Flo had written her mother after Gene’s death that she planned to go to Paris to visit her sister Eve who worked as an Army nurse in a hospital there. She may have done so but there is no record of it in her diary or album. Her final three diary entries note that she attended a dance in Epinal on Nov. 1. Then she visited with boys from Gene’s company Nov. 11 and 12. If she traveled to Paris in the meantime, it can’t have been a happy trip, but she would have been glad for comfort from Eve and her ARC friend Janet Tyson, who traveled with her.
The last three entries in Flo’s diary
November 1944 in the Vosges mountains was cold and rainy, presaging a bad winter. In a letter to her mother published in her hometown paper, Flo celebrated the dogface soldiers and chastised Americans and the media in the States for thinking the war was near its end.
Florence Wick Writes
Miss Florence Wick, who is with the American Red Cross in France, writes to her mother:
“Things have slowed down considerably now though, and the boys are having a tough fight. The weather is cold here, and winter looks discouraging in that respect. It rains a lot, which makes it miserable, but we get used to it, and to wading in mud. Every once in a while the sun will come out, and that’s wonderful.
We are up quite far and are serving doughnuts every day, and keeping very busy. It is hard to see these boys come out of the lines dirty, cold, tired and old, but we do have a chance to spread a little cheer before they have to go back again. God bless the ‘dog faces’. They are winning this war mile by mile, and dying too. There is none like them. They are so sick of it all, but they are good soldiers, and everyone at home should appreciate what they are doing and pray for them all daily. They have a very hard fight ahead of them, and in winter, that’s tough.
People at home shouldn’t take the papers too literally–the war is definitely not over yet, and they had better carry on as they have been doing and not relax any effort. I wish they could see their own boys for just one day during combat, or eat the C ration these kids eat, and they wouldn’t talk of an early end to the war.”
Liz Elliott’s drawing illustrates a typical challenge for the clubmobile workers
Even as soldiers were dying all around them, the death of Flo’s fiancé, Gene, on October 28, 1944, came as a horrific shock. In a letter to her mother, Flo wished she could just go home. But she wasn’t a quitter, and she even stayed in Europe through the post-war occupation, returning to the U.S. in March, 1946, nearly a year after the war’s end.
Back home, making her album, she devoted a page to Gene with the obituary from his hometown newspaper, and the poem by Archibald MacLeish, The Young Dead Soldiers. He was buried in a military cemetery in Epinal, France.
A page in Flo’s album
Reading Gene’s obituary gave me a fuller picture of the man. I learned some things:
He was born in a “camp” in Oregon in 1920—probably a lumber camp.
He had one brother serving in the Navy and four sisters back home. He was a jock, sure—but also the editor of his high school newspaper in Clatskanie, Oregon.
Before the Army, Gene had been a union electrician with the Bonneville Power Administration–a working class guy.
His military training was intense—taking him from Washington to Virginia, then on to Massachusetts, North Carolina, and back to Virginia again. He enlisted in October 1941 and was sent overseas in November 1942. A year of preparation for a war he would not return from.
I learned he was wounded during the Sicilian invasion and awarded a Purple Heart, and that official news of his death didn’t reach his family until two weeks later.
Learning these things made Gene feel more real to me—not just as a name in someone else’s story, or a loss recorded in a diary, but as a whole person with a life that mattered. I wish I could’ve met him. In some small way, reading his obituary felt like I did.
Gene’s obituary published in his hometown paper
Local Captain Killed in Action
Eugene Gustafson Killed in France October 28, Says Telegram
“Eugene Gustafson killed in action in France 28 October 1944,” was the contents of a telegram received on November 13th by Mr. and Mrs. Broer Gustafson, concerning their eldest son, who was a captain in the United States army.
Sympathy was extended to the bereaved family over their loss and the toll of the war again strikes in this locality.
