Chapter 3 The Princess of the Home Front

When the alarm clock went off Belle groaned and at first wanted to burrow further in her blankets. Her Papa's pleasant whistling and the reminder of everything else she needed to finish before the party that evening, managed to force her out of the comfortable cocoon she had made. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to get her hair to do what it should. She used pins to roll the brushed out natural curls away from her forehead and left the rest to spiral at the ends. It wasn't as smooth as all the magazines she and Ruby looked through, but she always felt that there were so many other things she could be doing instead of trying to make her hair look perfect.

She put on her clothes as quickly as possible, and scampered downstairs to where her father sat at the table, tools and screws and other bits of metal scattered around him, whistling absentmindedly and so engrossed he did not see her come in.

'Good morning, Papa! Happy Birthday!' She plastered a kiss on his forehead and her Papa let out a low chuckle.

'Good morning, Bluebelle, and I thank you. What is on your to-do list today?' Papa asked her the same question each morning, no matter that Belle kept to a pretty predictable pattern, and specifically for her absentminded father. She almost laughed, but bit her lip instead.

'I've got volunteer time at the Red Cross for a few hours today, and then I'll be back to finish putting things together for your birthday supper, of course!'

'No fuss, I need no fuss, you know.'

'It won't be big, I promise, just your close friends, and Morris and his family, of course.' Her father just nodded his head and kept angling his contraption this way and that, and she assumed he had only heard bits and pieces of what she said. She put some toast and juice in front of him and put her arms around him for a moment.

'A man only turns 65 once in his life, you know.'

The man grunted and smiled and she went off to get her things ready to head to the Red Cross building. Before she got there she dropped by her own letter. She had a name to go with the words this time. She had tried many times to imagine the words he spoke in a Scottish brogue, but outside of the poem, she had a hard time imagining it in her head. As Ruby said, her accent was complete rubbish. She giggled at the thought and went to see what her duties were that day.

She was glad that she had found her place at the American Red Cross facility. She sorted emergency supplies, and any general thing needed. She wasn't made for nursing, unfortunately. It wasn't simply a slight aversion to blood-she grew literally ill at even the thought. She hated this weakness, for she would gladly enter the training at 21 like Ruby was about to do, and she would do it still, if she reached 21 and the need was still there, for she would brave her weakness and help those in need, however, at this stage in her life she did what she could.

Leroy passed her with his cart of cleaning supplies.

You're five minutes late, sister.' he spoke with a snarl. He didn't really snarl, but it was as if his face was frozen in a perpetual grimace. He actually tolerated Belle more than any other volunteer in the ARC facility. It had something to do with the time she found him stumbling about on the street, coming back from a less savory part of town, telegram in his hand letting him know his eldest boy had been killed. Belle had pulled on his arm, asked him his address and had walked with him until he had made it to his home where his wife smiled at Belle. A smile that broke Belle's heart, for it was such a short lasting one. Belle had never heard a wail quite like Mrs. Dunn let out when he almost pushed her to the side (not violently, just drunkenly) and thrust the evil telegram into his wife's hands. Randy, a boy Belle's age and had graduated a few weeks earlier like she had, had squeezed her arm, told her thanks, and then Belle had to walk away from that sad, heartbroken house and walk all the way home.

Now Randy was over there too and she thought that every time Leroy saw her, he thought of his boy, and where he might be at that moment, and it had somehow made him less grouchy to her than some of the others.

Belle smiled and shrugged off Leroy's comment. 'I had an errand to run before I got here and it took me longer than I thought it would, is all. I'm here now, though!' He grunted, pointed to the linens and she began sorting and folding for the day.

Belle went as fast as she possibly could back home that late afternoon. She couldn't count on her father to remember to put a salad together, even less that he would remember to take anything out of the oven when trying to cook. This meant she went flying around the house and forced her father to take any spare parts away he had been tinkering with from the main areas of the house. She had thankfully made a casserole last night to be reheated that evening, she stirred together a pasta salad, and pulled out a couple of her canned veggies to try to make it better without the use of butter.

