Last updated on June 6, 2025
Mid-summer bathed the sprawling military compound outside Rome with mature temperatures as its rays filtered through a haze of dust that seemed to settle into every crevice of the temporary structures. Inside the sweltering administrative building, oscillating fans circled overhead, stirring papers on metal desks. The technical sergeant’s uniform hung loose to breathe with them as he stood at attention and complained with accumulating frustration to the captain of the maintenance company, “The War Department is sending home fathers and replacing them with fresh faced enlistees.” He extended a weathered hand towards the open window behind them where the maintenance yard was seen stretched in its orderly rows with corrugated roofs shimmering in the heat, he continued, “Morale is suffering. Work orders are slow to completion.”
The Captain looked up from a stack of requisition forms, his reading glasses perched focus from the bridge of his nose. Around them the staff section bore the makeshift quality of wartime efficiency with maps tacked to plywood walls, filing cabinets that had seen better days, and a perpetually percolating coffee pot. Removing his glasses and massaging his brows, the captain, by standing emphasized, “We are a linchpin for the 51st Carrier Squadron’s efforts to return men and equipment to peacetime through the Ciampino Airport.” His normally emotionless countenance revealed lines of exasperation as he looked past the sergeant toward the Battalion Commander’s office, where an open door allowed leadership to be heard on its terms. The plaintive look he cast as they walked toward it spoke volumes about the pressure bearing down from above.
From this spartan corner office, the Lieutenant Colonel boomed with the authority that obscured expected mayhem from his motor transport responsibilities, “They will be treated to a USO performance here on September 29th.” He shuffled the consolidated morning reports and then impatiently drummed his fingers on them, the current general orders, and the unit journal, “In the meantime, I have a USAAF liaison officer breathing fire about needing one of our Scout cars for a bigwig. Can we spare anyone to make the delivery?”
Lit up with sudden inspiration, the sergeant resolutely straightened his posture, “By all accounts, our most responsible remaining technician is Private Bill Blythe. He is showing maturity, competence, and is talkative. Moreover, his closest friends are some of those fathers, and he isn’t going home without exception.”
“You are suggesting we give the conscientious private this temporary duty?” The Lieutenant Colonel leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest to calculate its ease.
“Yes. We can, further, save manpower by having him join one of the transport trucks heading north for demobilization.”
Approval emerged from the Lieutenant Colonel’s demeanor for their collective decision. “This private becomes the goose of liberty for the battalion. Excellent. Sergeant, return to the maintenance park and see to its organization. Blythe should view the assignment and special pass as commendations.”
Corporal Joyce Damico was summoned from her post. Her typewriter sat momentarily silent, a report still awaited finishing keystrokes, and a cup of lukewarm coffee grew cold beside a framed photograph of her family back in West Virginia. She fluidly rose from her chair, brushing her uniform skirt as she approached the Captain, who was already moving toward the door. Her dark eyes took in everything and held a question even before she spoke. “What is the excitement about?” she inquired, watching as the Captain gathered his cap and official documents.
“We are providing a car for the new USO tour set to begin in Tuscany,” he said while pausing in the doorway. “One of our T4s, Private Blythe, will deliver the vehicle this afternoon after completing the preventative maintenance checks and services. We are giving him an overnight pass with the expectation that the trust we are extending will encourage him to help fill the leadership vacuum by example.”
Her face softened and with the soothing cadence of her Appalachian upbringing Joyce replied, “He is affable and sweet. We have shared meals and stories of his childhood in Texas and mine in West Virginia.” as her stature raising expressiveness concluded, “Believe me, he needs this as much as the repair bay needs his fastened diligence.”
The Captain nodded approvingly before heading toward S-3, where operation orders were drafted amid the constant clatter of typewriters and the rustle of carbon paper, and then to S-1, where personnel decisions like leaves and passes were created and recorded.
Directing her back to the present, the commanding officer ordered, “I want to speak to Lt. General Cannon of the USAAF by phone again, please”.
Joyce settled back at her desk, the black Bakelite telephone receiver feeling familiar in her hand as she placed the call, her fingers working the rotary dial with practiced efficiency.
Outside, dust and sand from the Sahara, carried by the hot Sirocco winds, yellowed the morning sky in sepia and promised an uncomfortable day of desert thickened air. The open-sided bays and equipment storage areas of the maintenance park took on an otherworldly quality in the strange light.
