The Widow & The War Correspondent

Chapter Two

Chapter TwoVan Toppel hunched over the cantankerous Smith Corona and banged out his latest newspaper article. He coughed and waved one hand to dispel the fetid cigarette smoke that wafted past his face. Turning, he glared at Harry Bronson who sat at the next typewriter. “Hey, blow that foul smog in the other direction. Some of us in here are trying to breathe.”

“Sorry, farmboy. It’s the only vice my wife will let me have.” Harry smirked and moved the ashtray filled with dozens of sooty butts to the far side of his machine. “You must hate London with the ever-present smell of coal. How’d you end up here?”

“Just lucky, I guess. How about you?”

“I put in for this gig. I’m hoping to get behind the scenes in North Africa or somewhere exotic like Italy or Egypt, but I gotta do my time in this fair city first.” He stubbed out the cigarette and poked at the typewriter keys. “This war’s gonna be over soon, and I want to make sure I get some hot bylines. Get a chance at a Pulitzer, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Van sighed and read what he’d written. Not bad. A couple of editing tweaks, and it would be ready to go to the censor, an annoying reality of a reporter’s life in wartime. If he was lucky, the guy wouldn’t change a word, but more than likely he’d remove a bit to prove his worth. Van had learned what was acceptable the hard way: through trial and error with more than a few articles scrapped in their entirety.

He added a few more sentences, yanked the page from the roller, then performed a quick edit. Done. Rising, he slung his sport coat over his shoulder and threaded his way through the rows of tables that held dozens of typewriters in Broadcasting House’s third floor room assigned to the print journalists.

Completed fourteen years ago, the Art Deco building took four years to construct, with three of its twelve floors underground. The BBC graciously set aside room for the reporters who’d swarmed the city at the onset of the war. Being able to borrow a machine meant he didn’t have to tote a portable. A benefit for someone who had traveled from the northern tip in Scotland to the southern coast overlooking the Channel.

Shrugging his arms into his coat, he headed down the stairs to the lobby where he dropped off his article in the pouch destined for the Ministry of Information offices where the censors were housed. Time to clear his head and scrounge up some more news.

He pushed open the door and walked outside, grit crunching underfoot. Squinting in the midday sunshine, he shielded his eyes and surveyed the pedestrians who scurried past, intent on their destinations. Puffy cotton-ball clouds scudded overhead in the robin’s-egg-blue sky. A bus stopped in front of the building, emitting fumes and passengers before thundering away. He wrinkled his nose against the stench: nothing like the pure, clean air in Iowa where he’d been raised.

“Hey, Van. How goes the battle?” Gary Weymouth, a correspondent for Colliers, waved as he approached. “Did you already submit your piece?”

“Yeah, I’m going to prowl the city, see what I can come up with for another story. You?”

“Got a juicy one from Battersea Park. According to the detective sergeant on the scene, a young woman was found dead, and it appears to be murder.”

Van frowned. “Murder in a time of war. Isn’t there enough killing to go around?”

“I guess not.” Gary leaned close. “Did you hear the other news, about the female correspondents they’re going to saddle us with?”

“No, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. There are lots of lady reporters overseas. Why shouldn’t they borrow the space? Margaret Bourke-White has been with Life for almost ten years now, and she covered the Blitz. I’m surprised we haven’t seen her before now.”

“Yeah, but I don’t understand why they want to be here. To cover war.”

“Because they’re intelligent and curious. Like we are.”

“They shouldn’t be here. This is a man’s job.”

“You need to shed that Victorian attitude, Gary. Life as we know it is over. Gals have proven themselves capable to do any job set before them.”

“Maybe, but I don’t have to like it.”

Another bus chugged past, a swirling black fog of exhaust in its wake. Van put his hand over his nose trying not to gag. He needed to get out of the city. The constant press of people and toxic smells were going to be the death of him.

Gary clapped him on the back. “Too bad the war couldn’t happen somewhere nice and clean, eh?”

Van moved his hand and frowned. “London’s streets were clean before the Jerries arrived with their bombs and incendiaries. Why is man so intent on destroying himself?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Gary waved his notebook. “Nice jawing with you, but I’ve got a story to write.”

“Good luck with it. And try to be polite if any of those lady reporters show up.”

“Sure. Just for you.” Gary slipped through the crowd and into the building.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Van crossed the street then descended into the Tube station. Being below ground was nearly as bad as navigating the city streets. Teeming with people, the platform was dark with grime. How did the submariners spend months trapped in their metal cylinders?

Trapped. He snapped his fingers. England was littered with prisoner-of-war camps. Would the public be interested in how the POWs were housed and treated, many of whom were used in agricultural and nondefense work? Scoring interviews with the Germans would put faces on the enemy for his readers. Was that good or bad?

He whipped out his notebook and began to scribble ideas for slants on the article. Bumped from behind, his pencil skittered across the page, leaving a s***h. He frowned and whirled to find the offender. A trio of women chattering like magpies stood nearby. Their laughter punctuated the buzz of conversation. Young and giggly, they seemed oblivious to anyone’s presence but their own.

Were women like Bourke-White, Dickey Chapelle, Toni Frissell, and Hemingway’s wife, Martha Gellhorn, the exception rather than the rule? Or did he believe his own rhetoric that women could do any job as well as a man? He had to admire their gumption, but was Gary right that they didn’t belong over here?

With a shrug, he turned his attention back to his notebook. Philosophical considerations about women in the workplace were for another day. He had a story to ferret out.

London, England, May 1944