Eugene Royal Gustafson was born on March 15, 1920 at Benson Camp located at Firwood. He attended the local schools and graduated from Clatskanie high school with the class of 1938. He took an active part in the activities of the school, playing on the football, basketball and baseball teams of the school. He served on the student council and was editor of the Clatskanie Hi-Lites during his junior year and editor of the annual when a senior.
Entered service in October ‘41
Eugene went into the service on October 7th, 1941 when he reported at Fort Lewis (WA). After three weeks there he went to Fort Belvoir VA. He became a corporal in December and went to cadet school where he was commissioned as 2ndlieutenant on June 24th 1942. He was with the 36th Engineers. After short stays in camp Edwards MA, Fort Bragg NC and Camp Bradford, he was sent to Camp Pickett VA where he was for a few weeks and where he became 1st lieutenant a short while before going overseas in early November 1942. He had been over for two years….
Captain Gustafson received that commission in August at the time of the southern France invasion. He had been commanding officer of his company for 11 months in combat. He took part in the invasion of Casablanca, all the African campaign and was awarded the Purple Heart about one year ago when he was wounded in the Sicilian invasion. He was sent back to Africa and later went to southern France on D-Day in that area. He had been in combat constantly since landing in France, his letter stated.
A letter received from a Red Cross worker that followed his outfit told his parents how well liked Eugene was as commander of his company.
Much could be told of his activities at the war front from his letters and clippings sent home.
He joined the Veterans of Foreign Wars in Italy. He was a member of the electrical union which he joined while working for Bonneville before going into the service.
Among the relatives and a host of friends who grieve at the passing of his promising young man are his parents, four sisters, and one brother, Russell with the Navy at Pearl Harbor. His grandmother, Mrs. Selma Zimmerdahl also lives in Clatskanie.
Of course the “Red Cross worker that followed his outfit” referenced in the obit must have been Flo. I wonder how she felt about being described that way.
Gene’s regimental patch. The seahorse is a nod to their training in amphibious assault and support operations. The red and white colors of the shield represent the Corps of Engineer regimental colors.
In October 1944, after her fiancé Gene was killed, Flo had trouble reaching her mother. The wartime mail system was broken.
This wasn’t just a personal problem—it was widespread. Soldiers on the battlefield were not receiving letters and packages from home. Mail, the lifeline of morale, was piling up undelivered. The men risking their lives for democracy weren’t hearing from their families, and the silence was taking a serious toll.
Flo had noticed the problem early. In letters and diary entries beginning in May 1944, shortly after arriving in Italy, she often mentioned that no mail had come. She didn’t complain—Flo wasn’t a complainer—but she noted it again and again. Others were more vocal. Across the war front, soldiers and Red Cross workers alike were frustrated and bitter. What began as a logistical issue had grown into a morale crisis.
The Army didn’t officially acknowledge the scale of the problem until 1945—by then, millions of letters and packages were sitting in European warehouses, unopened and unsorted.
Then came the 6888th.
Major Charity E. Adams and Captain Mary Kearney inspect members of the 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion in England on February 15, 1945. Photo: National Archives
The 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion—known as the “Six Triple Eight”—was a groundbreaking, all-Black, multi-ethnic unit of the Women’s Army Corps (WAC), led by Major Charity Adams. It was the only Black WAC unit to serve overseas during the war.
Their mission: clear the massive backlog of undelivered mail under grueling conditions and extreme time pressure. They worked in unheated warehouses, with rats nesting among the mailbags, and under constant scrutiny from a military establishment rife with racism and sexism. But they got the job done—sorting and forwarding millions of pieces of mail in record time.
Their work restored something vital: connection. And morale.
The 6888th wouldn’t have existed without the efforts of civil rights leaders. In 1944, Mary McLeod Bethune lobbied First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt to support the deployment of Black women in meaningful overseas roles. Black newspapers across the country demanded that these women be given real responsibility and not sidelined. Eventually, the Army relented.
The women of the 6888th made their mark. Many would later say they were treated with more dignity by Europeans than they had ever experienced in the United States.
