The Girls of Atomic City (21 page)

“Anyone not living that way can’t realize how drab existence is there,” she told the group of nine assembled. “You just get through work, freshen up, eat, and go back there.”

What do they want to do? How can we help?
were the questions from the others at the meeting. A lengthy discussion followed.

“Here there are no organizations to start with,” Mrs. Brown continued. “In an ordinary town you have paid commercial recreation, you would have various school clubs, college alumni, church groups,
YWCA, and YMCA . . . Dormitory life, for everyone except the very young, is very abnormal and difficult . . .”

This sentiment was echoed later by psychiatrist Dr. Clarke when he arrived in spring. Bringing together people from all walks of life with a common purpose but, in most cases, no familial or societal ties certainly encouraged individuals to get to know one another rather quickly. But the rate of adjustment varied. It took more than houses to make homes, more than cafeterias and bowling alleys to build community. Dr. Clarke noted upon arriving that homesickness, especially among the young women, remained a concern, as did morale and depression.

For many women, Oak Ridge was in some ways similar to the colleges they had attended; for others, it was how they imagined college might be, had they had the chance to go—minus the gates, guards, and guns, of course. Rosemary, the nurse from Iowa, was finding life at the Clinton Engineer Works to be a real pip—young, single, and with good money to boot. But she, too, had noted the depression cases that made their way to Dr. Clarke’s office, just around the corner from her own. When she observed women with children, and others who had never left home before, she realized it could be quite jarring for the less adventurous, and especially tough for housewives and young mothers.

But in a town where groups of folks chatting in the streets might be broken up by plainclothes informants, Mrs. Brown and others knew there would be challenges.

“I presume the feeling would be that Military Intelligence wouldn’t want to bring in various organized groups,” Mrs. Brown stated.

“You will never get permission of security to let organized personnel come in,” a Captain Teeter later added, “for the same reason for disallowing information to leave here about the size of the town . . .”

Recreational groups should, like everything else, be organized and controlled from the top down as much as possible. A controlled system of recreation would keep everyone, at the very least, distracted.

A lot had happened in the six months since this December meeting. The Project knew activities were not going to sprout up out of the mud without a little fertilizer. So at first they had helped get things started by instituting groups and game nights and dances in the existing rec halls.

Everything will be taken care of . . .

But soon, the enterprising, hardworking, and optimistic among residents began creating their own activities to fill the void, and through Roane-Anderson, the Project provided facilities wherever possible. Individuals were actively encouraged to form their own clubs. If they did, space and sometimes a little bit of money might be available.

The results were stunning. Activities at CEW had grown from Monday “quiz night” and dancing at the far end of the Townsite’s only cafeteria to beer taverns, a drive-in, miniature golf, roller skating, and trampoline tumbling. The newspaper pleaded for residents to suggest activities. This eventually resulted in groups that served every interest imaginable: music appreciation, jazz records, Boy Scouts, Girls Scouts, chorus, and drama. Virginia’s favorites were hiking and photography. Bridge was a huge hit, as was bowling, with leagues forming at all the plants. Gardening—don’t forget those Victory gardens!—volleyball, softball, baseball, basketball, horseshoes, tennis, badminton, archery, men’s glee club, arts and crafts, an ornithological group, the Rabbit Breeders Association, and the Red Cross, which also sponsored a sewing room in the Townsite recreation center. There was the Civil Air Patrol, concert band, American Legion, Masons, DAR, VFW, and the symphony, founded by Waldo Cohn and John Ramsey and conducted by Cohn himself, a biochemist who had arrived in 1943 with his cello in tow. And of course, the Miss Oak Ridge contest was not to be missed.

The problem of what to do and where to go on Saturday night has been solved for Oak Ridge citizens . . . dances will be held for the public every Saturday night on the Townsite tennis courts. The first dance will be held this Saturday, July 22, [1944] at 8:30 PM. . . . (
Oak Ridge Journal
)

This was great news coming on the heels of the very popular Fourth of July dance. Tennis court dances were a hit. There was even the added promise that upcoming dances might feature local talent. At the inaugural July 22 fete, the Oak Ridge Orchestra played and the entry fee was 50 cents for men.
(Psst! Wring out those stockings, ladies—just 25 cents for you.)

