Cora clutched her pocketbook and followed the horde of journalists into London’s Palace Theatre. More than three months had passed since she decided to take Miss Hayworth’s advice and apply to become a war correspondent. The accreditation process had been lengthy and not without a few bumps, but a week ago she’d received her acceptance notice. Would the delay have been longer without the actress’s letter of reference? Two days later, she was on an airplane to England. Her heart remained in her throat during most of the flight, but she refused to let the mostly male-occupied aircraft see her nervousness.
With a smile, she clutched her identification card, ready to flash it at one of the guards guiding the crowd into the auditorium. She was a full-fledged reporter with United Press and would show them they’d made the right decision by hiring her.
Bulldozed on all sides by cigarette- and cigar-smoking men, she tried to breathe through her mouth while attempting to hold her ground. She would not be relegated to the back row. The pungent, gray fog swirled above her head, and she swallowed a cough.
She reached the doorway to the amphitheater, held up her badge, and squeezed into the hall already half filled. Conversation and laughter blended into a cacophony of noise that bounced off the carved wood paneling and gleaming wood floors. Tucking her elbows to her sides and straightening to her full five-foot-three-inch height, she frowned. A head shorter than most of the attendees, she found herself staring at shoulders and backs. If Dickey Chapelle could climb the ranks from her diminutive size, so could she.
“Excuse me. Coming through, please.” Cora pushed her way through the sea of people, voice more confident than she felt. “Make way. Thank you.” As each man turned to see who was speaking, she slipped forward. Within minutes, she stood near the front of the room, where a single vacant seat beckoned from the middle of the third row. Without a second thought, she made a beeline for the chair, flanked on either side by middle-aged, Brylcreem-haired men in gray suits. A dollar said they would not be happy to see her.
Tightening her grip on her handbag, she stepped into the row and marched to the vacant seat. She flopped down with a sigh, smoothed her skirt, and ensured her blue cloche hat was still firmly pinned into place.
The man to her right scowled. “This is for reporters only, honey. You can’t be here.”
She gave him her brightest smile and dug out her ID card. “I am a reporter, honey, but thank you for clarifying that I’m in the right place.” She held out her hand. “Cora Strealer, United Press.”
His eyebrows shot up and disappeared into his hairline. Scowl deepening, he squinted at her badge then shook his head. “Didn’t know they were letting more dames into the ranks. Well, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, so you can see how the job should be done.”
“Sir, I appreciate your advice, but I have no doubt the UP would not have hired me if they didn’t think I could do the job.” She peeked at his badge. “Ken Smith, Detroit Free Press. Do they not have women in Michigan, Mr. Smith?”
“She got you there, Smith.” The man to her left guffawed and clapped her on the back. “Good one, sister.”
Her hat shifted, and her skin burned where he’d made contact. Like an exuberant puppy, his grin was sloppy, the look in his eyes, vacuous. Apparently, he had no idea about his strength or appropriate behavior, but he seemed harmless, so she forced a smile and settled into her seat. At least, all the men weren’t misogynistic boars.
Smith mumbled and turned to the guy on his right who gave her an appraising glance before ignoring them both.
With a shrug, she dug into her pocketbook and pulled out a pencil and notepad. Flipping to a clean sheet, she scribbled brief descriptions of the room and its inhabitants. Tension in the room became palpable as the minute hand on the large brass clock ticked closer to the hour.
Known for being loathe to give press conferences, Winston Churchill had agreed to a short forum. What sort of news would he share? With each new month, the Allies secured more ground and captured thousands of surrendering Germans. So much for Hitler’s Thousand-Year Reich. His empire was crumbling, but reports indicated the fighting was more ferocious than before, like a wild animal in pain.
Finished with her notes, she surveyed the room. In addition to herself, there were eight other female correspondents, none of whom she recognized. She sat up straighter and squared her shoulders.
Leaning against the wall, close to the stage, an ebony-haired man with ice-blue eyes stared at her. Movie-star attractive, he had broad shoulders that filled out his charcoal-colored suit jacket. His lips curved in a slow smile.
Her face heated, but Cora refused to look away. She dipped her head, acknowledging his gaze. Which side of the fence was he on? Women stuck at home or out in the world as equals? In her limited experience, the more handsome the man, the more likely he carried an enormous ego. Probably how he managed to get a spot near the podium.
His gaze finally slid past her, and she stifled the urge to turn and see what or who he was looking at. She should be happy he no longer studied her like an insect under a microscope. She pulled at the collar on her blouse. The temperature in the room approached stifling despite the efforts of two aluminum fans. Hopefully, her dress shields would hold.
