Photoplay (Jan - Jun 1943)

all, we tried to look pretty as possible for the boys. And there never was a moment when we weren't glad we had gone. The boys at the African front need entertainment badly. There are no cafes or dancing places, few movies, theaters are tabu because of the danger of disease and all service men are obliged to be off the streets when the curfew sounds. At the sight of Kay, Mitzi, Martha and me riding in a jeep the boys — they didn't know we were coming to Africa — stood openmouthed. They couldn't believe they were seeing women with white faces wearing civilian clothes. ALWAYS, of course, I was thinking of Tommy. Always I was pleading with the authorities to permit me to return to England for a week or two when the tour was over. While I was in Africa Tommy and I were not able to communicate with each other in any way. I did write him once or twice and he wrote to our California address. But telephones and cables weren't available. Because of Tommy I had a more personal interest in the boys — their morale — the conditions under which they lived. And there's one score on which I want to reassure everyone. Our boys in Africa are being well fed. I saw them devouring butter and peanut butter and jams. They deserve these "extras" and more. The boys like romantic songs of five to eight years ago. "White Christmas," too, is a great favorite and when they want anything they let you know it a thousand voices strong. "Take It Off," really ''Strip Poker," is another song they adore. And in a fox-hole one night in Africa we all did rather well with "A Long Way to Tipperary." "What," everyone asks, "is the outstanding impression you have about our boys over there?" The answer is easy. None of the boys would come home before it's over if he were given the chance, irrespective of how much he misses those he loves back here. At a hospital in England I talked to an American who had had half of his nose shot away. He was frantic because he was being ordered back home for plastic surgery. "Time enough to patch up faces when this thing is over," he protested. And that's the way they all feel. At last the word I'd been pleading for came — I could have two weeks in England before returning to the United States. I've never seen anything more beautiful than the plane which took me to England and Tommy. As it stood there on the field it seemed like some wonderful bird in some wonderful fairy story. The instant I stepped out on English soil I telephoned Tommy, of course. I ran for the telephones the way the African natives run for the shelters when the air raid blows. You can't run faster than that. Tommy was out flying — somewhere up in the wild blue yonder — but I left word for him to call me at the Savoy and started up to London. "How did you ever manage to get back?" he asked over and over when he came to the hotel that night. "I didn't even dare dream you might make it." "The authorities in North Africa are in a state of collapse," I told him. "They would have moved heaven and earth to get rid of me after the barrage of arguing and pleading I let loose. . . ." That night we went dancing at the 400 Club. Much of the time, however, we just sat across the little lamp-lit table staring at each other. In fragments we did manage to talk practically and decide I must move out to a little guest house near Tommy's base. He would be busy, of course, but this way we could be together those nights he wasn't working. It was a sweet place. I loved our little room. And I think during the two weeks we lived there we struck down roots that will hold us fast whatever the years may bring. They weren't any ordinary two weeks. I always kissed Tommy good-by believing he would be safe but aware he might not be. At first when he was flying I tried to count the planes as they went out and as they came back. I never became very adept at this, however, and after a few days abandoned the practice. It seemed sheer wicked waste to shadow our happiness with unnecessary fears. SOMETIMES Tommy got off early and we took the tube into London — went to a movie, had tea in an ABC shop, or walked in Hyde Park. It's thrilling to be in love in London. You feel part of a great human river flowing through the years. . . . At other times Tommy and I would walk through the blacked-out country around his airbase to a little "pub" and talk and talk, bridging the rest of the war and planning how we would live and what we would do finally back home in Southern California. Our two weeks together went swiftly, as swiftly as time always goes when you're terribly happy. "The next plane I shoot down will be for you," Tommy told me when I was leaving and once again we were saying good-by. But wait till you see me with my Tommy — when the boys come flying home! The End. 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