She set out the formal dinner set and placed candles about the room. She had finally taken off her apron when she heard the first doorbell ring. People began to slowly trickle in. It was a small party of eight or nine people. It was a couple that had been Papa's friends before she was born, and then Morris and his family. It was always a little tense when Morris was there. She felt he looked at everything to find fault or to judge an expense taken. She tried to ignore him, played with the little children instead and had a happy little sigh when much much later she closed the door to the last of the guests, gave her Papa one last birthday hug and kiss, and went to clean the dishes.

Later that night she finally pulled out the V-paper that was supposed to be used. She had been giving great thought to how she would reply all that day-any moment she could spare from the party planning, anyway. She got out the dark pencil and began to write.

…

It had been a rough few weeks. They had been transporting supplies and moving-always moving. He wasn't high up enough to know what was going on, he just did what he was told, of course, and trained who needed to be trained, transported what needed to be shifted, and walked-walked and walked. His legs ached, he was forever wet and cold, and right this moment he could hear the rain pitter pattering on the tent they were sequestered under. There had been no major battles, that was one plus to life at the moment-small mercies. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine happier things, but he could make no headway. He didn't have much to think of or remember that would be considered pleasant. There were some of the things he had seen, oddities he had witnessed from his travels, and there were adventures where he had survived to remember the moment once it was gone, but that was it. He hoped that this would be one such adventure, but he knew his chances were probably slim. Instead of happy thoughts he just thought of nothing at all, and he succumbed to sleep.

The next day they made it back to where the other officers were and they were at least less wet than they were the day before. Waiting for him was mail. The lass had written him back with not one but two letters. Two letters! What was this? He ignored any smirks from Jeffries and opened the earliest marked letter.

'Dear Corporal Gold,

How very unfortunate for me to choose such a title as 'Nothing Gold can Stay' in my letter, you must forgive me-for I did not know your name at that time. I will say, your response in poem form made me want to allow a very unladylike squeal, for so few of my friends enjoy my bookish ways, that I get excited for anyone who shares even a little love of the written word. My best friend was nearby and I did not want to be teased, so I held back any troublesome noises. Everyone is so full of current events and their ramifications, and I can hardly blame them, but poetry and literature have always been boons during dark days for every time period, in my opinion.

Can you tell me? Were you merely sharing Burns, and specifically about Haggis to simply tell me you are Scottish (and how did you come to be in the US Army?) or do you enjoy other works of Burns as well? What are your favorite tales? Works of literature? I am afraid I could write page upon page of all my favorites.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunate for you?) I am so limited with this paper. I am also needing to retire to bed. I orchestrated my father's birthday dinner (and I will describe none of my domestic activities there, I promise) and it has been dark for a long while already. My brain is too tired to think of some fitting quote or bit of encouraging literature to insert, so I will just end it here.

Thank you for your correspondence,

Your friend,

Belle French'

He folded the letter back up after he had read it a few times and then put it with the first one she had given him. This letter he liked considerably. It made her seem less like a prim little goodie princess and more human. A human that liked poetry and books and got tired from planning birthday dinners (alright, that did sound a bit like the prim princess that he had conjured in his mind). He smiled at the thought of squeals over what he had written, it made him think she might be a wee bit young, though he wasn't sure.

He had been so pleasantly surprised by her even responding that he was eager to open the second envelope.

'Corporel Gold,

I apologize if this is too many letters in succession, but I wanted to send you this letter. More for my own benefit than even yours, which I own is utterly selfish. I normally keep a journal, but the thought of speaking to a friend, even a very new one, was so tempting that I pulled out my letter form and here I am.

The best friend I spoke of in my last letter left for training today-to be a nurse. I do not know when or if I'll ever see her again. I will not dwell on anything too melancholy, I know I must sound like a spoiled brat while you are bravely doing your duty. I find her leaving to be one of those markers that show the ending of my youth and the entrance into adulthood. I keep hoping I've finally made it to adulthood and then something happens in my life, or someone makes a remark that reminds me how far from it I really am.

So I ask that you please forgive any form of naivety that must be as obvious to you as they seem to be to my friends and family. You may roll your eyes and tell me to toughen up and deal with the changes that seem to be increasing at an alarming rate and I can do nothing to stop. I grasp and hold on and beg and plead, yet it all changes despite my efforts. I do this and still want others to recognize that I'm no longer a child-what a conundrum I present! I must 'put away childish things' and try to accept these changes with more grace than I am doing at present.

