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The Widow & The War Correspondent

By Linda Shenton Matchett

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New Hampshire, February 1944


Chapter One
Journalist Cora Strealer winced, gripping her pencil and notepad tighter as the burly man next to her tromped on her toes and cheered with the rest of the crowd. Whistles and applause filled the high school gymnasium, reverberating off the wood floor and cement walls. The largest room in her small town overflowed with members of the press, the public, and leaders of their tiny municipality anticipating the appearance of Rita Hayworth at the war bond rally. Someone had tried to purge the decades-old smell of sweaty teenage basketball players, but the acrid stink of perspiration clung to the crisp scent of bleach.
The last two rallies had been well-attended, but the announcement about the beautiful movie star’s presence brought folks from miles around, including newspapermen from Boston, who wouldn’t normally give their event a second glance. She rolled her eyes. The only reason she’d gotten the assignment instead of Oscar Blanding, the other full-time writer for their weekly paper, was his hospitalization. Much to his chagrin, he’d developed appendicitis and required surgery to remove the offending organ. Bad for him, fantastic for her.
Would this be the big break she was waiting for?
She sighed. Probably not. As soon as he was released, Oscar would be back to writing the major news, and she’d be relegated to fluff pieces: graduations, engagement parties, retirement parties, and weddings with the occasional selectmen’s meeting thrown in for good measure.
Her writing was strong. Mr. Paxton, her editor, admitted that pearl several months ago during yet another argument as to why she wasn’t allowed to cover feature stories. Maybe she could weasel her way into an interview with Miss Hayworth, then Mr. Paxton would have to let her do the article. Once it was published, the Associated Press or United Press could pick it up, sending it around the globe in one of the big newspapers. Then she’d get real coverage, a shot at the big leagues.
The jubilant man knocked into her again, this time sending Doris crashing into the wall. She gritted her teeth and craned her neck to search for another spot from which to cover the event. Surely, there was a place she could stand and see everything without getting engulfed in the mass of humanity.
Sunlight glinted through the windows overhead. Doris squinted, and her gaze caught movement near the bleachers on the far side of the room. Perfect. Unless every other journalist in the room thought of hiding out underneath the wooden seating, she’d have a decent view without the chaos.
Fortunately, the benches weren’t made of metal or the scrap collection committee would have snatched them along with the railings, cook pots, and other items that had disappeared over the course of the war.
She flattened her body against the wall and squeezed past the revelers. What would they be like when Miss Hayworth greeted them?
“Excuse me. Sorry. Coming through.” Doris threaded her way along the perimeter of the room. She tried to ignore the frowns and glares from the attendees. Weren’t they happy there was one less person in front of them?
Fifteen minutes of pushing and slithering brought her to the bleachers. She surveyed the undulating mass of people then ducked underneath the stands.
“Cora. I wondered when you’d come to your senses and join me.” Her friend since elementary school, Amanda Norton, stood under the bleachers, a mischievous grin on her face. Ebony hair swept up into a smooth chignon, and wearing a cobalt-blue blouse with a black pencil skirt and stiletto heels, she looked every inch the executive she was.
“You look fabulous as always. Did you come straight from work?”
“Yeah, Dad said one of the family should represent us, and he had a bunch of phone calls to make.”
“I still can’t believe he gave you the manufacturing director’s position over your brother.” Cora pushed down tendrils of jealousy. What would it be like to have a challenging job and be taken seriously?
“Phil didn’t want the job. He’s happy tinkering in Research and Development.” Amanda shrugged. “The board of directors was the difficult mountain to climb, but Dad convinced them I’m the best person. I think they’re waiting for me to fail.” She shook her head. “Not going to happen. Anyway, enough about me. I don’t wish the man ill will, but Oscar’s appendicitis worked out for you, huh?”
“I’m hoping to score an interview with Miss Hayworth, but there are so many big-name reporters, I don’t stand a chance.”
Amanda smiled like a cat who’d finished a bowl of cream. “What if I were to tell you a certain movie star is going to tour our plant tomorrow, and I could get you time with her?”
Cora squealed. “You’re the best. This might be my big break.”
##
Cora threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. The wooden floor was cold on her bare feet as she hurried to the closet to select her outfit. The smell of pancakes filtered from the kitchen. Moving back home after her husband was killed with so many others during the attack at Pearl Harbor, she slept in the bedroom that had been hers since childhood. Her gaze went to the framed photograph of Brian. After two-and-a-half years, his death still seemed unreal. Trapped in the USS Arizona when the ship went down, his body hadn’t been returned.
No body. No casket. No viewing. When would she stop looking for him to come through the door?