If you haven’t seen the Netflix movie The Six Triple Eight, it’s well worth your time.
Back in October 1944, the broken mail system meant heartbreak and silence for Flo. How long did it take for her disconsolate letter to reach her mother? Gerda telegrammed back on November 14—more than two weeks after Gene had died.
Gerda’s radiogram was sent November 14, likely just after she received Flo’s letter.
When did Flo receive Gene’s final letters? She saved the ones he wrote on October 24 and 27, but it seems likely she didn’t get them until after he was gone. He died on October 28, killed by a mortar shell. That same day, Flo wrote in her diary, “Mail from home today.” She didn’t mention anything from Gene.
In his last letters, Gene wrote about his army buddies. He worried about his little sister wanting to marry. He dreamed of peace, and of a life with Flo in the Northwest:
“Back there where the country is rugged and beautiful. Where you can breathe fresh, free air; and fish and hunt to your heart’s content. You know honey, a place where we don’t have to sleep in the mud and cold, and where the shrapnel doesn’t buzz around your ears playing the Purple Heart Blues.”
Even in the chaos of war, he tried to stay lighthearted:
“I’m writing on my knees with a candle supplying the light. I hope you are able to read it. My spelling isn’t improving very much; but with the aid of a dictionary I may improve or at least make my writing legible.”
He hoped Flo had managed a trip to Paris, and that she’d seen her sister and brother-in-law stationed there. He looked forward to getting married:
“Honey I haven’t heard from home on the ring situation yet, but I expect to before long. When I do, I shall let you know right away. I’m hoping we can make it so by xmas, if not before.”
But his letters also reflected the danger he was in:
“It’s very difficult to write a letter on one’s knees, as you probably already know. Ducking shrapnel and trying to write just don’t mix. I do manage to wash and brush my teeth most every day.”
“It’s too ‘hot’ for you to be here. I’ve got some real stories to tell you when I see you next—if I’m not too exhausted. You don’t know how close you’ve been to—I hadn’t better tell you.”
Gene’s voice comes through with vivid clarity, even across 80 years and a broken mail system.
Gene’s letter was posted the day he was killed
That words eventually reached soldiers in the field and their families back home is thanks, in part, to the quiet heroism of the 6888th—who made sure love letters, grief, and hope could still find their way through a war.
I’m finding it so very difficult to tell this story. Thinking about war all the time takes a toll on the psyche.
This morning, before sitting down to write, I went to a protest at the local veterans clinic. We were there to demand an end to cuts to the Veterans Administration. Many of the protesters—like the woman who organized it—are vets themselves. There’s always music at these gatherings: sometimes a live band called Good Trouble, sometimes just a boombox. I usually love to dance, to sing along. But lately, the old anti-war songs catch in my throat.
I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield, Down by the riverside. I ain’t gonna study war no more.
War! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing.
John Lennon singing Give Peace a Chance.
They all make me cry now, and when you’re crying, it’s hard to sing. We’ve been singing these songs for so damn long. All my adult life, since I was a college student protesting the Vietnam War in the 1960s. Flo protested with me. She was a patriot, but her time in Europe changed her. The war turned her against war.
Flo’s Diary Tells the Story
Flo and her crew had just returned from a brief trip to Paris before getting back to work, serving donuts in remote villages. Still hoping to see her fiancé Gene, Flo went to the Third Battalion headquarters. There, a major gave her the news: Gene had been killed by a mortar shell.
“Dear God!” she wrote in her diary.
Those were among the last words she wrote in it. Except for a few brief notes, the rest of her wartime diary is blank. From here on, I have only the letters she saved, and newspaper clippings pasted into her album, to help me tell the rest of her story.
My grandmother, Gerda, saved the letter Flo wrote to her.
