A HAND IN THE DARK
She had rounded a corner and was walking slowly north, admiring the
sight of the moon shining over the jagged line of rooftops, when
suddenly two figures emerged from a narrow alley to turn in ahead of
her.
“Been taking a short cut,” she thought.
The steady swinging stride of the taller of the two girls, as they
marched on before her, suggested that she might be a WAC.
“But she’s wearing civilian clothes,” she told herself in surprise.
The two shadowy figures seemed vaguely familiar. Because of this she
followed them. They had gone two blocks when all of a sudden the taller
of the two turned her head half about. The moonlight painted her
features in sharp outline.
“It’s Lena!” she whispered. “Lena, in civilian clothes!” What did it
mean? Had this girl been found out and dismissed from the service?
As if the question had been put directly to her, the shorter of the two
girls paused and looked back. Just in time Norma dodged into the
shadows.
An inaudible gasp escaped her lips. The other girl was the one from the
beauty parlor at the Fort.
As the two girls resumed their march, Norma followed them, without
thinking too much about the reason or possible consequence.
At the next corner they turned west on a dark street. Here, on both
sides, were auto repair shops and cheap second-hand stores.
Scarcely had Norma rounded this corner when the two girls swung through
a door to disappear into a shop that was almost completely dark.
Acting purely on impulse. Norma caught the door before it had
completely closed. Pushing it a little farther open she slipped inside
and then allowed it to close noiselessly.
At the same instant a thought struck her all in a heap. Lena had a
perfect right to dress in civilian clothes on her day off. All WACs
have. She, Norma, had chosen to wear her uniform.
“In a way it is a sort of protection,” she had said to Betty.
“Yes, like a nun’s cape and veil,” Betty had laughed.
“Is it a protection?” Norma asked herself now. At first the place
seemed completely dark. Then she caught a gleam of light at the far end
of the room. She began hearing low voices. The two girls were back
there. Someone was with them.
“What a goose I am,” Norma thought. “Lena has a right to dress as she
pleases. Nothing unusual has happened. That other girl probably has a
friend who works here. They have come here to meet him. I’ll just slip
out of the door.”
But she couldn’t. Not just yet. The door was closed and locked. Just a
little frightened, she felt for some sort of bolt or spring lock that
could be released. There was none.
For the first time in her life she was seized with a feeling very near
to panic. She wanted to dash to the heavily shaded windows and pound on
them for help. She wanted to scream. And yet she did not dare. Perhaps
those people did not know she was there.
“And after all, why should I be afraid?” she asked herself. “This is
some sort of a repair shop.” That faint light from the back brought out
the looming bulks of cars and trucks. “There’s no law against going
into a repair shop, even at night.”
All of a sudden she realized that it was not fear of those who enforce
the law that inspired her with fear, but those who hated the law.
“Spies,” she whispered softly.
But were there spies in this city? Perhaps. Who could tell? Spies were
everywhere.
Once again she tried the latch, lifting it up and down, pulling at the
door without a sound. It was no use. Some mysterious type of lock held
the door fast shut.
In the hope of finding a smaller door, she began gliding along the
wall. All at once she bumped into something that toppled over to fall
with a loud bang.
Like a wild bird in a cage she flew to the door to try the latch with
all her strength.
“Who’s there?” came in a hoarse voice.
She neither moved nor spoke.
A minute passed—two—three minutes—or was it an hour? Her heart was
beating painfully. She had the sense of someone approaching, yet she
neither heard nor saw a moving thing.
Then suddenly she did see it—a groping hand. The flash of light cutting
through a spot beside a windowshade revealed it.
A scream was on her lips. And yet she did not scream.
And then the hand gripped her arm.
“What are you doing here?” a voice growled.
She tried to speak, but no words came.
“Oh! You are one of them.” The voice changed suddenly. Now it was low,
apologetic. “You are one of them lady soldiers. A WAC they call them,
don’t they?”
“Yes. Yes. That’s what I am.” She formed the words but could not say
them.
There was no need, for the man went on, “You were perhaps looking for
the WAC garage. It is not here. That is another place. You came in—the
door locked itself. Is it not so?”
“Yes! Yes! That is it,” she whispered. Lena must not hear her voice or
see her face.
“I shall unlock the door. This is all too bad,” said the man who had
gripped her arm.
By some magic the door was opened and she stepped out into the night.
The light of a car illuminated the man’s face for a second. Then the
door slammed shut.
“I’ll know that face if I see it again,” she told herself. She wondered
if after all Lena had seen _her_ face—and if she had, what then?
Ten minutes later, panting a little, she entered the hotel, called for
her key, then dashed up two flights of stairs to her room.
Having locked and bolted the door, she sank into the chair before her
array of pictures.
“Oh, Bill!” she whispered, “I wish I hadn’t come.” She was thinking not
alone of Des Moines, but Fort Des Moines, the Army, and all the rest.
She was wishing desperately that she might be back with her dad and her
dog Spark.
After that she sat looking at her father’s picture. From his square
shoulders and his twinkling gray eyes she drew strength. She seemed to
feel again his hand on her shoulder as he said in his slow calm voice,
“You’re the only boy I’ve got. Thank God they’re giving you a chance. I
know you’ll do your duty as a good soldier.”
