house and train recruits for active duty. What an impressive sight, she Beth, starry-eyed. She turned to Dutch. Do you realize this is the first WAAC training center in the United States?

Dutch shrugged with disinterest. Oh, yeah! Well, goody gumdrops!

As they made their way toward their freshly painted barracks, Beth saw dozens of GIs watching the WAACs parade by. Wonder what they think about us?

They ain’t thinkin’ about me, said Dutch breathing hard. They’re thinking about you and the rest of the pretty ones.

That’s not what I meant, Beth scolded. And, there’s no need to put your self down. I’m wondering if they’re glad we’re here.

Dutch didn’t pay attention to the retort. She was too busy trying to keep her luggage off the ground. I hope they don’t think we’re bad news.

Beth stopped to adjust her shoe. How so?

Well, we’re goin’ to be doin’ their work while they’re fightin’ and gettin’ wounded or killed.

Dutch had a point and it was sadly true. Beth, however, was optimistic. Maybe some might see it like that. But I think most of them know we’re here helping them win the war.

Yet, there were comments loud enough to be heard. What kind of women would leave home and family for army life?

Dutch snickered thinking it was lousy remark. It brought back memories of her old neighborhood where men took pleasure in ridiculing women they didn’t understand. Did ya hear that guy? she remarked, switching her valise to another hand."

I heard him! Beth watched her struggle. Need some help with that?

No thanks, I’m okay. She wondered why Beth didn’t react to the lousy remark. So whadaya think?

Beth sighed as her high heels sunk into the wet ground. I think a lot of the guys think we belong at home.

There was another voice from the crowd exclaiming, Maybe they’re losers with no other place to go.

Did you hear that one? Dutch growled. I’d like to give him a punch in the nose.

Don’t be offended. We haven’t proven ourselves, yet. Beth stopped to catch her breath. That soldier could be right. Most of us joined-up to find a new home.

She shook her head with frustration thinking, I didn’t ask for a two sided answer. Things are either black or white. That’s the way it is in Hell’s Kitchen. She purposely didn’t voice this because she’s wanted Beth’s friendship. Instead she grumbled. We ain’t losers.

You’re damn right, Beth