The technical sergeant returned to his domain with renewed purpose. He immediately gathered the tools and parts needed for the next job. Private Bill Blythe joined him with the careful attention to detail that had earned him his reputation. His face, still bearing traces of the Texas sun that had bronzed it during his youth, embossed concentration as he unhesitatingly broomed up the service lane, prepared the portable jacks, and pulled the reconnaissance car with its canvas top rolled back into position with mechanical precision. The sergeant set the tools, brake shoes, spark plugs, and windshield wipers next to the jacks with intended distribution for methodical progression from one task to the next as a chorus to the rhythm of military life. Both men employed proficient alacrity, their movements synchronized by months working together. The Scout Car’s engine ticked as it cooled. Blythe wiped his brow with a rag that had seen better days, leaving a streak of grease across his forehead, when he heard the distinctive hum of the Battalion Commander’s GP Jeep approaching. The sound was unmistakable, “Sergeant, are we being inspected?” His nervous voice hinting at the respect any good soldier feels when senior officers appear.
Wiping his hands on his coveralls, the sergeant pliantly asked “Lt. Colonel Miller, how can we help you today?” as he stepped with purpose from the vehicle to survey the maintenance park with the practiced eye of someone who had spent years evaluating military operations.
“This bay is outstanding, sergeant.” He motioned approval as he noted the organized tool layout, the clean surfaces, and the evident pride the men took in their workspace.
“Private Blythe’s consistently dedicated work ethic has provided leadership for newly arriving mechanics.”
Lieutenant Colonel Miller’s attention turned to Blythe, “Is the scout car ready?”
His men nodded.
“As a trusted Deuce and a half certified mechanic, Blythe, you will deliver this car to the Hassler Villa and, then, at the Via Salaria fuel depot join a convoy of those trucks headed north to Livorno for demobilization.”
Buoyantly, Blythe celebrated, “Yes, Sir!”
“Impressive.” The Lieutenant Colonel seconded his established approval. “The quartermaster is ready to fit you for this detail. Corporal Damico will have your orders and leave.”
As if summoned by the mention of her name, Joyce appeared at the entrance to the maintenance bay. She approached with the careful balance of military protocol and personal affection, and when the Lieutenant Colonel departed, she closed the distance to Blythe. She carried a simple, black, leather-covered prism and two documents. “This is a big moment for you, Billy, but I am hoping you will spend some of your leisure time taking a 35 mm color photo of the altar sanctuary of the Basilica of Santa Maria in Aracoeli. We had an heirloom painting of it lost in a fire before my birth. I have written the details on this note.” she whispered, embracing him in a congratulatory hug. “I will miss seeing you front and center at Roll Call, so hurry back!”
“Underneath the lantern,
By the barrack gate
Darling I remember” Billy hummed incredulously as he slid into the driver’s seat of the M3 Scout Car General Clark personally reserved for the transportation of & the rousing of fanfare for Marlene Dietrich while she dedicated herself to supporting troop morale with performances across Italy. Tasked with delivering the vehicle to her attaché at the requisitioned Hassler Villa, he wondered if he’d see her.
As part of the 2630th Transportation Corps Motor Transport Battalion for the Penisular Base Section, he arrived to its organization, completion of support for Operation Torch, and its landing in Salerno. His battalion had rehabilitated the roads now taking him to the Spanish Steps looked upon by the Hassler Villa. As he drove the busy thoroughfares along Capitoline Hill and pocketed the note Joyce had written, confused emotions tugged him between the listless uncertainties of home life, the pulse she enlivened in him, incessantly barked orders, and discovering for the first time the aura of recognition. The distraction diverted his attention from the landmarks he learned about in his favorite Graham Greene spy novels.
Towering above the summit of the Spanish Steps, the cream colored hotel painted itself as a cumulus cloud for the Roman sky, its Renaissance facade catching the amber light of early afternoon. Below the Via Sistina, the hotel’s gardens surged toward the exhaust worn Piazza di Spagna.
In front of the hotel, two women stood with an officer on the sidewalk. The seasoned woman magnetically radiated presence. Her younger companion had softer features, the same yearning intelligence, and flowing auburn hair with a copper sheen given no consideration by Lieutenant General John K. Cannon. The stars on his shoulders gleamed seniority through his set in and scowling gray eyes that had overseen the strategic bombing of Italy and now the complexities of occupation.
After parking in front of them, Blythe saluted the Air Force Lieutenant General. The women quickly stepped forward. The older of the two commanded “I expect to be saluted as well private or I will have you court-martialed for insubordination.”
Blythe guffawed, “Ma’am?”
To which she promptly flashed her captain credentials.
Shaken, embarrassed, and scarleting, he murmured an apology as the younger woman, equally crimsoned cried out in laughter, “Mom don’t torture the poor sop.”
