Louise's Gamble (6 page)

Sandy came into the bedroom wearing a blue sweater set and pearls that made her look like a schoolgirl.

I went down to the bathroom to put on my face. The only make-up I wore was powder and lipstick, even though, as Ada often remarked, I looked the thirty years old I was. I didn’t see the point to foundation, since it seemed to slip right off my skin, and my glasses hid the thickest eye make-up I could apply.

Myrna sent Sandy and me downstairs ahead of her. ‘I’ll do my thing in the bathroom and be down in a minute,’ she said.

I found out why later when she made her entrance.

There were fifteen male trainees at ‘The Farm’ with us. Every one turned and gawked at Myrna when she walked into the dining room. I didn’t blame them; I admired her looks too. The woman was so gorgeous that she reminded me of Rita Hayworth.

There were two large round tables in the dining room. Sandy and I had saved a seat for her at our table, but she swept right past us and sat down at the other, where she’d be the only woman.

Two colored boys in naval stewards’ uniforms brought platters of pork chops, sweet potatoes, stewed apples, and rolls through the swinging doors of the kitchen. We were hungry from all that outdoor exercise and fell on the food like starving refugees.

After dessert and coffee one of the young men at our table, Harry from Topeka, turned to Sandy.

‘One of the outbuildings here is tricked out like a cabaret,’ he said. ‘There’s a juke box and three-two beer. Want to go over for a while?’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘If Louise comes with me.’

‘I hope she does,’ said the older man with a lovely British accent sitting next to me wearing tweed and, I swear, gaiters. ‘I’m Sam,’ he continued, offering me his arm.

After bundling up against the November cold we found ourselves at the door of what used to be a smokehouse, reading a home-made sign on the door –
Absolutely no alcoholic beverages will be sold to majors and colonels under twenty-one years of age unless accompanied by their parents
– which was an inside joke about the youth of our officer corps.

Once inside the door of the cabaret I was brought up short by a vulgar display on one of the walls. Humiliated would be an adequate word for how I felt, but I kept my embarrassment to myself. I knew I had to be a ‘sport’ to be accepted within OSS, no matter what unpleasantness I had to contend with. I’d be evaluated at the conclusion of my stay here at ‘The Farm’ and I intended to pass.

The wall in question was plastered with posters of half-naked pin-up girls draped over jeeps, airplanes, and tanks. A brunette clothed in panties, a bra, and a sailor’s hat saluted a seaman on the deck of an aircraft carrier. Another luscious model in a bikini and heels rode astride a flying jet, long blonde hair flowing in the wind. The models’ faces and figures were airbrushed and enhanced to the point they looked like cartoons instead of real women.

The government encouraged the display of pin-up girls. Supposedly, they placated thousands of randy men in uniform and reminded them of what bliss waited for them at home after the war was won, but none of them resembled any living woman I knew.

But I kept my irritation to myself and accepted a beer from Sam. Someone put coins in the jukebox, and the Andrews Sisters’ latest, ‘Here Comes the Navy’, filled the room with their usual close harmony. I checked the jukebox’s contents. No hillbilly music. No Roy Acuff, no Carter family. I longed to hear a real country song, like Bob Wills’ ‘Dusty Skies’, but I resigned myself to swing and crooning for the rest of the evening.

Then I marveled as Myrna took advantage of the shortage of girls – the very shortage that encouraged men to leer at pin-ups. The woman was a natural OSS ‘glamour girl’ already. She nursed one beer throughout the evening. Whenever she crossed her legs she left her skirt above her knee, and while talking to a man she tended to lean forward, revealing the tops of her breasts. She danced with every man there, even the young ones who could barely bring themselves to ask her, and played no favorites. But she stayed safely on the correct side of the sexy/slutty line. I wondered what sort of mission she was destined for. Perhaps she was one of those women who were willing to give all for their country.

Sandy and I had no shortage of dance partners either. I stuck to one beer too, but Sandy had several, and she turned out to be a giggler. When taps finally sounded, Myrna and I guided her back to our bedroom.

Going up the mansion’s back stairs we came face-to-face with another pin-up on the landing. But this one was very different from the ones in the cabaret. It depicted a sweet-faced girl in a prim white shirt. The bold print ranged across the poster said:
She may look clean, but . . .
The poster went on to warn men that pick-ups, good-time girls, and prostitutes carried syphilis and gonorrhea, and that soldiers and sailors couldn’t fight the Axis if they had VD.