Sun. nite Oct. 29
Dearest Mom–
I need you so! I just learned that Gene was killed yesterday at the front–in fact, I was at his battalion headquarters, a short distance back, this afternoon and the major broke the news to me. I can’t believe it; I just saw him a few days ago–before we left for Paris–and everything seemed wonderful. He was hit by a mortar shell and died very quickly. Oh, Mom, I loved him so much–he was so wonderful to me–and so attractive and fine. He was his mother’s favorite and the family “mainstay”–it will break her heart–and mine too. Right now I want to come home and see you–that would help. I had so much faith that this time, things would work out and I am so sure he was the “right” person. I’ve prayed for him and his safety, but war is such an evil thing, prayers don’t help much, I’m afraid.
I’m trying very hard to believe in all the things you taught me, but it certainly is hard. Perhaps now I realize, a little, how you felt when Daddy died, though it isn’t quite the same. Gene had sent home for rings for me and wanted so much to get married and have children–like all these men over here who are fighting and dying every day.
I wish there were a church to go to around here–it would help me, I think. Funny how that is what you need when these things happen. Everything is blank and black ahead right now and the shock has been terrific. Of course it will wear off and I will accept it, but it is very, very hard. I didn’t realize how much he meant until I heard the tragic news, but I am glad we had so many good times and that I made him happy for a few months. You would have loved him, Mom; he was so big and handsome and good to everyone. His boys are heartbroken–the whole battalion was shocked. I have so many friends among the 36th engineers and they are wonderful to me. It doesn’t bring Gene back, tho, and I can’t feel much of anything.
I may go up and see Eve again for a few days; it will help to see her–she was so nice to us girls when we were there.
Am glad you finally got my letters, Mom; it was worrying me that you didn’t hear, but mail service has been perfectly terrible. I hope they all catch up with you soon. Can’t write anymore right now. I’ll try to be brave. Pray for me, Mom.
Love, Florence
Mon. A.M. Forgot to tell you in the excitement that I ran into Janet Tyson in Paris! She drove back with us and we took her to her husband’s camp–his division is right with ours. She dropped by this morning and talked me into going back to Paris for a few days to be with her and Eve. I don’t know what is best, but I’m on my way there and may feel better.
I read the second chapter of Timothy and thought of Gene where it says “I have fought the good fight”–he certainly did! I am trying to draw on those “inner resources” but it is so hard and I shall miss him so much. Write me.
All my love, Florence
Susan Jenson remembered her mother Janet saying, “Flo, like the rest of them, suffered loss. So sad to finally find Gene—only to lose him.”
Paris—cultural capital of the world—was a dream destination, even in wartime. Everyone in Flo’s Red Cross crew wanted to see it. They’d heard about the food, the fashion, the grandeur. Who wouldn’t want a taste of it, especially after months of mud, cold, and war?
Liz Elliott’s drawing
In October 1944, Flo and her crew made the trip. It’s unclear why they chose to go just then—or why they stayed only two days—but they made the harrowing drive from the Vosges. Though the route avoided the front lines, it was still far from safe.
According to Flo’s diary, they left at 6 a.m. and got a flat tire in Épinal. Luckily, the 77th Ordnance gave them a new tire—and breakfast. “Trip long, but successful,” she wrote. Successful how? I can’t help but wonder if this was the trip my cousin later referred to—when Flo supposedly went to Paris for an abortion.
The group’s main stop was the 203rd Army Hospital, about 15 miles outside the city, where Flo’s sister Eve was working as a nurse. Flo noted that they found the hospital easily and spent the night there. Eve, on night duty, didn’t appear until around 7 p.m.
Flo’s diary
The next day, they went into Paris. “Simply wonderful,” Flo wrote. “Shopped for 2 hours. Things nice but expensive.” She also had a perm done “on post—very good.” But I wonder—was that all she had done that day?
After my mother died, I asked her sister Eve about the abortion story. Eve said she didn’t know anything about it. But she recalled that Flo once told her she’d miscarried while lifting heavy equipment. The original story came from their other sister, Ruth—who, according to her daughter, had been sworn to secrecy. It’s possible Flo never told Eve, perhaps fearing she couldn’t keep the secret.