Sympathetically, she offered her hand with the practiced grace of a woman who charmed kings and generals, her voice carrying just a trace of the Berlin accent she never wanted to lose. “I am Marlene. This is my daughter Maria. We were only having a bit of fun to see if it would evoke a smile from Lieutenant General Cannon who has been quite stern in our company.” All looked at Cannon whose attention followed the approach of a company grade officer.
Captain Rosenthal strode with the measured pace of a man who had survived fifty-two bombing missions over Nazi Germany. His dark hair was combed back neatly, his uniform impeccable despite the dust of Roman streets, and his eyes held the sharp acumen that had made him invaluable in the cockpit of a B-17 and soon fair-minded purpose in an adversarial pursuit of justice. He crossed the stone terrace, two sealed envelopes in his left hand and handed the messages to Cannon. “You have served with distinction Captain. Do not disappoint me in your prosecutorial assignment. Continue in your service to see Captain Dietrich and her daughter to Livorno.”
Turning, “Blythe.” He frowned in guidance, “You will join a ‘Deuce and a Half’ in its convoy tomorrow at 0:500 en route for the demobilization of divisions in the IV corps.” Reaching into his pocket, “Tonight, this social calling card will get you quartered. Keep it clean. It will also gain you entrance to the Officers’ Club Rome. Do not overstay your welcome or embarrass me.”
He bowed, “Ladies.” and returned to his expected duties.
Marlene swiftly moved to give Rosie, Captain Rosenthal, a hero’s welcome, but he winced a bit “Still tender?”
“It is nothing,” he replied. “Private, you are in for a rough ride tomorrow. Not only that but you will need to find your way to the fuel supply depot at the intersection of the Via Salaria and Via Flaminia, Cannon’s card will instruct a motor pool officer to drive you there in a Willys.”
“Yes, sir. I understand my duty to keep the rig steady,” Billy responded.
Smiling broadly between the tousles of her strawberry blonde hair being neatly tucked behind her ears, Marlene asked “Are we really in such a hurry? Couldn’t we drop him there as we get underway? I’ve just arrived back in Rome. I want to introduce my daughter to the city. Besides a drink or two and a nice meal might soften the ride north for us all.”
With empathic precision, Maria prayerfully grabbed Billy’s hand to plead “The war has spared no one” as the perfumed aroma from her loosened chiffon bound the new companions in memories of silent gardens.
Stoically, Rosie misted discontentment for his crew killed by enemy fire over Germany. His eyes abruptly met Billy’s to acknowledge war’s equality. “You are in for a treat tonight my friend. The fillets, desserts, drinks, and entertainment are rarely surpassed. Let’s go inside.”
The marble-floored lobby filled with footsteps as the four figures moved beneath chandeliers dimmed by rationing. The frescoed walls now centrally bore military notices and directional signs in both Italian and English.
“Will there be pen and paper in the room for a letter to my wife?” Billy peccantly asked.
Marlene and Maria tittered the boff.
“Hotel stationary is everywhere. Finish your letter before orders. I will have it airmailed.”
“I recently met Lt. Colonel Charity Adams. The Six Triple Eight will see it delivered within a week”
“The Central Postal Directory Battalion is exceptionally commendable. You two better have honed afternoon itinerary”
“Thank You”
“It is only a few stops” Marlene sarcastically protested. “It begins in the highly praised courtyard. Meet us there.”
Rosie instructively oriented Billy’s nescience with the administrative wing. “First Lieutenant Fred Seymour supervises the Billeting Office in room 101. It replaced the concierge here on the ground floor,” he explained, gesturing past temporary partitions that had converted former guest suites into various military quarters. Behind repurposed reception counters, clerks processed housing assignments.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, how do you know the billeting officer?
“Just call me Rosie. He was at Thorpe Abbots, England when I arrived for duties with the 418th Bomber Squadron. He is genuine, honest, trustworthy, kind, and surprisingly still a bachelor.”
Appearing from behind them, the short and thin lieutenant with a receding hairline greeted Rosie with awestruck humility, “Every one always praised your flying skills. I never thought I read about them.”
“Fred, let me introduce the married private, Billy Blythe. He is eager to write home.”
“Private,” Fred said while generously offering his hand, “Lt, General Cannon has informed me of your needs. At the moment, the room formerly used by Major General Twining is the only available native suite returned to service. It is on the sixth floor; it has hotel stationary; and there are spectacular views of the city from it. Here is your key.”
“Who did you impress Billy and how?” Rosie affably chuckled rhetorically with inimitable respect. “Find your way to the room and meet us downstairs in an hour.”
“Fred do you know where I can get a car for tonight? The private delivered an MP car for the USO tour. Its rear mounted machine gun makes it unsuitable for leisure with the show’s star performer Marlene Dietrich.”
