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© 2008 Teresa Funke

Books - Dancing in Combat Boots

author's note   excerpts   buy

When the going got tough during World War II, America's women got going. By the millions, housewives and mothers took off their aprons and stepped into factories, offices, hospitals—anywhere capable hands were needed to replace those of the husbands and sons now battling overseas.

The eleven fictional stories in this remarkable collection are based on real women whose experiences were at once typical and extraordinary. Irene bucks rivets in an aircraft factory while Doris learns to pilot military planes. Marjorie survives the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor while Jean spends three years under guard in a Japanese internment camp. Lucy joins the segregated Women's Army Corp and Kathryn joins the Red Cross—shipping off to the front lines where she dances in combat boots with American GIs.

From the topsy-turvy days following Pearl Harbor, through four long years of hardship, to the post-war campaigns to put women back in their place, these stories reveal the many facets of women's lives as they gave their all for the war effort.

Author's Note

Dancing in Combat Boots was a labor of love! Eight years in the making, it grew out of the research I did for my first novel, Remember Wake. While I researching that story, I found gaps in the information available about everyday life for American women during WWII. Oh there were plenty of details about the technicalities of their lives, like dealing with rationing or raising Victory Gardens, but I couldn’t get a good sense of how they felt about the roles they played, nor could I guess whether or not they knew how pivotal their experiences would become. So I set out to track down women whose experiences were at once typical and extraordinary. I then took the best parts of their stories and wove them into the lives of my fictional characters. Each story in Dancing in Combat Boots is based on an actual woman and to the best of my ability, I’ve stuck to the memories they shared. More than anything else, I hope this books honors and celebrates our mothers and grandmothers, the women of World War II.

Excerpts

From the story - Dancing in Combat Boots

    In Kathryn's dream, Le Havre is awash in moonlight, nothing but steel forms of what had once been a city. She'd entered France at that coastal village a month earlier. Though it had not been her first taste of war, for some reason, it is how the war has now come to hold shape in her mind: that burned-out city, bombed first by the Germans from land and then by the Americans from the air.
    She wakes in the French bricklayer's house in Dijon, where she's billeted, still thinking she can hear the minesweeper detonating mines in the Channel. She lays very still, conserving heat and energy, looking for patterns in the frost decorating the inside of the window and thinking about Le Havre. It helps sometimes to remember what she's been through, what she's survived, as if the memories mark steps already taken on a long journey home. It is November, 1944.
    Across the tiny room, Esther stirs, burrowing deeper into her covers. She and Kathryn had been two of the first Red Cross women to arrive in France, and a dance had been held in their honor. They'd worn regulation slacks, blue-grey wool Eisenhower jackets and combat boots with stiff, high cuffs. By the end of the evening, the cuffs had turned their ankles bloody, but the dancing had kept them warm. Tonight they faced another long night of dancing, this time at the Christmas party at the club. Kathryn had suggested a nap might renew their energy, never imagining how much she'd want to go on sleeping.
    "Do you know, Esther," Kathryn says with a yawn, "they say this is the coldest, snowiest winter Europe has seen in fifty years?"
    "And for this I left Phoenix . . . Hey, Merry Christmas, Kat."
    "Not quite yet."
    "Well, Christmas Eve is the day that matters to my family," Esther explains. "It's when everyone travels to my mother's house, when the big meal is served, when Santa arrives."
    Kathryn reflects on her parents and siblings. How far away they seem, not just in distance and time, but now also in experience. She starts to tell Esther about her family's traditions, but stops. After months of repeating her stories to soldier after soldier, she is sick of her own past. Sometimes she isn't even sure the stories are hers. The more she tells them, the more they seem to belong to someone else.
    "I wish they'd let us grow our hair past our collars. It would keep us warmer," Esther says. "I know it sounds vain, but I used to consider my hair my best feature."
    Kathryn always believed her best feature was her long neck until she realized it was not something men noticed. "Did I ever tell you I almost didn't make it over?" she says. "I was too skinny. I asked the doctor how to gain ten pounds in two weeks, and he said, 'Don't walk; take taxis. Eat big meals and two milkshakes a day, and drink an Ovaltine at night.'" Kathryn laughs. "I was a stuffed goose, but I made it."
    They are both giggling now, and through the thin walls, their giggles tell the bricklayer's wife the American girls are up. They hear her opening and shutting cupboards in the kitchen.
    Kathryn slips out of bed, shivering as her feet hit the cold floor. Not since she set foot in France has she felt warm. Just yesterday, she and Esther rode in the back of a jeep, a box of doughnuts between them to take to the men. By the time they reached the squadron, they were both so frozen they could barely bend. The men carried them into the building, sat them by the stove, and watched over them as they thawed. Finally, with fingers still tingling, the women set to work. Back at the club that afternoon—with the chill of the morning ride still locked in Kathryn's bones—a soldier said to her, "You talk smart for a Doughnut Dolly." It was all she could do not to slap him.
    "I'm going downstairs to get us some tea," Kathryn says, pulling her overcoat on for extra warmth. In the kitchen, Kathryn puts two cups of tea on a serving tray. The bricklayer's wife adds a plate of bread and a couple of slices of cheese to the tray. "For you," she says. Kathryn protests. She can get food at the club. This family needs it more. But the lady insists. "Joyeux Noel," she says, kissing Kathryn's cheeks. She then makes her young sons do the same.
    "Look what I've got, Esther," Kathryn chimes, but Esther is sitting at the edge of her bed, blouse half-buttoned, sobbing. Kathryn sets the plate down and lays a hand on her shoulder. "Is there anything I can do?" Esther shakes her head. Kathryn crosses quietly to her side of the room, keeping her back to Esther as she dresses. When she's ready, she sits on her bed looking at the floor, waiting. Eventually, Esther stops. She draws several deep breaths, then stands and finishes buttoning her uniform. She turns a weary smile on Kathryn. "You know what my perfect Christmas present would be, Kat?"
    "What?"
    "Never to see another doughnut."
    "Now, Esther," Kathryn says, in the mock voice of their Red Cross trainer, "it's not about the doughnuts; it's about the men."
    Kathryn offers her friend the bread, and they eat in silence, taking little pleasure in the food. Then quietly they gather their things and leave for the party.
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From the story - Las Estrellas de Oro