Still, from the diary it seems Flo and Eve spent most of that day together, which makes it hard to imagine that Flo had a medical procedure without Eve noticing. That night, she wrote, “Eve and I very sleepy. To bed at 1 a.m.”
The following afternoon, Flo returned to the city with “gals and nurses.” They shopped again, bought gifts, and enjoyed themselves. “Leaving in am. Hate to,” she wrote.
She also noted, “Bob not back from England.” That was Eve’s husband, also in the military.
Flo did return to Paris later, so perhaps the abortion took place on a different trip. Maybe this one really was just for sightseeing, shopping, and a little time with her sister. Or maybe it was something more—something she chose never to write down.
October, 1944.The four-woman crew gets to work, Flo sees Gene before his company goes in the lines, clubmobilers get up near the front lines and they move to a new camp.
Flo’s diary (pinch out to read)
A note here about the challenge of research: In 1973, a fire at the National Personnel Records Center (NPRC) destroyed 16-18 million official military personnel files. Among them were the archived records of the Clubmobile program, making modern-day research into these women’s service difficult.
From Flo’s album
One helpful resource is The Clubmobile—The ARC in the Storm: A Personal History of and by the Clubmobilers in the European Theater of War During WWII, compiled by Marjorie Lee Morgan. The book includes interviews, diary entries, and photographs. But it focuses solely on the European Theater and omits those who served in the North African and Italian Theaters—even though many of those women, like my mother, also served in France, Germany, and Austria. And these women were the first to enter France and Europe. The book even includes a list of clubmobilers, but no names from the North African/Italian Theater appear, except Forence Wick on the inactive list.
With help from my brother Don, I was able to find some information on Janet Potts and even contacted her daughter. But so far, we’ve found nothing definitive about Fritzie Hoglund (or possibly Hoagland). A newspaper clipping pasted into Flo’s album says Fritzie was from Berkeley, California.
Janet Jenson (née Potts)
Born in New Rochelle, New York, Janet graduated from the Brearley School, attended Barnard and Columbia, and joined the Red Cross in 1944. An accomplished equestrian, she rode in a Third Division “rodeo” at the end of the war.
Janet was one of eight sisters—three of whom served in the Red Cross during the war. Janet was the only one who went to Europe, while the two others served in the South Pacific.
She married Lloyd Jenson in 1946 and had two daughters. Her daughter Susan Jenson told me that Janet often spoke of Flo and that her mother also made a wartime album, which she plans to go through.
Janet’s daughter wrote, “I personally think there’s far too much focus on donuts in the way the clubmobilers’ work is remembered. These women were brave and generous souls who took on a difficult and emotionally demanding role, offering comfort to exhausted and traumatized troops. As my mother often said, the French sometimes mistook them for camp followers—a euphemism for prostitutes. They had no idea what these women were really doing. But for many soldiers, these were the last warm smiles they ever saw.
“Janet always had kind things to say about Flo. I can imagine the two of them together in a jeep, laughing. It was an adventure—but also full of heartbreak.”
Janet died in 2011, in Denver at age 96.
Liz, Flo, Fritzie and Janet (in clubmobile)
The new four-woman crew slept in the clubmobile. Flo wrote in her diary, “It was fun, but very crowded.” Later, they were issued a tent and new cots.
At one point, Flo’s fiance Gene came down from Docelles and surprised her. “Went out to a movie with him,” she wrote. She saw him again on October 19. Then on October 20: “Last night with Gene—co. going in lines. Sat in front of fireplace at Docelles.” The next day in a free afternoon, she drove back to Docelles maybe with the hope of seeing him one last time. She wrote: “Gene gone. Spent night at ‘home.’”
The following morning, Flo and the crew spent hours loading and moving supplies—the clubmobile was relocating to an area near Épinal.