‘Well,’ Myrna said. ‘Men. They don’t know what to think of us, do they?’

After bathing and changing into pajamas we faced our stacks of reading material. In less than an hour Sandy dumped hers on the floor.

‘I’ll never need all this,’ she said, turning off her bedside lamp and pulling her covers over her head.

I skimmed every document. I wanted to be more thorough, but there was too much to read carefully. The material covered observation, concealment, cover stories, bribery, communications, first aid, ciphers, and diagrams of weapons and unarmed combat. When I fell sound asleep around midnight Myrna was still up reading and taking notes with a vengeance.

SEVEN

R
eveille blared so loudly that it sounded like the trumpeter was sitting at the foot of my bed.

‘Hell’s Bells,’ Myrna said, swinging her legs over the side of her bed.

I dragged myself upright. Sandy was already on her way to the bathroom, showing no signs of a hangover.

A knock sounded at our door. Without opening it Sergeant Smith hollered out to us, ‘Calisthenics on the training ground, girls!’

We pulled on slacks and sweaters and went outside into the chilled air. It was still dark. Kerosene lanterns outlined a large rectangle in the dirt. A new instructor, Corporal Jones, organized us into three lines.

‘Now you girls,’ he said, placing us in the back row, ‘we don’t expect you to keep up with the men, just do your best.’

I sweated through jumping jacks and running in place, but the push-ups did me in. Myrna too. But I was pleased to see Sandy kept at it until after nearly half of the men had dropped out. At least one of us had exceeded the patronizing expectations of Jones.

After cleaning up we met again in the dining room. We downed waffles and eggs and even had orange juice. There was sugar for the coffee. I’d suspected the camp got extra rations; the orange juice and sugar proved it.

We were given fifteen minutes before meeting again in the classroom, which was set up in the long reception room of the mansion. At the door Smith beckoned to Sandy and pulled her aside.

The lights dimmed for a slide show on first aid, but Sandy didn’t return to the room. I checked outside the door to see if she was sneaking a cigarette. No Sandy.

Smith leaned up against the wall.

‘Where’s Sandy?’ I asked. ‘Class is about to start.’

‘Not coming,’ Smith said.

‘What? Where is she?’

‘Gone.’

Back inside the room, in the dark punctuated by the shifting light of the changing slides, I passed a note to Myrna. She scanned it and raised an eyebrow. We both knew Sandy was booted for talking and drinking too much. Last night at the cabaret was what the OSS training curriculum referred to as a relaxation test, to see if one of us let down our guard under the ‘influence of alcohol and social distractions’. Like vulgar pictures, attentive men, and booze. Sandy had flunked.

The morning passed slowly, while a medic named Brown, a lieutenant named Johnson and a red-headed civilian with an Irish accent named Miller lectured us on the topics already covered in our reading materials. Graphs, charts, and slide shows illustrated their points. Myrna nudged me once after I fell into a dead sleep.

Our studies outside of the classroom were more interesting. In the farmhouse’s kitchen we learned how to steam open and reseal an envelope. Holding the envelope over a pot of smoking water, I learned to work my thumb ever so slowly under the envelope flap until it came loose. To my surprise, after the flap dried all I had to do to reseal it was lick the glue and stick the flap down. The envelope looked like it hadn’t been tampered with at all.

The ‘belongings test’ was more challenging. I was led into a bedroom and shown an array of personal belongings laid out on the bed. I was allowed to study them for five minutes. Then I was required to list them and speculate about the individual who owned them. I couldn’t remember all the items, but from the expression on the instructor’s face I got the description of their owner more correct than not.

By noon we’d completed Spycraft 101.

After lunch Myrna and I found ourselves back outside on the training ground. The bracing air was a relief after being inside the house all morning.

Smith said nothing about Sandy’s absence.

‘OK, girls,’ he said to us. ‘Hand-to-hand combat. The first thing you need to remember is: size and strength have nothing to do with defending yourself.’ He gestured to his head. ‘It’s all up here. Skill. And staying calm. To demonstrate, I brought along Private White here.’

