The War Librarian, page 7
It was still one more than I was used to. I’d been born the year Brown v. Board made integration a legal requirement, but de facto segregation remained the norm. The schools I’d attended had tracked students based on their alleged ability, with most of the white students in the college track and most of the Black students in the labor track. It didn’t take a law degree to realize that rich white parents’ preference for all-white classes factored into the tracking decisions far more than any real measure of potential did. Of the white families, only Nana had complained. She had written letter after unanswered letter to the school. I made a note to tell her about the integrated class here when we talked, not that one to eighty was any sort of equitable ratio.
The doctor appeared onstage. He repeated what we’d learned yesterday: no drugs or alcohol, no caffeine, no candy or chocolate. No medicine without visiting his office first.
One girl raised her hand. “Can we take Midol?”
The doctor shook his head. “Not without coming to me.”
I suppressed a groan, not wanting to get called out for insubordination. The girl in front of me raised her hand, put it down, and then raised it again.
“Yes?”
She hesitated. “We don’t have pockets in our uniforms, sir. How are we to carry—ah—hygiene products?”
A few nervous titters passed through the crowd, but I leaned forward in my seat. How, indeed?
The doctor looked to either side, as if someone might appear onstage to answer the question for him. “I will get back to you on that.”
Susan muttered under her breath. “Doesn’t he mean ‘I’ll find out, ma’am,’ or ‘No excuse, ma’am’?”
Linda giggled.
“Anyway.” The doctor cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to the experts now.”
We looked at each other. Who were the experts, if not a doctor? Would we finally see a woman in a position of authority?
The doctor scooted offstage, and the lights dimmed. A shaky image appeared on the screen up front.
UNITED STATES NAVY TRAINING FILM
Produced under the supervision of the BUREAU OF AERONAUTICS for the BUREAU OF MEDICINE AND SURGERY.
The naval anthem played in the background, and a shiver ran through me.
Until the next screen appeared.
PERSONAL HYGIENE FOR WOMEN: PART I.
Susan looked at us. “What does the Navy expect to know about feminine hygiene that we don’t?”
I didn’t respond, too busy squinting at the small copyright date in the corner. “It gets worse. I think that says 1943.”
Linda’s blue eyes bugged. “It’s older than we are.”
We turned our attention back to the screen. The women wore knee-length skirts and cardigans, their hair styled in victory rolls and curly bobs. They were the picture of ’40s femininity, but the narrator’s voice was a man’s. This was “the expert”?
“Oh. My. God.” Linda buried her face in her hands as he began describing the correct way to select a girdle for those “women who really need them.”
He transitioned quickly into describing the correct fit of a shoe. I raised my eyebrows. The man depicted the natural curvature of the foot, cautioned against any shoe that disrupted it, and then explained that a shoe with a heel is suitable for any activity except for hiking. “For these purposes,” he intoned, “you need a shoe which has a lower heel with a broader base.”
“That shoe still has an inch-high heel,” Linda whispered in horror.
“Yeah,” Susan said. “I’m not hiking in that.”
We listened to dry descriptions of how to fit stockings and avoid athlete’s foot, how to keep a clean complexion and cuticles, how to treat lice, and how to shower and brush our teeth. What kind of women did they think we were, for God’s sake? We knew how to use toothpaste.
A group of girls in the back laughed out loud when the narrator advised us to ask our friends if we suspected our vaginas smelled, and I was surprised when no officers reprimanded them. They must have been as uncomfortable as the rest of us.
Still, I wasn’t expecting the next image: a labeled photograph of the anatomy of the vagina. “The hymen,” the narrator told us, “is often broken during childbirth.”
I couldn’t help it this time; I snorted. Linda joined me when the doctor explained that menstruation should never be painful. “No wonder we aren’t allowed chocolate,” she whispered. “They don’t understand how bad we need it.” We breathed a collective sigh of relief when the film was over. I looked around the room and saw that most of our faces were red, and I’d wager half were colored in mortification; the other half, in the effort of holding in laughter. Maybe our mothers would have benefited from seeing this film back in their preteen years—but God, we were adults. And it was practically 1980. It was a new world: birth control was legal even for unmarried women now, and Roe v. Wade had passed three years ago.
The doctor appeared back onstage. “I have two additional announcements. The first is that this film makes no mention of birth control.”
I stuck out my chin. The reason why wasn’t exactly rocket science. Unmarried women couldn’t legally access birth control until four years ago. Long after these films’ time.
The doctor’s voice brought me back to the present. “You’ll remember that fraternizing is not allowed among midshipmen of different classes. There will be no dating at the Naval Academy.” His next words suggested that this rule might have been one that no one expected us to follow.
“But as female midshipmen will be expelled for pregnancy, birth control can be prescribed in my office.”
Chatter broke out among us girls. Five minutes ago, we’d been told the hymen breaks during childbirth. Now the United States Navy was offering us birth control?
“It’s revolutionary!” Susan’s eyes shone. “Who would have thought?”
