02 Aug Pass Me the Helmet, Please

In December of 1943, Hedy Johnson’s orders came through. Along with others from her office at the OSS, she took a train to New York City where the group spent the next ten days making final arrangements for their trip across the Atlantic.

Hedy spent most of her time in New York with Debbie Stowe, also traveling overseas to OSS London. For the two young ladies, it was an exciting hiatus. Sidewalks were packed. Alongside the holiday shoppers were servicemen from all branches, celebrating as hard as they could. The two young ladies were shipped out on the Aquitania, the massive British luxury ocean liner converted to a troop ship.

Debbie later wrote about what life was like for them in London amidst Hitler’s now infamous “Baby Blitz” and “Buzz Bombs.”

Pass me the helmet, please

You absolutely must come to London, my dear
We have the nicest little surprise for you here …
Of course, we’re not allowed to mention anything in the line of Military Installation,
Otherwise, we would be more than willing to give you some red-hot information.
Nor are we even so much as permitted to hint at retaliation measures,
But the Germans have lately produced some little treasures. 
When the siren sounds, your clothes are usually more off than on,

And you’re always too scared to go to the John.
Or if you’re at the office in the midst of a telephone call,
The bell rings, and you have to lead out into the hall.

So finally, after a hard day of being just one jump ahead of a fit
Wondering where the next one will hit
You drop off to sleep and start dreaming of something sensible like soil erosion
When suddenly there’s a loud explosion.

They get right over your roof, and the motor apparently stops,
So you try to act calm and inquire 
if the farmers in the Ozarks have been able to get in their crops.
But your brave little witticisms
Are only met by criticisms.
There is untold confusion over which is which—the Alert or the
All Clear

But regardless of which it is, everybody thanks God they’re still here.
The moral is that no matter what you do or where you are it’s always risky,
And the best thing of all to do is just make a grab for the whiskey.

D.L.S.

I would love to find Deborah “Debbie” L. Stowe and/or her family. My mother, Hedvig Johnson Allen, described her as a “dear friend.” 

 

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