Category: Uncategorized

Born in Oregon, Buried in France

Remembering Eugene Gustafson

My Mother and Audie Murphy Ch. 44

To return to the start of this series, My Mother and Audie Murphy: https://mollymartin.blog/2024/11/04/my-mother-and-audie-murphy/

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. 


Ch. 45: https://mollymartin.blog/2025/08/06/a-cold-rainy-november/

Celebrating Girlfriends

Marriage Equality Day in the Castro June 26, 2013

My Regular Pagan Holiday Post

National Girlfriends Day — August 1

August 1 marks the traditional Celtic holiday of Lammas, the first harvest festival on the pagan Wheel of the Year. According to the National Day Calendar, August 1 is also National Girlfriends Day. Judging by the ads, it might seem like a holiday invented to sell wine glasses and diet aids, but I plan to celebrate it anyway.

What does “girlfriend” mean in lesbianland?

In lesbianland, the word girlfriend carries a lot of weight, and a lot of meanings. It can refer to a platonic friend, a lover, or something in between. Back in the day, it usually meant lover. There simply weren’t enough words to describe us dykes or the nuanced ways we related to each other. For a while, we adopted partner, but that often got confused with business partner. 

Girlfriends for 40 years, my friends Char and Eileen finally got to be wives.

Very few of us used the word wife, and I never liked it.

As a budding feminist, I wanted no part of marriage. Wives, in my mind, were helpmeets, baby factories, second-class citizens. Property. In some states, it was still legal to kill your wife for adultery. Spousal rape wasn’t outlawed. Until 1974, women in the U.S. couldn’t even get credit in our own names. Before that, we had to depend on husbands. 

The feminist movement changed all that. But I still never wanted to be a wife.

Girlfriend. Partner. Wife. Spouse.

Some lesbian couples still use the term girlfriend. They let their friends know they don’t like the term wife and don’t use it to refer to each other. Others in my Boomer generation have come up with alternatives. One couple calls each other spouse and spice.

But I’ve become a wife convert.

I’ve been married twice. Maybe three times.

My ex, Barb, and I went to Vermont after it became the first state to legalize same-sex civil unions in 2000. But in 2004, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom opened the doors to same-sex marriage. Thousands of couples–ourselves included–flocked to City Hall. Even though it wasn’t yet legal at the state or federal level, it felt revolutionary. Queer couples, dressed in their finest, stood in line all day in the rain, in the sun, waiting for a marriage license. Bouquets, cakes and good wishes arrived from around the country. The whole city felt like a wedding party. As City workers, Barb and I even got trained to be wedding officials ourselves. A lovely gender-free ceremony was provided.

Barb and I first got married at a park in Vermont. With witnesses Jen and Michelle

Barb, then the San Francisco fire marshal, arranged for the SFFD chief, Joanne Hayes-White, to officiate our wedding in City Hall. In every room, in every hallway, people were saying vows. It was beautiful chaos. 

As we walked through the metal detectors and the guard called me “sir,” I turned to Barb and said, “Well, I guess I get to be the husband.”

That was not fair. With her crew cut, she got misgendered as often as I did. Neither of us really wanted to be a wife. But in this country, being legally married means access to health insurance, tax benefits, hospital visits, and death benefits. There were–and still are–good reasons to marry. 

The road to legal gay marriage was long and convoluted, culminating with the 2015 landmark civil rights case Obergefell v. Hodges. But in 2013, United States v. Windsor overturned key parts of the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), reinstating same-sex marriage in California. (Thank you, Edie Windsor!) By then, Barb and I had broken up. But because of legal limbo, we hadn’t been able to divorce. When the Supreme Court’s decision came down, we all ran to the Castro to celebrate. People held signs that said “Freedom to Marry.” For us, it was also the freedom to divorce.

And then came Holly

Holly and I celebrating on Marriage Equality Day at Harvey’s (named after Harvey Milk)

Holly and I were married on April 19, 2014, at Muir Beach–the site of our first date. The wedding was officiated by our gay cousin Richard, dressed in the robes of his Episcopal priest friend who had been defrocked for gayness. Witnesses were my brother Don and his husband John.