    ¡Ay! It's hot in the store today. Reminds me of my last summer in Mexico, when I was five. And there she is in the corner, thinking I can't see her. Thinking I can't feel what she is doing. She doesn't know about this instinct I've developed, but she also doesn't know I understand. These ladies are not thieves, just mothers with too many children who haven't learned to spread out their ration points. She sticks a two-pound bag of sugar into her bloomers, and I shake my head but say nothing. When she comes to the counter with her other goods, I simply charge her for the sugar. She looks as if the shame will kill her. I offer her son a candy. It is not rationed. I can hand it out as I please.
    Mexico. My only real memories are of the heat and the way my older sisters held their heads high when they walked along the boardwalks, the way my brothers talked of the things they would do, the fine girls they would marry, as they stocked shelves in my father's dry goods store. They belonged in a place like this, like San Antonio, far from the dust and poverty and violence of Saltillo, and they knew it even then. America is our home now, and we never complain. Our mother's eyes no longer burn with worry.
    A colored kid comes in. He calls me Boss Lady, and I laugh. I'm 25 years old. By now, the only people I should be bossing are my own niños. But the war has changed things. I will not marry until it is over. Tomás understands that. He's stationed at Camp Hood, and he knows I love him, but he won't ask me to walk away from the store. He accepts I will not be one of those soldiers' wives following her husband from base to base, dumped in some old, ugly place with bad plumbing and windows that won't close. And I'm sure not going to be one of those heartbroken ladies with a kid or two and a husband off at war. My brother Alejandro is in Detroit working for the defense industry. He tells me I should join him. He tells me about the money I could make, but my place is here. Besides, how could I leave my mamá?
    I thought my brother Eduardo was loco when he volunteered me to run his store after he joined the Navy. "But, Eddie," I said, "I have no experience."
    "Oh, you'll do all right," he said.
    And I have. I'll stay till the end of the war, till Eddie comes back.
    I do all the buying and selling and take care of the ration points. I make good money, forty-five dollars a week, but we're not getting rich. The government won't let us. Just yesterday, a woman planning her daughter's quinceañera begged me to sell her extra sugar under the counter. She had the money, she said. "You have plenty of food in this store," she said. "It's not right for you not to share."
    "And what if I get caught?" I said. "We'd lose our permit. Borrow some sugar from your neighbor. Use molasses. Don't ask me this again."
    Old Señor Zamora frowned when he heard how I had spoken to her. There are those in the neighborhood who think a young woman shouldn't hold such a high post. But I believe people will take you for how you behave. I've always been seen as a lady. Like my sisters, I hold my head high. It's a plus to have that respect, to have the respect shown our family.
    When Eddie married, my father gave him fifty dollars worth of merchandise to start his own grocery store. Eddie was ambitious. He had only half a dozen cans of sardines to start out, yet he had the nerve to put out flyers saying they were on sale. That half-dozen sold, and he dashed to the wholesale house to get more. He did the same with canned milk and sugar. When pinto beans were in season, he bought three times more than would sell, so when the other stores ran out, he'd still have some. Now ours is one of the biggest stores in the city, but I still greet most everyone by name.
    The government inspector will show up any day now, but I'm not worried. There's a new coat of paint on the walls. The shelves are clean, and the accounting and rationing books are in order. He will mark our store perfect condition again, and I will display his report with a swell of pride. Eddie's wife is in the back, tending to her seven children, and I'm grateful that, as much as there is to be done today, as humid as it is, as bad as my feet hurt, at least I'm not standing in her shoes.
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From - When the Dust Settles

