Faith In Fiction | Renew My Strength
The events of today, July 19, 1942, will be forever seared into my memory. As my train slows, nearing Des Moines, my heart flutters uncontrollably. It is here that I will be trained on military duty and protocol as a member of the newly formed Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WAAC). Leaving behind my family and the sights and sounds of my beloved North Carolina hurts more than I ever imagined. My mind starts to spin as I wonder if or when I will again see my family, my hometown, the white country church where my father preaches or the quaint little storefront at the center of town. Holding back tears, I remind myself,
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” Matthew 6:24
When the train pulls into the depot, I am taken aback by the large crowds on both sides of the tracks. Seeing the welcoming party, the military commander on board gruffly barks, “exit the train with heads down, ladies, no talking. Walk directly to the army trucks for transport to the base. That’s an order!” Obeying, I hesitantly follow the commander and the women ahead of me. With reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, onlookers shouting that women don’t belong in the military, we walk quickly, like a herd of cattle, to the waiting caravan.
Stone gates, a downpour of rain, and the smell of horse manure welcome us to Fort Des Moines where we are quickly checked-in for a physical, a meal and assignment to a company. Walking into the red brick barracks for the first time, I search for the bed, wall locker and footlocker labeled with my military ID. I’m not the only woman appalled that the only bathroom, or latrine as we are instructed to call it, is two flights of stairs away. With only thirty minutes to settle in and get dressed, I struggle to put on my ill-fitting uniform. Some women laugh, some cry and others shriek in horror at the look and uncomfortableness of these uniforms, which clearly were made without women in mind. The skirts fit none of us and the jackets, made of heavy wool, are clearly unbearable for the muggy July heat. Although I ignore the ugliness of the cap, I yelp in pain, as most of the women do, when the brim cuts sharply into the forehead. Tempted to complain on behalf of us all, I stop myself and remember to pray the psalm that I’ve practiced and am sure will be repeated often,
“Set a guard, O Lord, over my mouth; keep watch over the door of my lips.” (Psalm 141:3)
The following morning, all of the ladies in my barracks are awake by five-thirty, excitedly working together to get dressed, make beds and get the barracks in order before 6:00am reville. By evening, my feet are full of blisters and I am utterly exhausted after a painfully long day of marching in sweltering heat, practicing drills in the wet, muddy fields, attending class until evening, studying and the arduous hours-long evening task of washing and ironing my uniform and shining my shoes.
This schedule becomes a daily pattern and by the end of the week, I am so weary and my spirit is so crushed that I honestly don’t think that I can make it through another day. As night falls, many hushed conversations can be heard about giving up and returning home. A few minutes after lights out, a sweet voice arises from one of the bunks on the other side of the room,
“He gives power to the weak, and to those who have no might, He increases strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall. But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” Isaiah 40:29-31
At five o’clock in the morning, the sound of the wind awakens me and I immediately feel my strength, spirit and attitude refreshed. My heart settles into this place where God has assigned me and I commit to filling it lovingly and sweetly with his peace and joy, just as the anonymous voice did last night. Tonight after the lights are turned off, I vow that it will be my voice reciting an encouraging Scripture verse for all to hear.
Suddenly, one of the officer candidates, a wide smile on her face, bursts into the room and hands out new uniforms; this time, they not only fit, but they also are made of comfortable, lighter weight khaki material. Praise the Lord! Once morning drills are over, we stand in formation, being addressed by the Director of the WAACs. In a strong Texan accent, she tells us, “You are the first women to serve. Never forget it. You have taken off silk and put on khaki. You have a debt to democracy and a date with destiny. You may be called upon to give your lives.”
The speech is inspiring but when I write home, I’ll leave out that last statement. With three sons serving overseas, my parents don't need to know that I too may be called upon to risk my life. With the first week of basic training finished, I fall into a rhythm and the remaining three weeks go by quickly. Confident that I’m ready to tackle any area of clerical work now, I choose to stay an additional two weeks for training on army cooking. Cooking for five hundred soldiers is astoundingly more challenging than cooking (alongside my mother and three sisters) for my ‘little’ family of ten!
Finally, August 28 is here. Every member of my regiment has endured and each one steps forward, in turn, to receive an envelope with her next assignment and location. As soon as we’re dismissed, I anxiously tear into my letter to find out where the future will take me next. In big, bold letters, my orders simply state ‘Hampton Roads Port of Embarkation, NEWPORT NEWS, VIRGINIA.’ I’ve never heard of that base but my heart leaps that I’ll be returning to the South, not far from my dearly loved North Carolina. Newport News, here I come!