I love introducing Holly as my wife. It’s a simple, meaningful word. A word I once rejected. And, frankly, it helps when talking to straight people, and still sometimes provides a bit of shock value. Everyone knows what wife means.

Brother Don, Richard, Holly, me and John jump for joy at our Muir Beach wedding

Oh, and for the record, we introduced our exes to each other. They got married too.

How to describe our relationships with each other? We call ourselves Exes and Besties. But you could call us a gaggle of girlfriends.

Happy National Girlfriends Day to all!

He Was So Fine

Flo’s fiancé Gene is killed in action

My Mother and Audie Murphy Ch. 42

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.”

Ch. 43: https://mollymartin.blog/2025/07/27/black-women-save-the-us-army/

Two New Women Join the Clubmobile Crew: Janet Potts and Fritzie Hoglund

My Mother and Audie Murphy Ch. 40

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.

Ch. 41: https://mollymartin.blog/2025/07/20/the-clubmobile-crew-goes-to-paris/

Flo and Gene Permitted to Marry

Murphy gets hit, Flo takes a break

My Mother and Audie Murphy Ch. 39

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. 

Ch. 40: https://mollymartin.blog/2025/07/17/two-new-women-join-the-clubmobile-crew-janet-potts-and-fritzie-hoglund/

Prelude to Another Grim Winter

Which of us will be alive when the new leaves return

My Mother and Audie Murphy Ch. 35

Late September, 1944. Murphy has been wounded in a mortar attack. From his autobiography To Hell and Back:

After a few days in the hospital, Murphy gets a new pair of shoes and returns to the lines. It is late September, and drizzly rains sweep over the hilly, wooded country they are moving through. Keeping warm at night has already become a problem.

Foot soldiers marching through a French town. Photo: Dogface soldiers collection

The leaves have begun to turn. Gold and red flare sharply against the dark evergreens, and the camouflage crews start mixing new paint to match the changing colors of the forest. It is the prelude to another long, grim winter.

The men plod up the wet roads doggedly, each one wondering, however vaguely, who among them will still be alive when new leaves return to the trees. The Germans fall back stubbornly but steadily. Yet each day their resistance stiffens, their retreats shorten. As the enemy forces withdraw toward the fortified positions of the Vosges Mountains, they lash back with fierce counterattacks. Murphy’s regiment is on the threshold of some of its hardest fighting of the war.

One morning, as a chilled, misty dawn spreads across the landscape, the men wait for the signal to assault a hill known only by a number. Artillery pounds the ridge in a steady barrage. They lie on their backs, shivering in the growing gray light.

Tank destroyers of the 601st TD Battalion move through Lons-le-Saunier in pursuit of the retreating enemy. Photo: Dogface soldiers collection.

Near Murphy, a sergeant checks a .50-caliber machine gun set in a deep, round emplacement ringed with sandbags. The weapon, stationary for now, will cover the advance, and if needed, the retreat. Satisfied with the gun’s readiness, the sergeant leans back on his elbows. Drops of water cling to his mop of wavy black hair. He is an extraordinarily handsome man, with fine features and broad shoulders—exactly the sort a Hollywood producer might cast as a soldier. Among the troops, a man like that is instantly labeled a lady-killer.

A cannon booms from the rear. The men hear its projectile flutter through the air with an odd, hesitant wobble, as if reluctant to plow into the cold earth. To experienced ears, that sound signals a defective shell—one that might explode anywhere. Murphy shouts for his men to get down and hits the dirt just before the crash comes.

The blast feels as though it lands directly on top of them. When silence follows, he mentally checks each part of his body for the burning sting of a wound. Finding none, he rises to his feet. The new men shakily pat their clothing, searching for blood. He knows the feeling well—only the uninitiated are shocked that a shell could land so close without killing everyone in its path.