October 1944. Flo’s diary is blank from October 2 to October 7, 1944. There’s no way to know what happened during that time, but there are clues. My cousin told me that at some point during the war Flo went to Paris for an abortion. I wrote about it here: https://mollymartin.blog/2022/04/16/solving-a-wwii-era-mystery/. The city had been liberated in late August and it would have been possible for Flo to travel there and back in five days. Flo stayed in touch with her sister, Eve, who was serving as an Army nurse in a Paris hospital. Eve told me that Flo had also suffered a miscarriage while hauling heavy equipment. Flo never wrote about any of it in her diary, and she never spoke of it later. But whatever happened during that week, it was serious enough to stop her from writing altogether.
Flo’s diary (pinch out to read)
By October 8, Flo and Liz were back in action, serving hundreds of donuts to American troops every day. They had moved from Remiremont to nearby Saint-Nabord, a grim, war-torn area where they now lived in their clubmobile. One day they drove to Luxeuil for photos. Another day they served the replacement depot while a military band played. And then they bounced across a pontoon bridge into Saint-Amé, until their battered old sedan gave out. The clutch snapped halfway over the bridge and couldn’t be repaired.
During this time, they served the 15th Infantry—Audie Murphy’s unit—a couple of times. The men were quiet, polite, exhausted. After some hard battles, the 15th was finally getting a little rest. But Murphy was not among them. He had been wounded in the fight for Cleurie Quarry. At the aid station, he learned that nearly his whole platoon had been wiped out the night before. Because of the rain and mud, the wounded men could not be evacuated for three days. At the hospital Murphy learned gangrene had resulted. He would be out of commission until January.
In breaks from battle, the army handed out medals. The Third Division took home more than any other. This would be Murphy’s third purple heart.
Flo was able to see her fiancé Gene occasionally, as his unit, the 36th combat engineers, was stationed nearby. They met for church, a dance and meals at his camp. They planned to marry by Christmas and he had ordered rings for them.
Form letter asking for permission to marry
On October 1, Flo sent a formal request to William Stevenson at Red Cross headquarters for permission to marry Gene. The form letter says,
“If permission is granted, it will be predicated on the sole understanding that it will in no way interfere with my responsibilities to Red Cross and that I will carry on my obligation to the organization. I shall gladly carry out my duties wherever the organization may ask me to serve and I will not request transfers within the theater or elsewhere because of my desire to be with or near Capt. Gustafson.”
In her accompanying letter, Flo had again managed to put her writing skill into practice. Whatever she wrote convinced the ARC. She received permission to marry in a warm letter from Eleanor “Elly” Parker, Director of Staff Welfare, dated October 23.
She wrote, “Thanks very much for your nice letter and I feel much more comfy issuing your marriage approval after having your explanation of exactly what is happening….You sound well surrounded by friends and family in France and I am glad you enjoy being there….I imagine that you are terribly busy and very hard at work under pretty trying cricumstances….
Permission granted and our shoes are boring (sorry)
Apparently Flo also had asked about getting some shoes after her nice shoes were stolen in Italy. But Elly Parker wrote that all they have at the PX are “regular black Red Cross shoes.” Not exactly what Flo, a lifelong shoe queen, had in mind.
On October 12, German planes flew overhead. Everyone looked up at the roar, held their breath as the anti-aircraft fire opened up—and missed.
Late September, 1944. Flo and Liz were back on duty, serving donuts to soldiers rotating off the front lines and into rest camps. They were supported by a crew of “donut boys,” who pitched a tent that housed the donut making machines. The men were regular soldiers assigned to special service units. They tended the equipment and made donuts. Some of the temporary attachments to the donut detail were soldiers in need of limited duty and sometimes Medal of Honor recipients waiting for reassignment.
Flo and Liz with the donut making crew Joe Fronek, head donut boywith dog TC
Once the fresh donuts were ready, they were packed into the clubmobile—or whatever vehicle was available—and the women drove them out to towns and camps where they set up a serving line. They made stops in Faucogney, Luxeuil-les-Bains, Remiremont, St. Nabord, and rest camps across the region.
