There Will Be Bluebirds: Adventures of a Wwii Donut Dolly

Dedication for Bluebirds

This book is dedicated to all those young women who joined the Red Cross during WWII and volunteered to drive huge trucks outfitted with donut machines, coffee machines and record players, bringing a little bit of home to the men and boys fighting a formidable foe. My appreciation for their service is profound.

Contents

Dedication for Bluebirds

Acknowledgements for Bluebirds

Chapter One

1941-42

Chapter 2

November, 1942

Chapter 3

November, 1942

Chapter 4

November, 1942

Chapter 5

November, 1942

Chapter Six

December, 1942

Chapter Seven

December, 1942

Chapter Eight

December, 1942

Chapter Nine

December, 1942

Chapter Ten

March, 1943

Chapter Eleven

April, 1943

Chapter Twelve

April, 1943

Chapter Thirteen

June, 1943

Chapter Fourteen

July, 1943

Chapter Fifteen

September, 1943

Chapter Sixteen

October, 1943

Chapter Seventeen

December, 1943

Chapter Eighteen

December, 1943

Chapter Nineteen

December, 1943

Chapter Twenty

March, 1944

Chapter Twenty-one

May/June, 1944

Chapter Twenty-two

June, 1944

Chapter Twenty-three

August, 1944

Chapter Twenty-four

September, 1944

Chapter Twenty-five

December, 1944

Chapter Twenty-six

January, 1945

Chapter Twenty-seven

February/ March, 1945

Chapter Twenty-eight

April, 1945

Chapter Twenty-nine

May, 1945

Chapter Thirty

June, 1945

Chapter Thirty-one

June, 1945

Chapter Thirty-two

June, July, & August, 1945

Chapter Thirty-three

September, October, 1945

Epilogue

Acknowledgements for Bluebirds

A small handful of Red Cross Staff Assistants wrote memoirs of their time in service during WWII. Those books were an enormous advantage to me in understanding the day-to-day challenges they faced. Special thanks to B.J. Olewiler, Rosemary Norwalk and Helen Airy as well as to James Madison, who took Elizabeth Richardson’s collection of personal papers and wove them into a captivating picture of a segment of history rarely acknowledged.

I am immeasurably indebted to the Monday night writers’ group that listened to every word of this book and made many, many suggestions for its improvement. Their support and encouragement are deeply appreciated. My thanks go to Lois Godel, Caroline Keith, Richard Lampl, Tom Lane, Peter Modley, Helen Moriarty, Judy O’Neill, Barbara Scheiber and especially Rachel Michaud, who has been a special friend and cheerleader for my writing over many years.

Friends and family have been important advocates. I am fortunate to have in my life: my sister, Bea Erickson; my daughter, Lissa Foglio; my son, David Appell; my cousin, Arline Lula; my friends, Scott Stoner, Mark Odum, Sharon Lockwood, Steve Fulton, Marilyn Lichtman, Pat Hernandez, Barbara Goldfarb, Suzanne Howze, David Dworzak, Margie Kramer, and my darling Wednesday Luria.

Chapter One

1941-42

The screen went black, the house lights came up and the manager of the Calvin Theater ran out onto the stage. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Japanese are bombing Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. It’s on the radio right now. There were murmurs, gasps, and cries from the audience. People left their seats and headed for the doors.

Steffie Moska and Janet McConnell had been watching Orson Welles in Citizen Kane on a bitterly cold Sunday afternoon in December. The two friends looked at each other, wide-eyed with shock. They read the newspapers; they’d just seen the newsreels; they knew that Japanese ambassadors were at the White House in Washington this week. What did this mean? They hugged in a tight embrace and parted immediately for their homes. Steffie had a long walk to the white clapboard farmhouse on Hockanum Road, in the Meadows outside Northampton, Massachusetts. It took her half an hour even though she hurried along the dirt road.

In the front parlor, all her family except for her eldest brother, Stanley, were sitting around the radio, leaning forward, listening to the newscasters tell the story of the Japanese attack. Their faces reflected the horror of the reports coming in, describing the burning ships, the diving planes, the bombed buildings.