Photo: Dogface Soldiers collection

Murphy glances toward the machine-gun pit. The sergeant still reclines where he was, but another soldier is twisting a tourniquet around his leg. The sergeant’s left foot has been sheared off neatly above the shoe top. His face shows no panic, no pain. He lights a cigarette with steady hands and draws calmly on it.

Then his eyes close, his face tightens, and the pain finally hits.

Ch.36: https://mollymartin.blog/2025/06/29/slinging-donuts-in-french-towns/

Flo and Liz a Crew of Two

Where are they now? A recap

My Mother and Audie Murphy Ch. 34

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.

Ch. 35: https://mollymartin.blog/2025/06/24/prelude-to-another-grim-winter/

Return to Ch. 1: https://mollymartin.blog/2024/11/04/my-mother-and-audie-murphy/

Catching Up to the 3rd Division

Flo and Liz Get Too Close to the Front Lines

My Mother and Audie Murphy Ch. 32

The war was moving north fast, and the Red Cross personnel had to move fast to catch up. Isabella and Dottie had stayed in Marseilles, so Flo and Liz were on their own. They snagged a car, driving from Aix-en-Provence to Grenoble, and on to the QM area near Quingey, just south of the town of Besançon. Flo wrote, “Should not have come up, but Bill let us stay.” 

I think she is saying they are too close to the front lines. Bill is probably Bill Shay, whose photo is pasted in the album titled Bill Shay ARC, maybe their boss. In letters and interviews, the clubmobilers complained that their ARC bosses were of little help. The women were generally tasked with figuring things out on their own.

Bill Shay ARC

Flo also noted, “Moved same evening to area beyond town. Liz and Bill came late, so slept in Major Goodwin’s bedroll.”

That might be the theme of Liz’s drawing.

Liz’s drawings of clubmobile life are pasted throughout Flo’s album

The next day, Sept. 10, Flo wrote, “Shopped in Quingey for pans to cook for boys. Saw 36th Div. gals. Slept under trailer tarp. Very comfortable. Cooked for donut crew.”

On Monday, Sept. 11 she wrote: “Moved near Besancon. Put up pyramidal tent (full of holes). Saw Frank Gates.”

(Gates is the ARC man who took them to Rome on the amphib jeep June 5. That seems to long ago!)

“(Gates) didn’t like our being around. Liz and I spent night under tarp with (donut making) machines. Made hot choc. For us all.

Flo’s diary

Sept. 12, Flo wrote, “Slept in tent on our German stretchers. Ord. gave us two cars—sedan & Ger. Jeep. Saw 36th E in town…” She doesn’t mention that she saw her fiance, Gene, who was with the 36th Engineers.

Sept. 13. Raining. “Spent wet night. Had fried chicken. Very good. Liz is KP & Flo is mess sgt.”

Sept. 14. “Frank Gates says Maj. Basilla wants us to get out, so we moved up to 6th Corps artillery unit.”

It seems like this means that Major Basilla was kicking them out of the Third Division. Some of the commanding officers were opposed to having the clubmobilers near the army. Gen. Mark Clark had been their advocate and protector in the beginning, but he was no longer there.

She wrote: “Spent night in French summer home. Wonderful beds. Both of us blue & orphans.”

Friday, Sept. 15 Flo wrote, “Left for Vesoul w/6th Corps artillery. Moved into small inn in Villers de Sac with Liz. Wonderful beds & kitchen to cook meals in. Fun. Drove down to QM in Ger. Jeep.

Sept. 16. “Cooking for 6th Corps donut gang. Madame Susan good to us. Fried 3 chickens & cut ‘em up myself. 11 for dinner. Danced in inn to phono. Raining hard.”

Liz and Flo plucking French chickens

Flo was very proud of herself for cutting up chicken and cooking meals. She had never been a cook. At home, she had worked at a job and her mother had done all the cooking. From the notes in her diary, it seems like she was getting in to her domestic side.