Joe Fronek painting the ARC logoDo ut boys making donuts
Flo noted in her diary that she and Liz had taken a rare break: “Went into Luxeuil for bath in Thermis house. Wonderful.” In the 1940s, many European towns still operated communal bathhouses, a tradition that faded with the rise of private bathrooms but has seen a modern revival—especially in Germany.
Coffee in bed?Feeding the unit’s pet monkey
One day brought a welcome surprise: a letter from Flo’s fiancé, Gene. Grateful to the APO for delivering it, she made them a batch of fudge. That evening, she wrote, “Gene came out to area tonite and surprised me. He’s up about 20 min.” The next day, she simply noted: “(date with Gene).”
QM at the railroad stationOne of the many rest camps
News arrived that the rest of their original crew, Jingles and Dottie, wouldn’t be returning. For now, it was just Flo and Liz. They were mostly sleeping in the clubmobile, though occasionally they stayed with French families. Flo continued to meticulously record the military units they served.
Flo’s diary September 25-October 2, 1944 (pinch out to read)
Flo and Liz with Gen. O’Daniel
At one event, Flo wrote, “Gen. O’Daniel spoke, also greeted us.” General John “Iron Mike” O’Daniel, commander of the Third Infantry Division, led his troops from the beaches of Anzio through France and Germany, and into Austria. Admired by his men, he was rarely far from the front and was known for his hands-on leadership in battle. Unlike some other army commanders, he appreciated the Red Cross clubmobilers.
After living in tents for the summer of 1944 at a training camp for the Third Infantry Division in Italy, the American Red Cross clubmobile workers made it to France. They scrambled to catch up with the fast moving war and their boys in the front lines.
Flo (my mother, Florence Wick) and her coworker Liz Elliott traveled north from southern France trying to get to a place where they could go back to work serving donuts and coffee to the troops.
Flo captioned this “Lizzie’s sketches of ‘Life of a Donut Gal in France’“
They had been a crew of four, but Isabella Hughes and Dottie Shands stayed in Marseille. They expect to join Flo and Liz, but for the time being Flo and Liz are a crew of two living mostly in the clubmobile. Frequent rain has turned roads and fields to muddy sludge.
Liz and Flo and the clubmobile they lived in
They were originally assigned to the Third Division, but after a major evicted them, they moved in with the 6th Corps artillery unit near Vesoul for a time. Then they were allowed back in to the division as three regimental rest camps were opened.
Flo has met up with her fiancé Gene several times and she corresponds with him through the APO mail, although she complains often in her diary of “no mail.” He is with the 36th Engineers, the crew that rebuilds bombed out bridges and roads. But they are also forced into combat when foot soldiers are needed.
September 19-24 Flo’s diary (pinch out to read)
“Good to be back at work,” wrote Flo in her diary, after the Red Cross women had been allowed back into the Third Division.
“Gene way up on lines. No mail.”
“Served 30th Inf. Rest camp & 3rd Div band. Boys tired. Fun with band.”
Flo working in the field
On Sept. 21 she wrote, “ Served co. of 756 tank Bn. They had hard luck—several lost in Bn.”
Sept. 22: “Served in same area with many other div. Still no word from Gene. Jerry planes over town. Quite exciting.”
Sept. 24: “Served 1st Bn of 15th up in next town. Raining hard…dinner at 15th C.P.”
This is Audie Murphy’s unit and must be where they met. He remembered Flo served him donuts somewhere in France.
My three younger brothers and I all listened to our mother’s stories about the war and her two years as a Red Cross clubmobile worker in Europe. Of course, we each have different memories of her tales. I don’t remember her telling about the first time she tasted eggplant, but my brother Don does. I asked him to write about what he remembers. Here is his story.
Don Martin Remembers
2022. Recently my sister decided to start using emojis in her text messages. She is in her mid-70s and is not particularly a maven of popular culture, so her understanding of this youth-driven vernacular is limited. How do old people like us decipher the coded meanings of subtle facial expressions or the specific colours of hearts, for example? I try to keep up on these things, but I don’t pretend to understand the nuances. One day, however, she sent me a text with a string of eggplant emojis and I was confused.