Breathless from the cold and from her rapid pace, Steffie tossed her coat on the bench inside the door. The manager at the Calvin stopped the movie and came out on the stage to tell everybody about the attack.

Shush. Sit down. We’re listening, her father admonished.

The commentator on the radio continued with a report of the carnage and devastation, Bombs rained down on the harbor…

Leo, tall, muscular, thirty years old and unmarried, smacked a fist into his hand and yelled, Those bastards can’t do this to us. I’m going to enlist tomorrow.

Carl and Tom, twenty-six and twenty-eight, sitting together on the couch, jumped up and chimed in immediately with, Me, too.

Steffie’s mother began to cry. You can wait until they call you up in the draft. There’s no hurry to go off right away. She wiped at her tears.

Steffie’s youngest brother, Jim, was sitting on the arm of their mother’s chair. He had a withered leg and poor eyesight as well. Steffie knew he was very unhappy that he was already classified as 4F. Stanley, the oldest at 32, had his own house and family. With three children, he had been notified of his exempt status when the draft first started.

Steffie’s father, a man with weathered skin, deep wrinkles and a paunch, and eyes that conveyed his ire, was adamant that they wait until after the spring planting. Just how do you think I’m going to keep farming the land all by myself?

Leo was quick to answer. You’ll have Stanley and Jim and you can hire some 4F from town, or maybe some old guy. We have to go, Papa. Can’t you see that?

All the entreaties in the world couldn’t keep the three Moska boys from going down to the recruiters on Monday. Carl and Tom got into the long line at the Army recruiting station by the post office, but Leo was sure he could qualify to be a Marine. There were fewer people waiting to enlist in the Marines and the process took longer, but Leo was right; he qualified. Within the next six weeks, all three of them were gone.

Ask almost anyone in town and they would tell you that Stephanie Moska was a sweet girl who sang in the church choir and took Communion every Sunday. They would say she was pretty, blonde and blue-eyed, always smiling and friendly. It was well known that she loved to go dancing but nobody ever noticed her dating any particular boy, even after she went to Fitchburg Teachers’ College and came back to town to teach at Hawley Grammar. She was the baby in a farm family with five brothers who loved her dearly.

Some might mention that she was lucky to have those brothers to chip in for the tuition when other people were grateful just to be able to put food on the table. But, of course, you never know how some people do it. Those boys sure did spoil her. It’s a wonder she didn’t turn out to be stuck-up like some people they could name.

Janet McConnell, a cheerful, pudgy, redhead, who taught first grade across the hall from Steffie and was her best friend, could have told anyone who thought to ask that there was more to Stephanie than a pretty face and a bright smile. She knew of Steffie’s wanderlust, of her dreams of traveling the world, going to the places they both read about in the books they borrowed from Forbes library every week. They’d been friends ever since they started teaching, three years ago. They went to the movies together and to the dances in Holyoke at the Crystal Ballroom. Janet was content with life in Northampton, but Steffie was busy searching the horizon for adventure.

After her brothers left for boot camp, Steffie became a faithful letter writer, making sure to get out at least one letter a day. She stopped at the library after school to read the newspapers there so she’d have something to write about. And she listened to the radio reports on the little brown Bakelite radio in her room every night. Edward R. Murrow, broadcasting from London during the Blitz, was her favorite. She loved the sound of his voice, coming over the noise of the bombs. He seemed reassuring. Even in the midst of an attack on London, he was still there, reporting the news.

German U-boats were attacking ships off the east coast of the United States, with huge losses. The U.S. Navy had not yet learned how to take antisubmarine measures. The German General Rommel was sweeping through North Africa. The U.S. forces in the Philippines began withdrawing from Bataan and in the Soviet Union, citizens in the besieged city of Leningrad were starving.