She closed her eyes for a long moment searching her heart. Sure, she missed Brian, but with their whirlwind courtship and even shorter marriage, she hardly felt like a widow. Was she wrong to have those feelings? Her mother would be horrified.
Opening her eyes, Cora continued to run her hands over the clothes hanging in her closet. What did one wear when meeting a famous celebrity? Especially someone as elegant and refined as Miss Hayworth.
Her fingers fell on the sage-colored silk suit she’d worn for her wedding. Heart hammering, she pulled the outfit off its hanger and walked to the full-length mirror in the corner. She held the suit in front of her, studying her reflection in the glass. Blonde hair fell past her shoulders in a tangled mass, and her blue eyes picked up the green from the suit and seemed almost turquoise.
“Ugh. I look like a teenaged cheerleader with these freckles. No one would guess I’m thirty-one years old.” Rubbing her eyes that burned from lack of sleep, she yawned. How many times had she awakened with another idea for the interview? She glanced at the illegible scrawl on the top sheet of her notebook.
Time was wasting. She hurried to the bathroom and fifteen minutes later was dressed, ready to go. She stuffed the steno pad and extra pencils into her pocketbook and skipped down the stairs.
A car horn beeped outside, and she opened the door to wave at Amanda. Racing into the kitchen, she kissed her mother on the cheek and grabbed a piping hot pancake. Rolling it up, she blew on the hot cake before taking a bite. She snatched a napkin from the table. “Yummy as always, Mom. See you later.”
“Have fun, honey.”
“Thanks.” Cora bit off another piece of the pancake as she left the house and rushed to Amanda’s car. Considered an essential war worker, she was assigned a C gasoline ration sticker, giving her more than the usual four gallons per week that most people were allotted.
Nearly out of her own rationed amount of fuel, Cora was thrilled when Amanda offered to pick her up. Bicycling to the plant in her suit hardly seemed like an option. She wiped her fingers on the napkin then opened the door and climbed inside the back seat of the car. Her jaw dropped, and her breath quickened.
Seated beside her, Miss Hayworth smiled and held out her hand. “Mrs. Strealer? A pleasure to meet you.”
Cora’s heart threatened to jump from her chest, and she took a deep breath as she shook the movie star’s hand. “Uh, actually I use my maiden name for my byline, but you can call me Cora.”
“Perfect, and please call me Rita. We don’t need formalities with just us girls here.” She smoothed the skirt on her emerald-green dress then straightened the pillbox hat set on her gleaming titian-colored hair, orange highlights glinting in the early morning sun. Her smile was genuine as she patted Cora’s knee. “How long have you been a newspaperwoman?”
“Since high school. I got my degree in English then moved to Hawaii when my husband was assigned there. I wrote for the Honolulu Star Advertiser, but after he was killed, I moved back home, and now I write for the local paper.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your husband.”
Cora shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
From the driver’s seat, Amanda gestured over her shoulder. “Cora’s a great writer. I think she should apply to become a war correspondent. Especially with her experience at Pearl.”
Face heating, Cora shook her head. “Amanda, Miss Hayworth…Rita…doesn’t want to hear about my life.”
“On the contrary.” Rita smiled. “It will be nice to focus on someone other than myself. I appreciate what my celebrity status can do for the boys in the service and the country’s morale, but being the center of attention is fatiguing. Tell me about the opportunity.”
Licking her lips, Cora gulped. “In order to be a war correspondent overseas, I need to receive accreditation from the government which involves a lengthy background check and a physical. Working for such a tiny newspaper, I’m not sure I’ll pass.”
“How about the Associated Press or United Press?” Rita cocked her head.
“Don’t they have plenty of staff already?”
“This war spans the globe. There can never be too many reporters. I’ll write you a letter of introduction to the London bureau chief for the UP. Will that help?”
Cora’s eyes widened. “Well…uh—”
Amanda clapped her hands. “You’re a peach, Rita. A recommendation from you should get our girl in.”
“I’m happy to help. We gals need to stick together.”
“Thank you, Miss—Rita. I appreciate the offer. I haven’t decided to pursue going overseas.”
“You can’t let this pass you by, Cora. You’re stagnating here in this one-horse town. Nothing is keeping you here. Certainly not this newspaper that doesn’t appreciate your talent. I say you go for it. Don’t you agree, Rita?”
Rita turned to Cora. “What do you want? Are you happy with your current position? You need to make the decision that’s right for you, but I will say that if I hadn’t made some changes in my life, I wouldn’t be the star I am today. Sometimes shaking things up is good. Perhaps being a war correspondent will be the best thing to happen to you. Maybe not, but you won’t know unless you try.”
Cora slumped against the seat. “You’re right. I’m stuck in a rut. Here in town, everyone feels sorry for me. They tiptoe around, afraid to talk about the war or my husband. A fresh start where no one knows about Brian might be just the ticket.” Grinning, she straightened and crossed her arms. “Look out, world. Here I come.”


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