Linda shook her head. “I’d be far too mortified to go in and ask for it.” She shuddered.
“Dating isn’t even allowed,” I reminded them. “We won’t need birth control.”
The doctor called us back to attention. “The final announcement,” he reminded us. We looked at him, half expecting him to pass out free condoms. “All female midshipmen will be required to wear purses.”
“Purses?” some girl in the audience shouted. I couldn’t help but feel the same way. We were naval midshipmen, not society wives.
“Purses for . . . feminine products,” the doctor clarified.
I raised my hand. “Do we have to wear the purses at all times? Or simply when necessary?”
“At all times.”
Grumbling spread again throughout the auditorium. How were we supposed to chop everywhere with purses flying around? And what would the men say?
At the conclusion of the doctor’s awkward speech, we filed out of the auditorium. I blinked in the sunlight, and it took me a moment to realize that camera bulbs were going off around us. Reporters again. I’d avoided them on I-Day yesterday, but they’d been eager to talk to any girl who’d let them.
I kept my eyes straight ahead and marched on, refusing to even acknowledge the hawkers. But I could see Susan out of my periphery as she broke stride to answer a reporter’s question.
“Don’t,” I hissed, but it was too late. I heard her voice as I marched away, her outrage over the outdated videos and the purses. Another woman chimed in with a comment about the heels, and I soldiered on. We’d quickly learned yesterday that any girl willing to talk to a reporter would get an immediate cold shoulder from the men in her company.
Our final drills of the day were in squadrons, and I was grateful we weren’t in our larger companies. I didn’t need to practice or draw more attention to myself alongside Susan, who’d surely be notorious from here on out after complaining to the reporter.
At evening chow, I set my tray next to Tom, who’d been kind to me so far.
I perched on the front three inches of the chair only; we’d be allowed to take up the whole space when we were no longer plebes. We were allowed one luxury today, however, as Ensign Michael granted us the freedom to speak freely throughout the meal. After the chaplain said the blessing and the gong rang for us to begin eating, we dove in.
“Kathleen.” Tom turned to me with a practiced smile. “How are you?”
“Never better.” I wasn’t sure if it was the truth or a lie. “You?”
“Tired.” He broke a roll in half and popped one entire piece in his mouth. “But I didn’t expect anything else.”
I nodded. “Good to know what you’re getting into.”
He finished chewing and then spoke again. “My father and grandfather were both Navy. I’ve spent my whole life preparing for this.”
He did look the part.
“Was your dad a midshipman?”
“No,” I said. “Actually—”
But Tom interrupted before I could tell him about Nana’s stint in the Motor Corps during World War I or my late father’s service in World War II and Korea. “Just take my word for it, then,” he said. “It runs in the blood. When your family’s been here, you spend your whole life preparing to come here too.”
“My nana served in World War I,” I finally had the opportunity to say. “Nellie Mayborn.”
“My grandfather too. Forty-Fourth Regiment.”
“Nana was in the Motor Corps with the Red Cross.”
“Hm.” Tom flashed me that charming smile with those straight white teeth. “Sounds like we have a lot in common.”
I decided not to mention my absent mother or my grandmother’s apparent aversion to my joining the military. “Guess so.”
“Hey.” Tom put down his fork. “We get Yard liberty Sunday afternoons. Any interest in meeting up for a game of golf at the golf club?” He winked. “Nothing better than good golf and good company.”
My mouth opened and closed. “Statute 3.10 . . .”
The statute was a new rule, added only this year. Unduly familiar personal relationships between midshipmen in the same Company are prohibited when prejudicial to good order and discipline or of a nature to bring discredit on the naval service.
“Then don’t call it unduly familiar.” Tom shrugged. I envied his easy nonchalance. No one questioned whether he belonged here, but I would have to prove that I did. “I’ll get some friends to come along. Just a group of midshipmen enjoying the Naval Support Activity.”
Just a group of midshipmen. Not women, not girls, not ladies. Not “ploobs,” or plebes with boobs; not “oinkers,” as Linda had already been called by a man in her squadron. Just midshipmen.
That was what I wanted to be: just a midshipman like everyone else. So I pushed away my misgivings and smiled. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
—
We had thirty minutes of free time in the evening to write home or, if we were lucky, get a phone call in. After living with Nana for more than a decade, I felt like the few days since we’d spoken had been a lifetime.
The boy waiting for the telephone in front of me smirked. “Need to call home to Mama?”
“Nah.” Another boy in line elbowed him. “I bet it’s a boyfriend.” He whispered something into the other boy’s ear, and they both snickered as their eyes roamed my body.
I refused to look away. “Neither,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
The line moved slowly, and I had no way of knowing how much time was left before our nightly Blue and Gold company meeting. I bounced on my sore toes. Not having a watch was already driving me crazy.
By the time I was next in line, I’d bitten my nails short. I was near picking them to the point of drawing blood when it was finally my turn. I grabbed the receiver and dialed home, anxiously waiting for Nana to pick up. The phone rang and rang and rang. But no one answered.
