The making of a war bride

By BARBARA ELVY STRATE

The question most often asked me in 1944 and by residents of the Bitterroot Valley was, “How did you and Sherman meet?”

I understood their wanting to know how a young man so well-known throughout the valley, whose family homesteaded on the outskirts of Darby, Mont. in 1920, was schooled and made a name for himself in athletic competitions and volunteered his service to the Royal Canadian Air Force had returned home with a British bride and a young son. Being an immigrant from a country known mostly through radio news of the British Royal Family, they didn’t know what to expect or how to act with this stranger.

My answer to their many questions was:

My friend Jeanne and I were dancers in a musical revue titled ‘Birds of a Feather’ at the Prince of Wales Theatre, located on Shaftsbury Avenue a block off Piccadilly Circus in London. The show’s schedule was three shows a day, 1 p.m., 4 p.m. and 7 p.m., six days a week. Dancers could only work in two shows a day by rules of the British Theatrical Union.

Jeanne and I had a tea break after the matinee, and we went to a small restaurant. We didn’t remove our stage makeup as we were scheduled to dance in the 7 p.m. performance. It took about an hour to remove and re-apply. It looks great with the strong stage lighting but not in daylight.

We found a small table and ordered our tea. Across the room two airmen dressed in smoky blue Royal Air Force uniforms moved from their table and stood by ours. They asked about our makeup. We explained, and then they asked to meet us for a cocktail after the show. We walked to a pub through throngs of uniformed men from European countries and the British dominions. Our evening ended with Bill and Don walking us to Piccadilly Underground Station for the last train to Shepherds Bush, where Jeanne and I had a flat. We had dates to meet on their next leave.

About two weeks later I scampered down the stairs to meet Don.

The Stage Doorman, said, “Miss Elvy, this young man is waiting for you.”

It wasn’t Don. He wore the Royal Air Force blue uniform. His hat perched at a saucy angle revealed blond wavy hair. He sort of scanned me with eyes as blue as his uniform. I introduced myself.

He said: “Hi, I’m Sherman. Don was sent on a mission. He asked me to meet you.” His slow drawl revealed to me that he wasn’t Canadian or British.

As we walked out of the Stage Door into darkness I noticed a USA patch on the left shoulder of his uniform. Our conversation was light as we walked along the street to a Supper Club in Piccadilly Circus, in fact the conversation was quite one-sided. This young man, with Hollywood leading-man good looks, eyes as blue as the skies he flew in, snow white teeth, broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist and hips, on down to a slim leg line and highly polished black shoes answered my questions with “Yep” or “No”, or a slightly amused grin. “I see by the patch on the shoulder you are American?”

“Y-yep”

“What part of America are you from?”

“Montana.” He answered in his lazy drawl.

Well, I couldn’t add to our conversation, as I had no idea of Montana’s location and didn’t want to show my geographical ignorance by asking.

Our evening was pleasant. Before I boarded the underground train for Shepherds Bush he gave me his serial number and base address. We made that much progress with ease. As the electric doors closed he lifted his hand and said, “See Ya.”

The man of my dreams stood on the platform until the train entered the tunnel.

Every day, front pages of newspapers covered the bombing raids over France. At the time, England and France declared war on Germany on Sept. 3, 1939. The British Royal Air Force was no more then a few airplanes manned by men of affluent families - rather like a private men’s club.

Sherman, with his pilot’s license after flight training a Canada in 1940, landed on English soil in 1941, the year we met.

On the raids over France he flew the American-made Douglas A20, Boston Bombers that were a low-level, three-man bomber-fighter, with a crew of three: pilot, navigator, gunner. Bill was his Navigator, and a British Cockney his gunner.

Reading the number of A-20’s reported downed, or returned to base crippled over France, my concern for Sherman prompted me to send him a note. Names of the crews were not published also.

Since he left London, Jeanne and I auditioned for dancer spots in Lupino Lane’s Musical Comedy titled ‘Twenty to One’ to open at the Victoria Palace, with Mantovani as Music Director. I didn’t get a reply. