9

Leiston, England
Wednesday, January 26, 1944

Mr. Edwards, the Minister of Food in Leiston, flipped through Violet’s paperwork with his right hand—his empty left sleeve was pinned up. Had he lost his arm in World War I? “All in order,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.” Obtaining ration books was Kitty’s job, but she was in bed with an awful cold, so Violet was helping. “I apologize for taking food from the British when rationing is so tight here and our men are fed well at the mess.”

“Nonsense, young lady.” Mr. Edwards fixed a crinkly-eyed smile on her. “Remember, a great amount of our food comes from the States through your Lend-Lease program. Without you Yanks, we might be starving.”

Violet clutched her shoulder bag in her lap. “Still, it doesn’t seem right.”

“Keep those boys fat and happy so they can knock down the Nasties and put an end to this beastly war. Few of us begrudge you. Those who do must answer to me.”

“Thank you.” Perhaps the best way to help the British was to help the flyboys end the war. If that meant filling them with donuts and swing tunes, so be it.

Yesterday she’d received another reason to embrace her job. Great-Aunt Violet had replied to her announcement that she was going overseas. She said if Violet excelled in the Red Cross, after the war a mission agency might be impressed enough to accept a single woman.

Her new hope and dream.

Mr. Edwards handed her some papers. “When the new group arrives, have the commander sign these forms. Since the number of men won’t change, this is a mere formality, but a necessary one. Do bring this back straightaway.”

“Thank you. I will.” She shook the man’s hand and left the office.

No one could give her specifics, but soon the 358th Fighter Group was going to switch airfields with another group.

She descended the stairs to High Street. Would that be Adler Paxton’s group? It would be nice to have another gentleman on the base.

Since Christmas, she’d made a point of looking at the men more objectively. Yes, there were some brutes, but most were polite and kind.

On High Street, Violet savored the scene. Brick buildings lined the narrow road, some painted gray, white, or cream. Shops filled the ground floors of the two-story buildings. Down the block stood the darling half-timbered Leiston Picture House.

Across the street, three of the local ladies hired by the American Red Cross loaded food from Banister’s Grocery into a GI truck from the air base motor pool.

Sylvia Haywood waved her thin hand. “Hallo, Miss Lindstrom.”

“Hello, Mrs. Haywood. Did you find what we needed?”

“I’ll say.” Rosalind Weaver flipped back her ginger hair and hefted a box into the truck. “We bought a load of sausage meat for those Yankee hamburgers.”

“Wonderful.” Violet inspected paper-wrapped bundles in the box. “Hamburger” was a euphemistic term for sausage made of oatmeal and meat of questionable origin, served on coarse National Wheatmeal bread, but the airmen gobbled them down.

“Mustard and pickles too.” Millie Clark held up a tin of dry mustard. The sixteen-year-old had finished school but was too young to be required to take a war job, so the Red Cross snatched her up.

The Minister of Labour had been less accommodating than sweet Mr. Edwards. The Red Cross could only hire British women too young or too old to be conscripted for war work, or mothers of young children—like Sylvia and Rosalind.

A band of children chased each other down the street. School must have let out.

Two blond children peeled off from the herd and ran to Sylvia—a boy of about ten and a girl about eight. “Hallo, Mummy!”

Sylvia smoothed her daughter’s hair and introduced Violet to her children, Jimmy and Margie. “I told you two not to play with those ruffians.”

Jimmy’s eyes widened. “They’re from London. I think they’re brilliant.”

“Evacuees.” Sylvia wrinkled her nose.

Margie lifted her little chin. “I told Jimmy not to play with them. They’re dirty.”

Sylvia cupped her hand to Violet’s ear. “Some came from London without knickers. Some had lice. And none of them had ever seen a cow.”

“Poor things.” Violet watched the kids playing tag in the street.

“I feel sorry for the little blighters,” Rosalind said. “Their fathers at war or worse. Their mums in London, if they even survived the Blitz.”

“Well, I don’t think they’re a good influence.” Sylvia put her arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and tugged him close. “But we all have to do our bit.”

“Where do they stay?” Violet asked.

“My mum took one in.” Millie twirled a light brown curl around her finger. “He’s a nice little chap, helps with the chores.”

Violet’s heart went out to the waifs. Some were in caring homes, but some weren’t. And all were away from home and family at a young age.

Here was the real need—with the lonely and forgotten. Not with healthy, strapping young men.

Three of those men strutted down the street with their crush caps at rakish angles.

The children cheered and ran to the pilots.

Laughing, the Americans pulled out candy and gum and a baseball.

Violet’s jaw drifted open, and an idea molded in her mind. She could serve the truly needy while serving the airmen and fulfilling her duty to the Red Cross.

It was perfect.