While the boys were in basic training, Steffie didn’t expect to hear from them often, aware from the very first notes they sent that they were being worked long hours learning how to survive in a war. Even though all three of them were in general good health and fit from the hard physical labor of farming, they complained of soreness and fatigue from the arduous program of hiking long distances carrying heavy loads. Steffie and her mother baked cookies and tarts at night, even when Steffie was exhausted from teaching all day and her mother from doing some farm chores that had been done by her sons before they left to join the service. The lovingly wrapped packages were gratefully received by all three of the boys. Letters of gratitude for the treats made the labor of their creation seem the least Steffie and her mother could do.

Carl and Tom came home together for their furlough after basic, knowing they would be shipped out soon. Neither one of them had been selected for specialized training; they would be infantrymen. All the talk was of being sent to England with the expectation of invading the continent soon. Steffie thought they both looked fabulous in their uniforms.

Leo arrived just two days before his brothers had to return to Fort Dix. He was slated for more training but he’d been told not to talk about it. He seemed to have grown at least two inches and to have acquired a confidence he had never had before. Steffie was impressed with the changes in him and quizzed him relentlessly about his experiences. Did he meet interesting people? How was it to live in a barracks? What did he get to eat? Were the officers tough on the recruits? Steffie was jealous of the adventures.

All three of her brothers were profuse in their thanks for Steffie’s letters and their mother’s baking. When they left, they promised to write back as often as they could, although they cautioned that they didn’t know where they were going so they couldn’t be sure whether they would have the time.

In June of 1942, Major General Dwight D. Eisenhower assumed command of U.S. forces in Europe. The British forces in Tobruck, Libya fell to a massive German assault. The Allies: Great Britain, Free France, the Soviet Union, the United States and the 22 other nations that joined them in the war against the Axis (Germany, Italy and Japan) were beginning to have some success at code breaking.

Steffie started thinking about how she could be part of the war effort and started gathering information about signing up for the WAAC or the WAVES. It was discouraging to find out that women in the service were mostly used to replace a man at a desk. Only rarely were they sent overseas. It sounded boring to Steffie.

By May, Steffie was getting letters from Carl and Tom with sections blacked out by the censor’s pen. It wasn’t hard to figure out that they were at two different locations in Britain, Carl in Scotland and Tom in the south of England, just by putting together the clues in the letters with the news on the radio and in the papers.

She wrote back:

Hi, Carl,

We’re coming to the end of the school year. I’ll be glad to finish the history of the Revolutionary War. It seems out of place to teach kids about the battles with British soldiers when we’re over there helping them keep their country safe. I tell the kids that was a long time ago and now we are allies.

Summer vacation will sure be different this year. A lot of stuff is being rationed now, so there’ll be fewer trips to Hampton Ponds for swimming and picnicking. Nobody has enough gas for the car. Since sugar is rationed, we probably won’t make much jam, either. Except that I told Mama to save enough so we can send you some.

I keep reading stories about the bombs falling on London and people running for shelter. Are you near where the bombs are falling? I haven’t had a letter from Leo in over two weeks. I don’t think he’s left the country, though. I guess he’s just real busy.

I love to get your letters, even though the censor blacks out some of it. I took some pictures of Papa and Stanley bringing in bushels of spinach and, as soon as I get them developed, I’ll send them to you.

Your loving sister,

Stephanie

It was near the end of the summer when Janet saw the article in The Boston Globe about the Red Cross looking for women to join up and to volunteer for duty overseas, some to serve in clubs that were havens for servicemen in transit and others to serve in mobile canteens that would go around to military bases serving coffee and doughnuts to soldiers and sailors on duty. The job required independence, determination and stamina. She showed it to Steffie. This sounded like just what she was looking for.

Wow, this could be so fantastic. I’d be right where the war is going on. I’m sure they mean Britain when they say overseas. I’m going to send for an application. Steffie was excited.

But, you know, it says volunteer work. You probably don’t get paid, Janet warned.

So what? I’m sure they take care of the cost of sending you over and food and a place to sleep. You wouldn’t need any money. Besides, I’ve got some savings from my three years teaching.

