At ten o’clock Noelle stood in front of the pier glass in the bedroom, and she knew
that she had never looked as beautiful. There was no ego in her appraisal; she was simply
pleased for Larry, glad that she could bring him this gift. By noon he had not appeared,
and Noelle wished that he had told her what time he expected to arrive. She kept phoning
the desk for messages every ten minutes and kept picking up the phone to make sure it
was working. By six o’clock that evening, there was still no word from him. By midnight
he had not called, and Noelle sat huddled in a chair, staring at the phone, willing it to ring.
She fell asleep, and when she woke, it was dawn, Saturday. She was still in the chair, stiff
and cold. The dress she had so carefully chosen was wrinkled, and there was a run in her
stocking.
Noelle changed clothes and stayed in the room all that day, stationing herself in front
of the open window, telling herself that if she stayed there, Larry would appear; if she left,
something terrible would happen to him. As Saturday morning lengthened into afternoon,
she began to be filled with the conviction that there had been an accident. Larry’s plane
had crashed, and he was lying in a field or in a hospital, wounded or dead. Noelle’s mind
was filled with ghastly visions. She sat up all night Saturday, sick with worry, afraid to
leave the room and not knowing how to reach Larry.
When Noelle had not heard from him by Sunday noon, she could stand it no longer.
She had to telephone him. But how? With a war on it was difficult to place an overseas
call and she was not even certain where Larry was. She knew only that he flew with the
RAF in some American squadron. She picked up the telephone and spoke to the
switchboard operator.
“It is impossible,” the operator said flatly.
Noelle explained the situation, and whether it was her words or the frantic despair in
her voice she never knew, but two hours later she was talking to the War Ministry in
London. They could not help her, but they transferred her to the Air Ministry at Whitehall
who put her through to Combat Operations, where she was disconnected before she could
get any information. It was four more hours before Noelle was reconnected, and by then
she was on the verge of hysteria. Air Operations could give her no information and
suggested she try the War Ministry.
“I’ve talked to them!” Noelle screamed into the phone. She began to sob, and the
male English voice at the other end of the phone said in embarrassment, “Please, miss, it
can’t be that bad. Hold on a moment.”
Noelle held the receiver in her hand, knowing that it was hopeless, certain that Larry
was dead and that she would never know how or where he died. And she was about to
replace the receiver when the voice spoke in her ear again and said cheerfully, “What you
want, miss, is the Eagle Squadron. They’re the Yanks, based in Yorkshire. It’s a bit
irregular, but I’m going to put you through to Church Fenton, their airfield. Their chaps
will be able to help you.” And the line went dead.
It was eleven o’clock that night before Noelle could get the call through again. A
disembodied voice said, “Church Fenton Air Base,” and the connection was so bad that