Louise's Gamble by Sarah R Shaber Read Free Book Online Page B

lean forward, revealing the tops of her breasts. She danced with every man there, even the young ones who could barely bring themselves to ask her, and played no favorites. But she stayed safely on the correct side of the sexy/slutty line. I wondered what sort of mission she was destined for. Perhaps she was one of those women who were willing to give all for their country.
    Sandy and I had no shortage of dance partners either. I stuck to one beer too, but Sandy had several, and she turned out to be a giggler. When taps finally sounded, Myrna and I guided her back to our bedroom.
    Going up the mansion’s back stairs we came face-to-face with another pin-up on the landing. But this one was very different from the ones in the cabaret. It depicted a sweet-faced girl in a prim white shirt. The bold print ranged across the poster said: She may look clean, but . . . The poster went on to warn men that pick-ups, good-time girls, and prostitutes carried syphilis and gonorrhea, and that soldiers and sailors couldn’t fight the Axis if they had VD.
    ‘Well,’ Myrna said. ‘Men. They don’t know what to think of us, do they?’
    After bathing and changing into pajamas we faced our stacks of reading material. In less than an hour Sandy dumped hers on the floor.
    ‘I’ll never need all this,’ she said, turning off her bedside lamp and pulling her covers over her head.
    I skimmed every document. I wanted to be more thorough, but there was too much to read carefully. The material covered observation, concealment, cover stories, bribery, communications, first aid, ciphers, and diagrams of weapons and unarmed combat. When I fell sound asleep around midnight Myrna was still up reading and taking notes with a vengeance.

SEVEN
    R eveille blared so loudly that it sounded like the trumpeter was sitting at the foot of my bed.
    ‘Hell’s Bells,’ Myrna said, swinging her legs over the side of her bed.
    I dragged myself upright. Sandy was already on her way to the bathroom, showing no signs of a hangover.
    A knock sounded at our door. Without opening it Sergeant Smith hollered out to us, ‘Calisthenics on the training ground, girls!’
    We pulled on slacks and sweaters and went outside into the chilled air. It was still dark. Kerosene lanterns outlined a large rectangle in the dirt. A new instructor, Corporal Jones, organized us into three lines.
    ‘Now you girls,’ he said, placing us in the back row, ‘we don’t expect you to keep up with the men, just do your best.’
    I sweated through jumping jacks and running in place, but the push-ups did me in. Myrna too. But I was pleased to see Sandy kept at it until after nearly half of the men had dropped out. At least one of us had exceeded the patronizing expectations of Jones.
    After cleaning up we met again in the dining room. We downed waffles and eggs and even had orange juice. There was sugar for the coffee. I’d suspected the camp got extra rations; the orange juice and sugar proved it.
    We were given fifteen minutes before meeting again in the classroom, which was set up in the long reception room of the mansion. At the door Smith beckoned to Sandy and pulled her aside.
    The lights dimmed for a slide show on first aid, but Sandy didn’t return to the room. I checked outside the door to see if she was sneaking a cigarette. No Sandy.
    Smith leaned up against the wall.
    ‘Where’s Sandy?’ I asked. ‘Class is about to start.’
    ‘Not coming,’ Smith said.
    ‘What? Where is she?’
    ‘Gone.’
    Back inside the room, in the dark punctuated by the shifting light of the changing slides, I passed a note to Myrna. She scanned it and raised an eyebrow. We both knew Sandy was booted for talking and drinking too much. Last night at the cabaret was what the OSS training curriculum referred to as a relaxation test, to see if one of us let down our guard under the ‘influence of alcohol and social distractions’. Like vulgar pictures, attentive men, and booze. Sandy had