“Molly, do you know what an eggplant emoji means?” I asked.
“Doesn’t it just mean eggplant? I like eggplants.”
“Oh, dear. I hope you aren’t sending eggplant emojis out indiscriminately. You really should google these things first.”
“I need to google emojis? So, what does it mean?”
I explained that the eggplant is now commonly used in sexting to represent male genitalia. To which she howled with laughter. But it started a whole conversation between us, (mostly about eggplants). I recounted a memory of the first time our mother prepared this berry of the nightshade family for dinner.
It was the summer of 1959. Molly had just turned ten years old. I was seven. We lived in the all-white suburbs of a moderately-sized farming community in central Washington state. Our neighbourhood was like the little boxes on the hillside described by Malvina Reynolds in her song about ticky tacky post-war American life. The low-slung houses were close together and we were close to the families next door most with children our age. Our backyards were still unfenced so we kids had a block-long grassy playing field. The moms chatted as they hung their laundry out to dry in the desert air and the dads planned fishing trips over bottles of beer.
I remember we had a concrete patio off the back stoop large enough to accommodate a picnic table, a set of lawn chairs, and a charcoal barbeque. The table had a hole in the middle for an umbrella that provided shade on blazing summer afternoons. For this particular dinner Mom decided to cook outside. I remember she had a small prep table with a cutting board, two shallow bowls and the big square electric frying pan she used for nearly everything. I think Dad was grilling hamburgers or chicken, the aromas of which enticed the Yaden kids to come over and see what we were having.
On the patio in Yakima about 1955. Don (L) Molly (R), Tim on Dad’s lap
The Martins had always been a very meat-and-potatoes kind of family. Vegetables in our diet were limited to canned green beans and creamed corn. Sure, we had fresh tomatoes and cucumbers in the summer, but never had we eaten something as exotic as an eggplant. You didn’t see it in regular grocery stores back then. Too ethnic I guess. I’m not sure where Mom found it, maybe at one of the roadside vegetable stands run by Italian farmers in the Valley.
I loved to help mom cook, so when I saw her bringing the rest of the food out to the patio I left the other kids and ran over. The Yaden twins followed.
“What is that?” screamed Susan Yaden pointing at the large purple thing on the cutting board.
“That is an eggplant,” mom said. “We’re going to try something I had for the first time many years ago in France.”
“Ew,” giggled Susan’s sister Janet, and they both ran off.
I, too, was a little scared, but intrigued. I asked what I could do to help. As Mom peeled the eggplant and sliced it into half-inch rounds, she had me beat two eggs in one bowl. The other bowl was filled with cracker crumbs. She showed me how to dip the slices in the eggwash and coat both sides with the crumbs. Then she fried them in batches until they were golden brown.
“This is how a family I stayed with in France taught me to fix eggplant,” Mom explained. “I’d never eaten it before either.” She looked up from the sizzling slices and stared wistfully into the distance. “It was when I was in the Red Cross, sweetie, during the war. The other doughnut gals and I were driving north to catch up with the army and we had almost no food with us. We decided to stop at a farm house and ask for an egg or a little bread. Of course, we would pay them for it because we knew they probably didn’t have much food either.”
I brought her attention back to the present. “Mom, It think it might be time to turn them over. They look pretty brown,” I advised, still listening intently.
“Yes. There. Don’t they look good? Crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle.” She was deep in thought for a minute or two. “The French people were so happy to see us because they knew it meant the war might be over soon. This family made us a wonderful dinner and let us sleep there that night. It’s one of my fondest memories of that horrible time. Okay call your brothers and sister over. I think everything is ready.”
That is how I was introduced to eggplant. The vegetable. I can’t remember if everybody liked it, but Molly and I did. I remember feeling very sophisticated and a little closer to Mom.
tradeswomn musings 