Dances were already popular around the Reservation, and there were several held each and every week at various recreation halls. Sunday nights, for example, were for the Ridge rec hall. Dances on the tennis courts were welcome because the outdoor locale allowed you to enjoy swinging and swaying in the cool night breeze—if nature decided to cooperate—rather than indoors where the day’s heat still lingered. Glenn Miller and Johnny Mercer filled the air as all the twentysomethings gathered, ready to “Begin the Beguine” until it was time to go home.

With so many bodies jostling and jitterbugging, dances could render some makeup a sweaty, goopy mess. Heat and humidity were especially challenging for those women who went the extra yard and wore leg makeup. Some young women even drew seams up the back of their legs to simulate stockings or hose, much of which had gone to war, where their fabric was needed for parachutes. If you were a woman handy with a needle and thread, you might get that fabric back in another incarnation: Many young brides had taken to fashioning wedding dresses from the very parachutes that had brought their loves safely back down to earth. Fashion’s contribution to the war effort, come full romantic circle.

Some women wore boots to wade through the mud, then changed into more fetching shoes upon arrival at the dance. Any pairs of stockings that women did have were safely guarded, not to be sacrificed too freely for a mere dance. Stockings were just one of the fashion casualties of war. Zippers took a hike overseas as well—nimble buttoning fingers prevailed. And lipstick was now carefully removed from cardboard or plastic containers and applied gingerly with fingers, since many of the factories that had manufactured the makeup’s metal cases had shifted to constructing shell casings or other
munitions. And some of the ingredients needed to make the lipstick itself, including petroleum and castor oil, were also in short supply. Sacrifices had to be made—big and small. And
maquillage
crisis or not, young women did what they could with what they had when it came time to primping for an evening out.

Colleen had held on to one or two of her old metal lipstick cases long after the lipstick had disappeared from them. Wielding a paper clip, she would fastidiously dig out the remaining bits of pigmented oils and wax from any remaining tubes—or from a newly purchased cardboard tube—and carefully melt it down on a stovetop before pouring the emulsified liquid back into the precious metal case. Women pulled their hair up, perhaps in a chignon, or curled it using whatever was available, bobby pins if you had them for a pin curl, or otherwise a night’s sleep with your tresses twisted around some old rags would do the wavy trick as well.

Any effort was worth it: The average age at CEW was 27. It was a heady mix of backgrounds and personalities: GIs and chemists, construction workers and truck drivers, college girls from big cities far away and high school graduates from farms down the road. Meeting new people was at once easy and a tad complicated. While most everyone was open and anxious to meet new friends, conversations were as restricted as the property itself, usually limited to talk of family and home, safe topics that had nothing to do with your work.

What do you do?

This simple phrase, a standard opening line in many a social situation, was not to be uttered within or without the fences of the Clinton Engineer Works by anyone who worked there if they wanted to keep their jobs.

Where are you from?

This, however, was an entirely acceptable inquiry and one that echoed throughout the dances, cafeterias, and newly constructed recreation halls throughout the Townsite. The emcees of the dances themselves helped make temporary partners of potential wallflowers by filling the nights with dance contests and games orchestrated to coax strangers into one another’s arms—but not too tightly.

Colleen loved the dances and tried never to miss a one. It didn’t matter whether she went with Blackie or with a gang of girls from the dorm where she now lived. After a week clambering over pipe after pipe, she was more than happy to stay on her feet a little while longer if it meant music and friends. Everyone needed this break from routine. It wasn’t like the outside world, where you left work and went “home.” Work was everywhere you looked on the Reservation. But if they had to work hard, they were going to play hard, too.

Now that Colleen had finally moved out of her family’s trailer and into the dorms, dating was a lot easier. She had moved into her cousin Patricia’s single room. Roane-Anderson would have converted it to a double soon enough, anyway. The two did what girlfriends and family did: share clothes. They had each arrived at Oak Ridge with only one small cardboard suitcase, so having a similarly sized roommate meant doubling your wardrobe. But Patricia kept bringing Colleen’s blouses back with various small holes burnt into them. It had happened at work, Patricia said. Colleen didn’t ask how. She didn’t know what Patricia did. It wasn’t her business.