“The departure of senior staff has left my office responsible for the security of a 1942 Buick Century Series 61. Its tank is full and at your disposal if you get her autograph on a publicity photo for these shows I have on my desk.”
“Get the keys, the picture, and dress for the Officer’s Club Rome. We have a few stops to make, but will return for your front door pick up shortly after 1900.”
“I’ll walk you to the car now. We will use the Via Sistina entrance to recover it from Villa Borghese.” The friends exited the building in hushed conversation on a swift uphill path lined with sycamores and umbrella pines and accented by oleander toward the grand park waiting for its escape from wartime.
Marlene and Maria moved knowingly toward the central staircase with its burgundy velvet runners, familiar with their route to their second floor room. The hallways retained their original sconces, though bulbs had been replaced with lower wattage for conservation.
“You are leading us back to our room. Were you surprised to see the Captain again, Mom?”
“He is a married man. Though of the many heroes in this war, I admit, his fulminant courage pitches for crests. There is privilege in the enticements from his staid eloquence.”
“Did you pack your teal rayon crepe and your veiled pillbox hat?”
“You know my mind and were quicker to expectations for the evening with your decision to wear that A-line skirt and … my ivory silk blouse. I would complain bitterly if it were just a tuxedo night. All you need is a small tilt hat to save you from the aeolian sky. This Roman air will also keep unpowdering us, so we should share to keep our clutch bags light.”
“How are we going to keep the private focused?”
“More food than spirits and encourage his homesickness to breathe. They will manage him as well a key fob,” she said as they entered the room.
Billy found and entered the suite and knew it was beyond his ability for description. The air, still and perfumed by cypress, was a balm for his anxieties, but not his restlessness. Its decor was a masterclass in grandness, reflecting a richness unscathed by war. He drew back the heavy damask curtains, a pair of starlings could be seen resting on the window sill, and tied them open with their silken cords to look on to the city through the tall and arched framed windows. Sunlight spilled from the haze across the polished floor. Its shine filled walls adorned with demure portraits and silk tapestries depicting classic scenes.
Breathless, he sat on the inviting velvet sofa flanked by two upholstered armchairs to read Joyce’s letter and understand her instructions.
Billy,
The Colonel and the General you will meet today are cousins. During
their phone call this morning, it was learned that you would be
quartered in the Hassler’s Presidential Suite San Pietro. I haven’t used
any of the film included with my new camera. All but one of the
exposures is yours to use. My family’s heirloom painting included the
entire altar with the first Damico wedding held at the foot of its
sanctuary. It encapsulated divine love with doves and eternity with a
flaming heart. A broad an unobstructed photo is needed for an oil
painted recreation.
See you soon,
Joyce
He rose quickly and placed the letter and stationary together on the carved desk stirring history from the corner it occupied in the room. He planned not to disturb the master bedroom or its four-poster bed with sleep. Still unsettled, he opened a hinged French door and walked onto the terrace to observe church bells scattered within the checkerboard of rooftops and how the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica controlled the skyline unmuted by the haze of the afternoon. Rome, in its laid bare chaotic beauty, was defiant. He spent an exposure to record the living canvas on the other side of the Spanish Steps then left the suite unexpectedly disconsolate from solitude.
Accommodations for the 2629th WAC Battalion members at the Hassler Villa were tight. The single rooms held four occupied bunks. Equally, Marlene and Maria always anticipated the privilege of having rackmates because it strengthened their bond with perspective. When settling into their room after breakfast, they were briefly introduced to Private First Class Ruth Ann Damico and Corporal Elizabeth Branch whom they listened to and watched prepare for their clerical assignments.
Captain Lillian Harris knocked on the door puzzled by their early return. “Captain Dietrich,” she said impressionably in her battledress blouse with its two imposing epaulet silver captain bars, the gold sleeve bars, and the deservedly displayed service ribbons above her left breast. “I was informed that you had already departed for your weekend performance.”
Thinking quickly Marlene answered, “Our liaison, Captain Rosenthal, received urgent orders about his permanent change of station, so we are delayed while he arranges the transport of his pro-gear. He has set our departure at 0:400. “
“Beth and Ruth will be returning soon. Look out for them,” she curtly intimated as the door closed behind her.
“Your dress revealed our plans.”
“Captain Harris has seen war. Stylishness won’t keep secrets from her. It celebrates them with a Victory Number. We will follow her suggestion and wait for our NCO friends to return to the room.”
“How will we test the waters with Rosie?”
“We will invite them to the table.”