The application packet from the Red Cross noted that you had to be 25 and college educated to apply for a staff assistant job. Steffie’s birthday was September 20. She was hoping that she could avoid starting a new school year and then leaving after she knew all her students’ names, but if that was the way it had to be, it couldn’t be helped. She filled out the application carefully, answering every question fully, and then sent it in, holding it for a few seconds before she dropped it in the mailbox to invoke a plea. Please, God, let me be chosen.

When the letter came from the Red Cross, her mother handed it to her. What could the Red Cross be writing you about, dear?

Steffie opened the envelope with a kitchen knife and, when she saw that she was to appear in Springfield for an interview the following Saturday, she threw her arms around her mother and hugged her. Mama, I’m going to help with the war effort. I just know I’ll be accepted by the Red Cross.

The Red Cross? What will you do in the Red Cross? I thought Red Cross ladies were nurses.

No, Mama, not all of them. Some provide recreation services, too. I hope I’ll get assigned to go with the Clubmobile service that will bring donuts and coffee to the boys on the bases.

Steffie’s mother frowned. That doesn’t sound like a good idea to me. You’re a teacher, Steffie. The school needs you to teach. Will they pay you more than you make teaching?

No, but that’s OK. I’ll be helping the war effort. Steffie skirted around the truth that she didn’t even know if she would be paid at all.

It was hot in the Moska kitchen and that masked the blush that covered Steffie’s face when she told that lie of omission to her mother. I’ll be doing something important, Mama. I really, really want to help win the war and this will be my contribution to it.

Her father was even more of a challenge. He came in from the barn and walked over to the sink to wash his hands, glancing over at Steffie and her mother sitting at the kitchen table. What are you two up to? You look like you’ve got something to say, Steffie, so spit it out.

Papa, I applied to join the Red Cross and go overseas to serve in canteens for our troops. I got a letter today inviting me to an interview in Springfield.

What the hell did you do that for? He father grabbed up a towel to wipe his hands. You’ve got a good job teaching. His bushy eyebrows drew together in a scowl. He threw the towel down and glared at her.

I know. But that’s not the same as helping win the war. I don’t want to be teaching third graders when I could be doing something more…more directly.

Paul Moska banged his fist down on the kitchen table. Maybe you don’t think Stanley and Jim and me are doing anything to win this war, but you’d be wrong, because we are. Farming is important work. Carl and Tom and Leo could have gotten deferments if they weren’t such hotheads, rushing off to enlist the minute war was declared. You should stick with your teaching, not pouring coffee for a bunch of guys. They’re not all nice boys, like your brothers, you know. Some of them got no decent upbringing. They behave like animals. I’m not so sure you’d be safe.

Papa, that’s the same everywhere. When I go over to the Crystal Ballroom in Holyoke, there are always some guys who are jerks. I pay them no attention and they go away.

When Saturday arrived, Steffie was so nervous she forgot to ask if she could borrow the car for the eighteen mile drive to Springfield, only remembering just before it was time to leave. Her mother ran out to the barn to her father and came back with the keys.

The interview was to be held at the Roger Smith Hotel, since the Red Cross didn’t have an office in the western part of Massachusetts. There were about fifty girls milling around in the large ornate ballroom, waiting their turn to be called for an interview. Three tables were set up at one end of the room with interviewers positioned at each of them. Steffie looked around, assessing the competition. There were short girls and tall girls, skinny and sturdy, blonde and brunette, pretty and plain. Some were wearing their best clothes, complete with hat and gloves. Others were in sweaters and skirts. She wondered what made the difference in who would be chosen.

When it was her turn, she was surprised that the interviewer was a man, dressed in a suit and tie, looking harried and worn out. Somehow she had expected a woman. She answered his questions about her motivation for wanting to serve in the Red Cross, about her areas of interest (Did she play cards and board games?) and whether she could drive. (Ever drive a truck?) That question made Steffie laugh. Why, yes, of course I can drive a truck. I was raised on a farm. I can drive a tractor, too.

The whole week following her interview, Steffie raced home every day after school to check the mail and when the letter came on Friday, she ripped it open immediately. Her mother stood by, waiting to see her only daughter’s reaction to the contents of the letter.

Steffie’s wide smile told her mother what was in the letter even before Steffie read it aloud.