Ah, Now I've spent this letter wallowing in my own selfishness. Please ignore me and tell me a little about yourself. Thank you for listening to my ramblings, if you even made it this far, I do not begrudge you stopping in exasperation.

Your friend,

Belle French'

The letter, despite her supposed selfishness, increased her appearance of being all things human. It was so personal and made her sound so very close that he could almost imagine her-though he had no good descriptions to help him in his imaginings. She was young, she admitted as much. She had the voice of someone like Cassidy before his battles took all the youth out of him-speaking of said young man…

He looked up from his letter to see Cassidy looking at him with smiling eyes. Ah the enthusiasm and energy of the young. The trek for him was just as strenuous, and the training that they had been put through must have been even harder on him, and yet he sat up and seemed to be biding his time for him to be through. His look was much more respectful than he knew Jeffries would be, but he looked more than curious for all that.

'You got a reply?' It wasn't really a question.

'Aye.'

'And was she what you thought-a kind of what did you call her? A princess?'

Roger chuckled quietly. 'Aye, noo she might be one at that, but I think she might be a nice lass, a genuine one for all of it. She seemed to be pleased that I replied and happy if I continue to reply, so I think I might keep up the correspondence after all.'

And so he decided he needed some more paper.

There was a meeting of the officers to discuss what they would do next, but afterwards, Jeffries had him hang back and they leaned up against the small porch area while Jeffries smoked. Roger had thought about taking up the habit many times, but because it seemed such a social thing to do he had decided against it.

They stood for a while in companionable silence. So much had happened in such a short amount of time. Those you were with day in and day out were sometimes the only reason it felt worth it to keep going. He knew Jeffries felt like he did-responsible. The men under him were his responsibility and he knew he had at least a couple of gray hairs now just from the amount of stress of trying to make sure they stayed alive, not even counting the worry over his own life. He didn't count the worry over his own life. He might be frightened out of his mind with every day he continued on the earth in the war that didn't seem to have an end, and he was more than scared of dying but he didn't count his life as much to be valued. However, sometimes it was nice to stand with someone who knew something about what it was like to be in hell together.

Jeffries couldn't be serious for long, though. Even the silence would be too much for him, though it never bothered Roger. Next thing Roger knew, Jeffries was smirking.

So, I never thought I would see Roger Gold smile, but I saw you do it twice earlier, and you had not one thought on who saw it.'

Roger groaned. He would always be conscious of it now.

'Same girl?'

Roger looked at him with affected annoyance. 'Aye, which ye know quite well, I think.'

'It's alright Gold. It's good to have something to look forward to or enjoy in this-well, this.' They looked out over the darkening landscape. Jeffries said nothing more but implications were there. Something to live for, however small it might be, would help them keep going another day. He knew Jeffries felt the responsibility like he did, and he supposed, now that Jeffries outranked him, that he felt responsible for him. Perhaps the letters were his way of trying to keep him alive for a little longer. They both continued to say nothing, but Roger thought, though he would never say it out loud-that he was thankful for the consideration.

Author's Note:

History stuff:
I am putting Roger in Italy. I've done a lot of reading on where American troops were in Europe at this time ( a great majority were actually in Japan, but I wanted him in Europe, so I've had to do my research from there). There was some headway done by the Allies in July-August of 1943, but no major battles or confrontations until the following year, so I am trying to put some filler things he could be doing during that time, though I know it could very well be an inaccurate description of what was going on. Again, I am doing my best to be accurate, but I know I probably have messed up several different ways.

It was estimated that over 50% of soldiers smoked in WW2, and they did so for social reasons as much as the other reasons one might smoke cigarettes (of course, the health hazards were less known as they are now). Roger isn't the most social person, so I thought he might actually avoid this particular vice because of it.

Story stuff:
Next up we find out why our Scottish soldier is in the US Army! It will be a bit longer than that, when you find out more about Belle's family and how that all works out :)
'put away childish things' comes from the Bible