May 20, 1942, Auburn, Washington

    Tomorrow we're being evacuated. Today we had to get immunizations. We passed Mr. Oakley on the sidewalk, and I heard him say, "Damn Japs are treated better than we are. Where are our shots?" That man has never been anything but civil to us before! I started to turn, but Auntie grabbed my arm and whispered, "Jean, keep your head down." As usual, she thinks showing submission is the only way to avoid trouble. Maybe she's right. How else could we have managed to fit in all these years? But just this once, I would've liked to say something.
    Now I must decide what to pack. We're allowed only what we can carry, but no one has told me how to fit my whole life into two small suitcases. This morning we burned everything Oriental and some of our important papers. Our hunting rifle and camera were confiscated when the authorities searched the house. We lent our piano to one neighbor, our typewriter and china to another. Since we don't know where we're going or when we'll be back, it felt as if we were giving them away. They all promised to return our things when we come home, but we'll see. These people were once our friends, even after Pearl Harbor, even after the curfew was instituted for us. Now they're reluctant to talk to us, even to say good-bye. Funny they can't see that the war has not changed us, but them.
    We'll leave the furniture. There's no time to sell it. We told the Filipino boys who work with us on Mr. Hollister's farm that they can live in the house till we get back. They act sorry for our bad fortune, but I can see them chattering excitedly. They'll be moving in the back door as we're heading out the front. One elderly couple has perched on our back porch like vultures, asking for anything we can give. I finally handed them our canned goods. I know they don't have much money, but I resented it just the same. Brother says the government waited till May to evacuate us because the produce was nearly ready for harvest. They let us do the hard work first, and now everyone must leave their crops, their horses, their equipment. Brother doesn't say it with anger. We know better than to show our anger, but we feel it just the same.
    I'd almost forgotten I had this journal. I've never been much of a writer. I found it while going through my things just now. It was a gift from my teacher when I graduated from high school. Auntie says I shouldn't take it, that it might be dangerous, but my teacher once told us that writing frees the soul from the walls we build around it. If that is so, I may need this book where I'm going.

May 21, 1942, Auburn

    We're on a train heading south, I think. They closed the curtains to keep us from seeing. These filthy cars were pulled straight from storage. My clothes are covered with soot. Auntie and Uncle are sleeping. Leaving was hard on them. Not since they left Japan have they had to move, and even then, they left nothing behind. They had nothing to leave.
    My brother is burning with fever. I've draped my coat over him, but still he shivers. He's so pale, and his breath is ragged, and he mumbles in his sleep and reaches for my hand. A few days ago he went to help a woman whose husband had been hauled in for questioning because he belonged to a Japanese organization. Coming back, Brother got a flat on the highway and had to roll the tire over a mile to a garage. It was raining and cold, but because he was Japanese, the men at the garage wouldn't help him. So he rolled it back. By the time he found a ride home, he was already sick. We tried to take him to the hospital, but they refused him because we were to be evacuated in a few hours. I've always been the forgiving kind, but now I know some things can never be forgiven. But there is no one to fix my anger on at the moment, and that's probably good. It's only us Japanese in this car. Mrs. Wilson sits in front of me with her two kids, tagged like her luggage. Her husband is white, so he did not have to evacuate. He'll stay and protect their farm. She knows she is lucky, but all she can do is cry.
    There is a Japanese monitor on each car to make sure everything is okay. Ours is Ken Miyake. He smiles at me every time he passes in the aisle, and I at him. It's a good thing my aunt is sleeping. He helped me lift my suitcase overhead, but my sewing machine I keep under my feet. Auntie did not make me leave it after all. I convinced her we may need clothes in the camp. I can give up a lot, but not my sewing, and not the silver pencils my father gave me, the ones I use to write this journal. If the army searches our bags, they'll probably take the pencils, along with my jewelry, but if I'd left them, they might have been stolen anyway.
    I can't sleep because I wonder where they're taking us, because I'm worried about my brother, because I want to keep an eye on our belongings, because I hope Ken will walk by again. I'm not scared, though. We know the Constitution. We know this is wrong, but you can't go against the president's wishes. President Roosevelt says this is for our own protection, as well as the country's, and he must believe that. He wouldn't lie. He says we can show our loyalty to America by going along. We Japanese are very obedient. We follow the law, we never take government aid, we work hard to prove we're good citizens. We take pride in that. So if they ask us to show our loyalty, that is what we'll do. But we don't have to be happy about it.
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Reader Comments

"Women—free, independent, and self-motivated women—were essential to our victory in WWII. Dancing in Combat Boots beautifully recreates that time when American women's roles were evolving and their personal horizons expanding. Poignant and inspiring, these stories celebrate the contributions of America's other war heroes, the women of World War II."

Doris Weatherford, author of American Women and World War II