"It gives me great pleasure to offer you an appointment as Staff Assistant for an overseas assignment with the American Red Cross. The salary is $150 per month and maintenance, and is effective the day you report for training.

"You are scheduled to report for training at National Headquarters, Washington, D.C., on Monday morning, November 9, 1942. After a period of training and probation you will be assigned, as needs require, somewhere abroad. The location cannot be determined in advance. However, the Red Cross reserves the right to release or transfer to domestic duties any person who, during the training period, fails to meet the Red Cross or Army requirements for overseas duty.

"Expenses of travel and maintenance in connection with the training program in Washington will be assumed by the Red Cross. You will receive a check and further instructions before the day of your departure.

"Upon arrival in Washington on Monday morning you are to report directly to Hurst Hall, on the campus of American University, Massachusetts and Nebraska Ave., N.W. for registration.

We congratulate you on your appointment and wish you every success in this important work.

Steffie’s mother started to cry. She covered her face with her hands. You can’t go. It’s too dangerous. You could be killed by those bombs.

When Steffie’s father came in to supper, she read him the letter. He shouted, his face turning red. This is a stupid thing to do and you aren’t stupid. What’s got into you that you think you have to go off and do this thing?

After two days of tension in the house, punctuated by occasional tears and shouting, Steffie wore her parents down. After all, she was nearly 25 years old and she had to make her own life. She wrote Leo at a box number. She had no idea where he was.

Dear Leo,

You’ll never guess what I’m doing. I applied to the Red Cross program to work overseas and I got accepted. I’m supposed to go to Washington for training first and then I get my assignment either to a club or a clubmobile. I’m so excited about it. I’ll be doing something to help the war effort instead of just sitting around here reading about what’s going on. What do you think of that?

I got your last letter ages ago, but it was so full of black marks, I could hardly figure out what you are doing, much less where you are. I only hope you are safe, warm and dry. I saw some guys in the newsreels at the movies and they looked miserable. They were on an island in the Pacific and they were covered in mud. They had just landed off a ship. Is that what you do?

Did you get the package we sent with the jars of strawberry jam and the brownies? Mama wants to know if it got lost. We haven’t heard from you in a long time.

I’m sending pictures of all of us picking green beans. Papa said everybody had to work because he needed to get the beans to market while they were at their best. Don’t we all look grubby?

Your loving sister,

Stephanie

She got back a reply the next week.

Dear Steffie,

Are you crazy? What in hell are you thinking, going off to serve donuts to soldiers? Most of them are jerks with no decent manners. I can’t believe Mama and Papa would let you do this. Stay home. This is an ugly war and don’t believe the Washington propaganda machine. I don’t want to have to be worrying about you. Get that idea out of your head.

Your brother (who loves you even if you are nuts),

Leo

Steffie did not share Leo’s letter with anyone. She was going and that was that.

Chapter 2

November, 1942

On the train heading down to Washington, Steffie perched on the edge of her seat at the window, an unread book in her lap, looking out at the November countryside, passing backyards with wash on the line, seeing cows out in the pasture, watching two little boys racing alongside. It was chilly by the window, but she liked being able to see the changing scene.

She was wearing a brown wool skirt and white cotton blouse with a beige cardigan her mother had knit for her. Her long blond hair, past her shoulders, was in a page boy style, held to the side off her forehead with a simple, silver barrette. The scramble to get to the train station for her 6 a.m. departure made it easier to say her goodbyes to Mama and Papa at the station. Funny, how Papa, who had been so opposed to her joining the Red Cross, seemed so proud of her this morning, hugging her tight. Now, alone with her thoughts, she realized how much she would miss them, especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

She glanced out the window and saw a huge billboard, showing Uncle Sam pointing directly at her. ‘I want you!’ he seemed to shout. It was the war causing this upheaval. Hardly anybody’s family would be the same this Thanksgiving or this Christmas, either. Already there were silver stars in the windows of peoples’ homes. She thought sadly of the sacrifices already made and more to come.