Once Blackie had come around to asking Colleen out, she was happy to oblige, but she certainly wasn’t ready to give up her other beaux. No sensible woman would. She had no idea how long she would even be here. After the war was over, she and her family would likely go home. Blackie was in the military, and he would probably be assigned somewhere else. Everything about the CEW looked so temporary—even as every day it began to feel to Colleen to be more and more permanent.

Despite the plethora of available men in Oak Ridge, dating a GI did have its perks, including access to the PX, which was otherwise off-limits to civilians. Colleen’s understanding of what SED meant was that Blackie had initially enlisted in the Army, but because he had studied engineering they had rerouted him to CEW. The SED hadn’t existed before the Project, so there wasn’t much history to know. But then again, she didn’t need to know much more about him than she already did. He was a Yankee—from Michigan—and an only child to boot. Colleen struggled to imagine a house that
wasn’t spilling over with kids. He wasn’t Catholic, but hey—nobody’s perfect. Blackie shared her longing to travel, but for the time being, dates on the Reservation were often a visit to the cafeteria, convenient and affordable. For the ever-sociable Colleen, sitting up late with Blackie and friends in the cafeteria was one of her favorite things to do, and she loved catching an earful of an unfamiliar accent and learning about faraway places. There, a sing-along was always ready to break through the clink of utensils and the rumbling hub-bub of shift changes, and Johnny Mercer’s 1944 tune could have been the theme song for the entire Reservation. For the entire war.

“You’ve got to Ac-Cen . . . Chu-Ate the positive and E-Lim . . . Uh-Nate the negative . . . Latch on, to the affirmative and Don’t mess with Mr. In-be-Tween . . .”
Most importantly, as far as Colleen was concerned, Blackie knew how to impress a girl.

Case in point: On one of their first dates, he brought her a box of Ivory Flakes soap.

Who needs flowers? Roses fade, but flaky soap available from the PX lasted
months.
Having Ivory Flakes was a rarity in itself, and also saved her valuable time—one less line to stand in, only to find that the grocer was out. Again.

That
was romance, as far as Colleen was concerned. Maybe this guy was a keeper after all.

★ ★ ★

Romance was not first and foremost in Helen Hall’s mind. What little spare time she had between shift work was dedicated to basketball or softball. Oh, how her brother Harold would love the ball courts in her new town! Helen went weak-kneed at the site of those gymnasiums with gleaming new courts and plenty of regulation balls. No more laboring to cut down trees, burying them deep in the Tennessee clay, and then climbing up to nail old privy buckets to them.

She remembered Harold fashioning balls out of hog bladders after the Thanksgiving Day slaughter, and watching them pop and shrivel the minute they bounced out of bounds and into the brush on their small family farm. Helen would have to spend hours in the woods surrounding their farm looking for the most perfectly round rock she
could find and painstakingly wrap it in twine that she snuck from the barn. Daddy didn’t like that, no sir. But he did always come to her games at school. Not like her mother, who found basketball shorts a bit revealing for her taste.

I won’t go see you play naked!
was the gist.

But passing and shooting five-pound rocks with her brothers had developed her game in a way few fancy courts could. She was a decent height, with shoulder-length locks in chestnut waves, and those workouts had given her long legs muscle and shape, her lungs endurance, her arms reach and definition, and her shooting accuracy. She could play with the best of them. Yes, Harold sure would love these ball courts. She wanted him to come home safe so maybe he’d get a chance to see them himself.

That
was the recruiting Helen wanted to do! She wanted more girls for the Y-12 basketball team, the Robins. She wanted to talk to her coworkers about teams and sewing uniforms and maneuvering practice schedules around the constantly changing 24-hour shift work, not eavesdrop on their private conversations in the cafeteria or goad them into disclosing information they probably didn’t even mean to share in the first place.