The sound of marching forced itself into Eliza’s
brain; the thumping so repetitive that it became white noise,
her ears ringing in an attempt to ignore the horror surrounding her. In front of her, the telephone switchboard lit
up. France, 1918—another day at the American Signal Corps
outpost near the front.
Eliza adjusted her headset, her hands trembling
slightly as she connected the call. It was only her first week
as a Hello Girl, and she doubted she could survive much
longer.
“Signal Corps, go ahead,” she said, her practiced
French pronunciation earning a nod from the supervising
officer across the room. She connected lieutenants to generals, translated vital intelligence, and tried not to think about
which messages might be the last words some soldier would
hear from home.
A grunt jolted Eliza from her thoughts. She had
felt invisible until now, hidden within her small wooden
shack. She straightened the crip collar of her uniform and
returned her attention
to the switchboard
before her. She couldn’t
afford to lose this
position. The work demanded skill: the different wires
tangled constantly, making it impossible to switch fast. Her
back ached from hours hunched over the board, her finger
throbbing from the plugs and wires. In moments of despair,
she almost envied the soldiers —at least their suffering came
with respect. But no, she didn’t truly wish to die. She merely
yearned for dignity.
She hated lunch—being alone with her thoughts
was miserable. Staring at her sandwich, she could almost see
a face forming in the bread, peering at her, judging. It ended
up in a trash can, uneaten; a strange sight in such a desperate place. She decided it was best to be productive to quiet
her mind. She fixed her hat, made sure it sat straight, and
washed off her face with water. She dragged herself back
to her booth, yanking her feet out of the thick mud one at a
time. It was a gross task that she had grown used to. Every
step felt harder, like something was grabbing and pulling
her in.
Two officers stood huddled in a corner, speaking
in hushed whispers, facing away from the commotion of bustling personnel. Eliza appeared to be washing the mud off
her boots, but she couldn’t care less about the dark brown
stains. Instead, she found herself listening intently to the
lieutenant’s conversation.
“Did you hear about the German spy they caught
last week?” one whispered. “A woman. Had forged papers
and everything.” The other nodded grimly.
“They say there could be more. Especially among
the civilian workers.”
Eliza’s heart pounded. Were they talking about
her? Did they suspect something? But why would they? She
was American through and through. A firm hand grabbed
her shoulder, yanking her out of her spiraling thoughts.
“Back to work,” Captain Miller bellowed, his thick mustache
hiding his expression. But his eyes—they knew something.
She knew what she had to do.
***
Sunlight faded below the horizon as the shadows
lengthened. The gas canister felt heavy in Eliza’s hands. She
clutched it tighter, scared it might escape her grasp. This
was her mission now— her only chance. Eliza ran, pulling
herself out of the mud that sucked at her boots. A few soldiers glanced her way, confusion evident on their faces, but
no one stopped her. Why would they? She was one of the
Hello Girls, just going about her duties.
She ran faster, her legs pounding beneath her, breath coming in ragged gasps. At last, she
jumped into her switchboard booth, pushing a chair against
the door to block her in. The canister felt colder now, her
hands stinging from the metal. For a second, she forgot how
to use it—what to pull, what to twist. She stood frozen, trying
to recall how the soldiers carried them.
BANG!
Someone was trying to break down the door; but
it was too late. She’d already broken the seal on the canister.
The gas was filling the small booth, choking her; each
breath only made her throat burn more. Her vision blurred.
Screaming in pain, she collapsed to the floor, eyes stinging,
unable to cry. The door splintered as someone forced it
open. She could feel her body shutting down, everything
failing at once.
With her last strength, Eliza forced her eyes open.
Her chief officer knelt beside her, ripping off his gas mask
and pressing it to her face as he shouted for help. In the distance, the real gas alarm began to sound—a German attack
beginning miles away at the front.
The canister in Eliza’s hands was empty.
It had always been empty.