Ch. 33: https://mollymartin.blog/?p=4213

The Hairy Truth

Beards and Bushes and Leg Hair
Inspired by a photo of Cathy Cade.

It was 1967, and I was a freshman at Washington State University, living in the dorms—tiny rooms where two people shared a space roughly the size of a generous closet. Once you pulled the beds out from the wall, you had about six inches of precious real estate between them. Cozy!

The bathrooms were shared among all the women on the floor. There was a communal bathtub where I’d perch, shaving my legs with a double-edged razor and a bar of soap. I hated it. I hated the shaving, I hated the blood, the injuries, the boxes of band aids needed for cuts. I’m pretty sure I clogged the drain more than once.

This was before the feminist movement really revved up, but some baby rebel deep inside me was already stretching her hairy legs. I decided to stop shaving. In fact, I committed to it scientifically—I posted a chart on the door of my dorm room and recorded the weekly growth of my leg hair. 

What did my floormates think? I imagine they thought I was completely out of my mind. No one said much of anything, which either means they were too stunned to speak or too polite to comment on the inch-long leg hair I proudly tracked like it was a science fair project. Either way, I felt free. No more razors. No more blood. No more pretending to be a hairless woodland creature.

Later, in a collective house with three other dykes, we turned body hair into a competitive sport. Who had the hairiest legs and the most luxuriant bush? Our favorite outfit was just a vest. That’s it. No pants. No shirt. Just full-frontal follicular glory. Sadly, despite my natural abundance, I was not the hairiest. Mahaney’s glorious blond leg hair made her look like she was wearing angora leggings. 

Years later, in another act of feminist rebellion, I ditched the bra. My breasts are ample and gravity is real, but so is back pain. Bras hurt my shoulders, and every one I tried felt like medieval armor built by men who’d never met an actual woman. At first, going braless felt like I was walking around topless at a PTA meeting. But eventually, I got used to the freedom—and the bouncing and the sweaty undertits.

Cathy Cade archives via The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley. (CC BY-NC 4.0)

Then recently, inspired by a New York Times obituary photo of the celebrated bearded dyke photographer Cathy Cade, I decided: it’s beard time. I’d never grown one before, though I’d thought about it. My chin hair was never cute, but now that it’s gone gray, it’s looking rather distinguished. Professor Dumbledore meets anarchist grandma.

I asked my wife what she thought. Her response—paraphrased for the sake of civility—was essentially: “If you grow a beard, I will disown you, move to another state, and possibly enter witness protection.” She was not a fan.

But of course, that only made me want it more.

Now it’s grown in, and it’s introduced me to a whole new world. It came in at odd angles, curly, wiry, determined to defy gravity. One side’s a little fuller than the other, probably because I got electrolysis in the ’90s when I still cared what strangers thought. Regrets? Maybe. I could have had a resplendent full beard by now.

Still, I love playing with it. I twirl it, stroke it, and now completely understand why men do that—it’s like a built-in fidget toy. Plus, it moves in the wind. My chin hair dances! Who knew?

So far I’ve gotten no positive reactions to my beard. I thought men might appreciate it, so I asked two old man friends for their opinions. One said, “Cut it off.” The other said, “Trim it.” Translation: “We hate it.”

The best, most diplomatic, reaction I’ve gotten was, “It’s not something I would choose.” Ouch. One woman told me, “I pluck mine.” Been there. Plucking is a full-time job, and I’m on permanent vacation.

Then at an Old Lesbians retreat I met another bearded woman. A sister! She has been rocking facial hair for years. I asked what bosses and parents thought. She said her family had taken it in stride. Her mother didn’t mind the beard, but she insisted my friend wear a bra when she visited back home. Her boss at a medical facility had been a gay leather man who’d protected her from the higher ups. 

There’s this fantastic TikTok group started by a Black woman for menopausal and post-menopausal women—listing all the things we no longer give a damn about: bras, makeup, body hair, expectations, decorum, patriarchy. I’m joining. I might even get the vest out again.