V-mail was photographed and reduced to save space and weight, and Lois had taped a factory newsletter over half her sheet. It was The Minesweeper, out of Groton, Connecticut. He frowned. What was she doing in Groton, Connecticut? The title was surrounded by anchor chains and the words Let’s Win an “E” in ’43. She had written over the top margin, Mama, what did you do in the war? Were you a Wave or a Waac? No, dear, I just hid things for other people to find, and found things others had hidden. He didn’t understand at first, and then the newsletter’s title came back to him, and he chuckled. The headline was They Call Her “Frivolous Sal,” and beneath it were a group of women standing before a clapboard wall, squinting and smiling uncertainly at the camera. There was a thick caption.
Call ’em Frivolous Sal if you care to, but if you do you’re as wrong as Tojo or “that funny little man in the dirty raincoat,” Herr Schicklgruber. The girls pictured above are employed in this yard — in the electrical shop, the copper shop, Navy warehouse and tool rooms. They’re doing their stuff!
Reading from Left to Right: Ilene Reavis, electric shop; Jerrie McManamy, cable room; Naomi Lundgren, electric shop; Betty Kelley, Navy warehouse; Alma Woolridge, copper shop; Dorothy Schnellhardt, copper shop. Second row: Evelyn Everett, electric shop; Joanie Swift, electric warehouse; Irene Erickson, electric shop; Louise Erickson, warehouse; Wilma Jacobsen, machine shop tool room. Third row: Marge Dotts, copper shop; Lois Simon, Navy warehouse; Amanda Duffy, Navy warehouse; Gladys Roeder, tool room; Martine Loomer, copper shop.
Lois’s name and job had been circled and an arrow had been drawn to her head in the photo.
Hi! Surprise! We’ve moved down to Groton and yours truly is now a Rosie! Can you believe it? I was scared at first but I’m really getting the hang of things and making new friends. I’m making thirty-five dollars a week! And I’m saving nearly everything, what with the rationing anyway. I’ve been pitching in at the USO, too. I haven’t got a minute to myself, it seems. I’m also plane spotting. Can you believe it? Naomi and I sit there with our little radio and work the graveyard shift Tuesdays and Saturdays. We haven’t seen too many planes. I keep waiting to see your B-17F. With its distinctive tail assembly I can tell it from a B-24 or B-25, so I’ll know it when I see it.
Everyone here is following the war the best they can. The newspapers leave so much out. I guess they have to. It sounds like things are really starting to go well for the Air Corps. Even though I know how terrible this war is, there is such an excitement in the air! I lie on my bed after a fourteen-hour day and I look over at my old Sonja Henie doll and I feel like it must have been a thousand years ago.
Bryant stroked the page with some fondness, trying to put a finger on a certain part of her.
Some of the servicemen throw notes out of the train windows or leave notes near the coffee machines at the USO. They’re not mash notes or anything; they say things like “Girls please write,” and then the name and address. I’ve starting writing a few — one in Fort Ord, California — and they’ve been perfect gentlemen. One even wished you all the luck in the world.
That’s all for now. I’m so tired my hand is wiggling. I miss you. Write when you are able.
All my love,
Lois.
“Let’s go, spruce up,” Gabriel told him. “The crew of Paper Doll is going to be interviewed by Impact magazine.”
Gabriel was circling the base collecting everyone and left Hirsch and Bryant in the day room.
Hirsch winced. “Great title, isn’t it?”
“Don’t wander off,” Gabriel called from the door. “And try not to have something hanging out of your nose when the guy’s talking to you.”
They sat down opposite one another. The silence was awkward. Bryant had an impulse to talk about the night before at The Hoops but stopped himself.
Hirsch pulled over the current copy of Impact and leafed through it. “‘11th AF Reconnoiters, Bombs, Strafes in Attu Action,’” he read. He showed Bryant the photo, a double-pager displaying nothing but snow-covered mountains with unappetizing black rock showing through on the slopes.
“What’re we looking at?” Bryant asked.
Hirsch leaned closer. “‘Reconnaissance photo located position of a unit of our scouts (see arrow) which came overland from Blind Cove on May 11.’”
He pointed to the arrow, which indicated a white expanse.
Bryant peered closely at it. “Those are the scouts, huh?”
“‘They were to join the attack at Massacre Bay, but are shown here turning left too soon.’”
“I’ll say,” Bryant said.
Hirsch sat back, bored. “Maybe they’re tunneling,” he said.
Bryant sneezed. “I guess they’re attacking that white area over there,” he said.
Hirsch shrugged. “Or this white area over here.” He shook his head. “Imagine fighting in a place like that?”
They nodded soberly together at their good fortune.
Hirsch ran a fingertip lightly back and forth over his eyebrow, an unobtrusive nervous habit. “‘Sousse Study Shows What Bombs Accomplish,’” he read.
Bryant waited. “What’s that?” he finally said.
Hirsch read silently for a moment. Then he said, “I guess we just captured this, and now they’re looking at what our bombing really did, instead of just high-altitude photo interpretation.”
Bryant brought his chair around and together they studied the photos. The images were largely unintelligible and they relied on the captions.
Damage to 300-400-ton ship is confined to bridge superstructure, one read.
Bomb damage negligible but a direct hit on the starboard side of this ship aft of the funnel set fire to its oil cargo. Bulkhead prevented flooding. Rudder and propellers were undamaged.
Crater 6 × 30 ft. caused by direct hit on this phosphates shed. The roof is out but note there is no damage to the concrete kiln walls.
Hirsch rubbed his chin. “Encouraging, isn’t it?”
“Well, they’re not hiding anything,” Bryant said. “I guess you could look at it that way.”
Lewis poked his head in, hesitated, and then came over to the table and sat down. “Gabriel said everyone was here,” he complained. He took the Impact from Hirsch and paged back and forth through it. “Who reads this rag?” he asked.
He held up for Bryant a photo of a dorsal turret with its front Plexiglas panel blown out. “How much you think they found of him?” Lewis asked. Bryant smiled, some pressure low in his throat. Lewis pointed to another photo, a B-17 with its entire nose missing.
“Flak,” he said. “No more Eddy. No more Hirsch. And we come home with a six-hundred-mile-an-hour slipstream through the plane. Gabriel and Cooper’s toes are like little rows of ice cubes.”
“Any tail pictures like that?” Hirsch asked.
“None,” Lewis said. “Hey, here’s a shot of Rabbi Rascal on her bombing run.”
“You know, you haven’t quite made being an asshole an art,” Hirsch said. “But I got to admire your dedication.”
“Hey, fuck you, pal,” Lewis said.
Hirsch was quiet, apparently considering the best way to respond. He was not one of the crew’s more aggressive second lieutenants.
“‘They Live to Fight Another Day Despite Damage,’” Lewis read.
“I guess the ‘They’ means the planes,” Bryant said.