“Give it up,” said the plebe behind me. “Obviously they aren’t picking up.”
I shook my head. Nana knew that the only time I got to talk was in the afternoon, and she didn’t go anywhere after dinner anyway. Her only social event these days was visiting with Mrs. Peregrine next door. So there was no reason for her not to answer.
But the phone kept ringing. I gave up only when tears threatened in the corners of my eyes, unwilling to let these men see me cry.
I replaced the receiver and turned. The boy behind me jumped up and grabbed it, his call answered on the first ring.
He didn’t get to talk long. The horn sounded to signify our time was up, and the plebes still in line groaned. One of them, a tall Black man with long lashes, sighed as he turned away. He almost bumped into me and apologized profusely. “You didn’t get to talk either, did you?”
I shook my head. “No answer.”
“Sorry about that.” He held out his hand. “Derrick, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
I shook his hand. “I’m Kathleen. Sorry about your phone call.”
He looked around and lowered his voice, a small smile playing on his lips. “I really wanted to talk to my mom.” He grinned wider. “Not that I’d necessarily admit it.” He turned serious again. “It’s just that she knows what it’s like to be somewhere people wish you weren’t.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “That’s why I wanted to talk to my grandma, too.”
* * *
—
I couldn’t sleep that night. God knew I was tired enough, but I couldn’t shut my mind off. Nana should have picked up today.
I swung out of bed and positioned myself on the narrow strip of floor between it and the wall. I couldn’t go on a run after lights out at 2145, but I could make sure Robert had nothing to make fun of tomorrow.
I stretched out for push-ups. I was okay in the plank position, since my core was strong from running, but the problem with the push-ups was in the arms. I’d inherited Nana’s arms, long and thin with wrists so delicate that bracelets looked too large around them.
I breathed out all the prayers for my nana into the world as I bent my elbows toward my ribs. Please let her be okay. I fought the urge to fall to my knees just as I fought the urge to break the rules and run out into the hall to try home again.
Twenty-six push-ups. I’d get through two sets tomorrow without resorting to the modified version; by the end of the month, I swore, I’d get all four on my toes.
I’d do everything I could to make sure the next batch of girls was welcomed in a way I hadn’t been.
Chapter 7
Emmaline Balakin
September 1918
Welcome to Bazwillie Sure Moose.” Nellie kept one hand on the wheel and waved the other about, gesturing to the small town nestled in the valley between two hills.
“What?” I was startled into laughter. “Bazwillie Sure Moose?”
Nellie shrugged. “That’s what the soldiers call it. The French is too hard to pronounce.”
“Bazoilles-sur-Meuse,” I said. “Surely it isn’t so difficult?”
Nellie raised her eyebrows. “We didn’t all go to boarding school.”
I felt my cheeks redden and hoped Nellie couldn’t tell in the darkness of night. “I didn’t mean—”
Nellie burst into that already-familiar laughter of hers, and I joined in after a moment of hesitation. “Okay,” I said. “Bazwillie Sure Moose.”
“They also call it Baz Eels on the Muss, if you’d prefer, or Bacillus on Mush.”
“You’re making these up.”
“It’s the soldiers,” she swore. “They need something to entertain themselves when they’re bedridden. Goedesversvelde is ‘Gerty Wears Velvet.’ Étaples, ‘Eat Apples.’ Of course, my favorite is ‘Moo Cow Farm’ for Mouquet Farm.” She chuckled. “You can tell they’re bored to tears.” Then she cocked her head. “I suppose that’s why you’re here.”
Books as an escape, I understood. But books as the sole form of entertainment for thousands of men? What a daunting task I had ahead of me. “Isn’t there anything else for them to do?”
“The Red Cross sets up recreation huts at each hospital, but not all the men can get there. Many are confined to the wards.”
She painted a rather dreary picture of hospital life, but her tone never faltered. “How do they keep up morale? How do you? You’re so . . .” I wanted to say blasé but was afraid it would sound insulting. I didn’t resent Nellie’s attitude; I wanted to learn it for myself. “So cheerful.”
She shrugged. “You have two options, I suppose. You can crack, or you can try to find pockets of joy.”
“Joy . . .” We had just stepped from the motorcar, and I’d landed ankle-deep in mud. It plastered my skirt to the skin above my boots, making the cool air suddenly feel cold. Worse was the smell: a pungent mixture of filth, the iron scent of blood, and sharp antiseptic. “Where on earth do you find pockets of joy here?”
“People. Laughter.” She spread her arms. “The occasional sunny day.”
Nellie pulled me to the side of the building she’d parked in front of. Like the buildings on either side, it was long and thin and made of planks that looked soaked through with rain and snow. But in front of it was an ambulance, dozens of men on stretchers lying in the mud alongside it.
My breath caught. “Why are they out in the cold?”
“This is the receiving ward. They’ve just been brought from the field hospitals.”
It was too dark to make out their faces or their injuries—except for the ones missing limbs, whose outlines were sickeningly incomplete against the fabric of their stretchers. “Are there always so many?”