The door in the front of the room opened. A slight, sixty-something-year-old man emerged, and the conversations ceased mid-sentences. With measured steps, he walked to the stage and positioned himself behind the bank of microphones that nearly obscured his face from the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. The prime minister has been held up in a meeting and will arrive in approximately twenty minutes. He was to make a short statement then answer a few questions. Questions will not be shouted out, but rather you may submit one question in writing before we begin. Your papers will be collected in five minutes. Please indicate your name and affiliation.” A curt nod, then he disappeared through the door.
Cora nibbled the end of her pencil. One question. No pressure there. What was the one thing her readers would want to know about the war? She glanced at the other journalist and caught the handsome reporter staring again. With any luck, this would be the last time she’d see him.
a
Van blinked. He’d been caught studying the woman in the third row. Again. Focus, man. He sighed and glanced at his notebook. Blank. Just like his mind every time he looked at the beautiful reporter. Older than she first appeared because of her petite size, she had an aura of sadness. Her eyes held a cloud of grief. Probably the loss of a loved one, like so many people. A father? A brother? His heart stilled. A husband?
He stole another peek at her. Bent over her notepad, she nibbled on the end of her pencil, giving her the appearance of an intent schoolgirl. What newspaper did she work for? Probably some small weekly in a tiny town. She had tenacity. He’d give her that. Marching to the front of the room and grabbing a seat between the two most irascible guys in the room.
She seemed to be holding her own, oblivious to Smith’s glower in her direction. A slight curve to her lips. Maybe she was aware of his unhappiness and had enough spunk not to care. Attagirl.
A teenaged boy emerged from behind the door and walked the aisle collecting questions from the reporters. The young woman nodded to herself, scrawled in her notebook, then tore off the sheet and passed it to the lad. Crossing her arms, she sat back in the chair and stared toward the podium, looking neither left nor right. She seemed to draw a cloak of protection around herself.
The woman had a story.
If this wasn’t wartime, he’d take the time to get the scoop. But he was in the middle of a war. No time for romantic entanglements.
The door opened again, and the man who’d made the earlier announcement came out and approached the microphones. The room quieted as only a group of reporters could do when they thought a story was in the making.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your patience. As indicated earlier, Prime Minister Churchill will make a statement then answer a select few of your written questions. You will have two hours after the conference to submit your article to the censors. Nothing will be accepted after that time.”
Van raised an eyebrow. Churchill was known for controlling information, but what he had to say must be a showstopper and time sensitive. Everyone knew there was going to be an invasion in the next few weeks, but where and when were the best-kept secrets in England. As it should be. Loose lips sink ships and all that.
Commotion near the front, and the rotund head of England’s cabinet strode into the room. Although only standing five-feet-eight-inches or so, the prime minister had a presence that rendered him as tall as Roosevelt. Often referred to as a bulldog, Churchill was confident and fearless and more often brash than not. Britain and the Allies were lucky to have him in their camp. Brought in after a vote of no-confidence in Chamberlain’s government, Churchill was unpopular with the Conservatives who opposed his replacement of the former prime minister. Surrounding himself with friends and trusted confidantes, Churchill created a cabinet that was the most broadly based in British history.
Thunderous applause filled the room. His political opponents might not like the man, but the journalists loved Churchill. He didn’t brook any nonsense, often responding with sarcasm to questions any cub reporter could have devised, but he’d lavish praise for an inquiry that was deep and probing. He might not answer because of national security, but he appreciated a well-researched query.
Churchill raised his hands, and the clapping ceased. Pencils hovered over notebooks waiting to fill their pages. Reporters leaned forward waiting for the erudite speaker to begin. Van straightened, the man’s presence creating a desire to stand at attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for coming. It is your job to keep our citizens duly informed and to boost their morale. This war has been long and hard, and the conflict isn’t over yet. But the great powers of the allied nations will see victory. Of that, I’m sure. The German Army is crumbling, and their leadership running scared, although they will never admit that. We have seen success in Anzio, Bougainville, and Monte Cassino, and we will continue to win battles. As we approach the twilight of this war, there will be many more campaigns during which young men will die, but their deaths will not be for naught. My heart bleeds for every life that is lost, but through their ultimate sacrifice, we will achieve great things.”
Holding up his fingers in the familiar V-for-victory gesture, he smiled, his eyes crinkling. Van grinned. Did the man know how charismatic he was?
Churchill continued to speak for another few minutes, his speech a combination of exhortation and innocuous generalities about upcoming campaigns. Nothing that would give the enemy the upper hand but plenty that would tell the folks at home the Allies were confident they would be victorious.
“Now, for questions.” The prime minister picked up the top sheet from a stack of mismatched papers. “This is from Cora Strealer, United Press: what strengths have the members of your cabinet brought to the table in Britain’s fight against the Axis powers?” Churchill beamed. “A well-formed question, young lady.”
As the prime minister answered the query, Van’s head whipped toward the woman in the third row whose face glowed pink. Cora Strealer. Apparently, she had brains in addition to beauty. One more competitor in the ranks.