When given their battlefield promotions, Ruth and Beth realized immediately that their aptitude testing had set them apart from others assigned to Advanced Communications in the Signal Corps, S2, and Operations, S3. Both were, nonetheless, initially surprised and slightly dismayed when informed by Captain Harris of their selection for transfer to Okinawa as part of her staff until Letters of Commendation evoked within them a deep imbue of patriotism and service. Luminous, they chased regrets away with conversant awe for the fame of the women they imagined juxtaposed in waiting for their return to quarters.
Maria promptly detected lingering tension in their smile curled cheeks. She casually mentioned “We are going downstairs for coffee. Please follow us outside. I have so many questions.”
Her mother nodded emphatically as if coaxing their agreeable “absolutely” given simultaneously.
“We were among the first to have a delightful breakfast within its stone walls. Brigadier General Mollison personally intervened and authorized its verdant restoration days after the war ended in Europe and pushed our installation commander to open it within a month.” Ruth contemplatively noted.
“I told you they were listening.” Beth ruddily interjected.
Fred, as if routine, took the wheel of the stately car in silver trim and conveniently returned them to the hotel where there conversation deepened with discussion of his mixed Polish-Jewish heritage and missing relatives.
Approaching with deliberate grace, Marlene, trailed reminiscently by Maria, uplifted the forlorn commiseration in striking counterpoint, “Our new sisters are joining us here.”
With unbidden enthusiasm plucking his composure, Fred preened, “I am Lt. Seymour, the Billeting Duty Officer.” After Rosie repositioned his coffee, he, befuddled, momentarily closed his eyes and drew, in response, a breath to quell embarrassment, then continued less nervously, “I …” Marlene stealthily kissed his cheek before they opened and he could finish. The move dispensed tension and formalities with laughter.
From the bar, Billy nostalgically watched hierarchies dissipate in the scene until quietly calling out with instinct “Joyce,” as Ruth walked by alone and sidled Maria.
“Where is Beth?” Maria quietly asked.
“She is caviling about your astuteness probably to hide from me misgivings she has about our new duty assignments with Captain Harris in Okinawa.”
Overtaken by curiosity and enticed by the fragrant potted citrus, geraniums, petunias, and shadowing scent of ivy and jasmine from the stone walls, he joined the growing party with a newcomer smile, was welcomed first by Maria, and, with mild shock, introduced to Ruth Damico.
Agreement finalized their evening plans as a party of six. Fred returned to work and Ruth to console Beth upstairs. Marlene thoughtfully announced “I don’t want to absorb your afternoon with my visit to CLN party headquarters at Piazza Venezia, 12, in its attempt to meet, thank, and learn from Ivanoe Bonomi and to the Liberal Party headquarters at Via Frattina, 89, to inquire about Benedetto Croce this afternoon.”
“I have read Croce’s Manifesto of the Anti-Fascist Intellectuals.” Rosie sparked eagerly.
Maria demurred, “Mom, you said they were friends. It sounds like an uncertain quest.”
To validate his claim to personal time and possibly solve her despair, Billy handed Maria Joyce’s note to read. “Corporal Joyce Damico is my closest friend in Europe. ” With homespun persuasion, he added, “I just met her sister.”
Maria circulated Joyce’s instructions. “I don’t want to relive the broken history of this war. He is gifting a family continuity I know to be irreplaceable.”
Her mother nodded approval as Rosie clasped his hands as bars to the tips of Billy’s shoulders in a friendly shove before giving him the keys. “You are our driver and will need to help make our visit to the Liberal Party’s headquarters inconspicuous if this unauthorized foray is to successfully use celebrity to coopt the provision of privacy and political security to satisfy curiosity.”
Furthering his analysis, he continued “Though the weather provides another safeguard, Marlene, the military veil that has kept your presence in Rome quiet since your arrival this morning will not last. If we remain intrepid, however, spontaneity will not lose its advantages.”
“
Fearing word of his womanizing would get back to Velma, Floyd would book his sons’ band identifying as Dalton. With the war ending, demand for musical performers for holiday events paused for it surged and their AM radio notoriety did not go unnoticed. Hot Springs offered to make them the headliner for its Christmas season dance, so Floyd, without hesitation, made quick agreement in anticipation of escaping the river by managing their music career.
Vee believed she had married a sweet boy who had been assigned to the motor pool. Without documented children and combat experience, the points he had otherwise accumulated for service time and overseas duties were not enough to qualify him for his magic carpet ride until the holiday. Her nursing duties had made it clear, however, that the war left scars upon all who returned from it. Would Billy be the same?
“Howie, it looks like Dad has found another Linda,” Harry chuckled.
“A Linda?” Howie responded.
“Yes. Just a nice young woman who needs quick help to fix everything.” Harry continued with a grin.