“No,” she whispered, “I’m not sorry. I’m glad.”
One thing she decided before she fell asleep in that big comfortable
bed. This was that she would cease playing the part of an F.B.I. agent
and start being a real WAC.
“I’ll put this Lena business out of my life,” she whispered. “This is
the end of it forever and ever.”
Did some sprite whisper, “Oh, no, sister! No you won’t!” If so, it was
all lost on her, for she had fallen fast asleep. But if there was a
sprite hovering about and he did say that, he would have spoken the
truth. There are some things that just won’t be put out of our lives.
When she awoke the sun was shining in her window. It was Sunday
morning. But she was not thinking of that. Instead, a question had
popped into her head. How had that man known she was a WAC? He had not
seen her. The place had been completely dark. There could be but one
answer—by the sense of feeling. He had gripped her arm. He had
recognized the feel of her soft wool WAC uniform. And how had he come
to know the feel of fine wool? Here too there could be but one
answer—Lena. It was strange.
On the following Monday Norma was asked to take charge of the drilling
of her company.
“I realize that this is an unusual request,” the officer in charge said
soberly. “But this is an unusual war, and ours an unusual organization.
For that reason we must perform unusual tasks.
“We are short of officers. The Army camps are constantly calling for
more and more of our workers. They go out in small groups. An officer
goes with each group. So now you see how it is.” She smiled. “What do
you say?”
“I—I’ll try it.” Norma agreed.
She undertook the task with fear and trembling. It was not so much that
she distrusted her own ability. She had been well trained. But how
would the other girls take it?
“Some of them are thirty years old. One is a grandmother,” she said to
Betty, as she broke the news. “And I am barely old enough to vote.”
“It’s not age that counts,” Betty replied in a tone that carried
conviction. “It’s ability and experience. Go in there, old pal, and
win. This is war. We all must do our best. And you can bet I’ll be
right in there rooting for you.”
“Then—thanks! Oh, thanks!” Norma replied huskily.
All the same, when the time came for her first order: “Company,
attention!” her throat was dry and her heart was in her mouth.
There was a surprised look on many faces as they turned about to line
up. There was a smile or two, but they were not unkind smiles.
Then a thing happened that broke the tension. An officer of the old
school, her father had drilled her in an unusual way. When as a child
she stood at attention, he would call: “Hup, two, three.”
Now, in her excitement she called to her company:
“Hup, two, three!”
Then suddenly realizing what she had done, she laughed. And they all
laughed with her. The ice was broken.
“Mark time! One! Two! One! Two! March.”
Feet came down with an even thud—thud—and crunch—crunch on the frozen
path. The march was on.
Oddly enough, at the first rest period one of the older members said:
“Why not ‘Hup, two, three,’ for us?”
“Sure. That’s the way the soldiers get it. And we’re in the Army now.”
“They’ll call us the Hup company,” someone laughed.
“That will be swell,” exclaimed another. “And that’s what we’ll be, the
‘Hup an’ comin’ Company’.”
And so it came to be.
For two hours Norma put them through their paces. Only once did her
attention waver. That was when Lena gave her a long, searching look.
“She knows about that night,” she told herself, and all but lost a step.
When at last the tired marchers were once more on their own, many of
the girls came forward to congratulate her and tell her how well she
had done.
“They are won over. Just wonderful!” Tears of gratitude stood in
Norma’s eyes as she reported to her superior.
“These came here for just one purpose,” the Lieutenant said.
“To help win the war.”
“Yes. That’s it. To hasten the end of this terrible affair and to help
bring their brothers, sweethearts, and friends back home again.
“So how could they fail to do their best or refuse to respond to the
orders of any leader? But you, my child,”—she placed a hand on Norma’s
shoulder—“you have real officer’s blood coursing through your veins.”
Norma thanked her, then marched away.
“She spoke wiser than she knew,” Norma thought with a smile. She had
not told her that her father had been an officer in the other World War.
But did she really want to become an officer of the WACs? She did not
know.
After that the days glided by. Drill was not all there was to their
training. Far from that. The Articles of War were read to them. They
studied long hours learning what it meant to be a soldier. They studied
military regulations. They took gas mask drill, first aid, and a score
of other activities that were likely to fall to the lot of any WAC.
From time to time each girl was assigned to K. P.—Kitchen
Police—peeling potatoes, washing dishes, scrubbing floors, dishing up
food.
Betty, who was a real student, hated this, for on that day they were
excused from study. But Millie, who found study difficult, wished that
K. P. came five times a week.
Though Norma had sworn that the spy complex should not tempt her again,
strange things happened, and always her mystery-loving mind would ask,
“Why? Why?”
There was the time she went with the little Italian girl, Rosa, to
visit the airport on their day off. Then, too, Betty more than once
tempted her to start spy hunting all over again.
“I won’t!” she told herself. “I won’t! I just won’t!” Positive as she
was at the time, Norma did not succeed long in keeping this resolution.
It was really Rosa’s strange and mysterious adventure at the airport
that got her going all over again.
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