The train stopped at New Haven. There was a large crowd, mostly men, on the platform, many in uniform. A group of young men in civilian clothes stood awkwardly together, each carrying a small bag. Probably draftees, going to basic training. Porters were weaving in and out with carts full of luggage.

Hi, is this seat taken? A girl stood in the aisle, her almost black curls in a tangle around her face, the smile on her wide mouth accented with very red lipstick.

No, it’s not. Please sit down, Steffie invited politely. The girl heaved her suitcase into the overhead rack and sat.

She turned to Steffie and held out her hand. I’m Anna Ouimette and I’m on my way to Washington to get trained to be a Red Cross aide.

Really? You’re not kidding me? That’s where I’m going, too. Steffie smiled back and took Anna’s offered hand. Wow, that’s terrific. I’m so glad to have somebody to travel with. Steffie’s outlook brightened immediately.

The train left the New Haven station with a jerk. A passing sailor lost his balance and nearly tumbled onto the two girls, who both started laughing. I’m sure glad I was already in a seat or I’d have landed in somebody’s lap. Anna held out her hand to the sailor. Hi, my name is Anna. What’s yours?

By the time the train reached Grand Central Station in New York, four more guys were standing next to Steffie and Anna, chatting about movies they had seen, music they liked and places they hoped to visit. A soldier who was getting off in New York City had his heart set on getting to the top of the Empire State Building. Another, who thought he was headed to England, looked forward to seeing the Tower of London. They were young; the girls were pretty; war was an adventure.

By the time they left the New York station, the train was packed with people standing in the aisles and more young men crowded around Steffie and Anna. They began singing In the Good Old Summertime and Daisy, Daisy, Give me your Answer, Do and The Whiffenpoof Song. Steffie thought Anna to be the life of the party and that she would be a great morale booster as a Red Cross aide.

One of the sailors made his way to the dining car and came back with a supply of Coca-Cola. Anna jumped up out of her seat and kissed him on the cheek. You are a hero, she said, and I declare you king for a day. Everybody laughed and the sailor blushed scarlet.

The two girls arrived in Washington’s Union Station in the late afternoon and were buffeted by the hordes of people getting off the train, rushing to get to their destinations. In the rotunda they looked around at the vaulted ceiling and the impressive statuary and began searching for a restroom. Neither of them had ever seen water fountains and toilets labeled ‘Colored’ and ‘Whites Only.’ Steffie looked at Anna and frowned. I forgot this is a southern city. We have very few Negroes in Northampton. I’ve never seen a sign like that before.

Anna’s face showed her confusion. I guess we’ll have to get used to a lot of things we’ve never seen before.

There was some shouting and general chaos at the cab stand. A man standing there explained that there weren’t nearly enough cabs. He told them that the city of Washington had exploded from a sleepy little town to a bustling, frantic, over-populated war-time center. Rooms were hard to find; people mostly doubled up. Even strangers shared the too few available hotel rooms. Steffie was glad that they were assured by the Red Cross of a place to stay.

It was great good luck to find two other girls frantically looking for transportation to Hurst Hall at American University. Anna asked if they were Red Cross Assistants and found out they were both from Chicago and yes, they were headed for training. With some hopping up and down and a gallant man surrendering his cab to them, they were able to get transportation.

Cookie and Amy had not met until they were getting off the train from Chicago and Cookie mentioned that she was going to American University, hoping it wasn’t too far. Amy was engaged to a fellow already overseas in the army. As the cab headed across the city, all four of them gawked at passing landmarks. The waning sunshine had them peering intently out the windows to see the Capitol, the Smithsonian Museum buildings, a glimpse in the distance of the Washington Monument. When they passed by The White House, Cookie said, I wonder if FDR is in there now.

At Hurst Hall, a big old campus building with paint peeling off the walls in the corridors, they were inundated with paper instructions-- information on their lodgings, where to go to get fitted for uniforms, to acquire musette bags, to eat, to attend classes and a long list of items they were expected to buy at their own expense. Anna asked for all of them, What are musette bags? and was told they were a little like backpacks.

Steffie, tired and hungry, stood in the midst of two hundred or