Private White touched his cap.

‘Usually, Private White dishes up our chow, and he’s had no training other than the basics I’m going to show you. Watch what he can do.’

Smith slipped on an eye mask to protect his eyes from the ‘Tiger’s Claw’.

Then Smith charged White, who stopped him cold with the chin jab we learned yesterday. His left hand dug into Smith’s eyes; Smith toppled over, and White dropped on him and pretended to ram his right knee into Smith’s groin.

The two men climbed to their feet and dusted themselves off. Smith nodded to White, who left.

Smith put his hands on his hips. ‘Girls,’ he said, ‘this isn’t about fighting fair. It’s about killing or being killed. Now, this is a delicate subject, I understand, but immobilizing a man with a blow to his testicles is a fundamental technique of hand-to-hand combat, and it always works. You mustn’t allow any reluctance about touching a man down there stop you from defending yourself. Of course, Private White didn’t actually knee me, and you’ll be relieved to know that you don’t have to either.’

Myrna and I nodded with feminine humility, without daring to catch each other’s eye.

‘Myrna,’ he said, ‘you first.’

Smith donned his eye mask again and attacked her. Viciously. And exactly as he’d taught us, she stopped him cold with her flat hand under his chin, gouged at his eyes, dropped him to the ground, then pretended to shove her knee in his groin.

‘Very good, Myrna, very good,’ Smith said. ‘Most girls are reluctant the first time they attack a man. Now you, Louise.’

Smith came at me, grasping my upper arms so hard that tears came to my eyes. I fought back, shoving my hand under his chin, forcing his head back, and gouging at his eyes. He dropped to the ground on his back, and in a moment of pure power, I shoved my right knee into his testicles as hard as I could.

Smith screamed and curled into a ball, grabbing at his groin and flailing about on the ground. Men came running from all sides.

‘It’s all right,’ Smith said, sitting up and gasping. ‘It’s OK. Louise got a little carried away, that’s all.’

I knelt next to him. ‘I’m so desperately sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

Smith gestured the other men away. They left, grinning.

‘Really and truly,’ I said, struggling to look contrite. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m so embarrassed.’

‘Forget it,’ Smith said, still holding on to his equipment. ‘These things happen.’ I had to give the man credit. He handled the humiliation well.

Breathing hard, the sergeant got to his feet. ‘Let’s move on,’ he said. ‘We need to cover what to do if your assailant has a weapon – first a revolver, then a knife. A little less realism on your part would be appreciated, Louise.’

After our lesson Myrna and I climbed the hill from the parade ground to the farmhouse. We allowed ourselves a giggle.

‘You know, Louise, there’s more to you than first meets the eye,’ Myrna said.

‘You too,’ I answered.

EIGHT

T
he taxi dropped me off at ‘Two Trees’ about supper time on Thursday night. Joe met me at the door with a finger to his lips. Despite the hour the dining room was empty.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

‘A huge naval battle has begun at Guadalcanal,’ Joe said. ‘The Japs are trying to retake the island. We know the
Enterprise
is involved.’ Milt Junior was a signalman on the
Enterprise
, one of our biggest aircraft carriers. ‘Phoebe is terribly upset. She’s upstairs in her bedroom crying her eyes out. Dellaphine is with her.’

Another huge battle! How in God’s name could the Allies manage to win a war spread out over entire continents and vast oceans? I felt like the world was being set on fire by demons and the Allies had a leaky hose to douse the flames. My knees felt a little weak, and Joe pulled me to him and held me tight.

‘So much,’ I said. ‘All at once.’

‘Yes, it is. But we’ll get through it. And one person can only do so much.’

He was right. My job was to file endlessly at OSS and get a name from Alessa. I could do that. I could. I pulled myself together. Joe released me with a final squeeze.

‘Poor Phoebe,’ I said.

‘I understand that she’s distressed, but Milt’s about as safe on the
Enterprise
as anyone can be in the Pacific. And Tom is far behind the lines, guarding a supply depot.’

Joe had no idea where most of his Czech friends and relatives were.

I pulled off my coat and hat. ‘If Dellaphine is with Phoebe, what are we doing for dinner?’

‘Henry is making pancakes. They should be about ready. And Madeleine found some maple syrup in a market on her way home from work.’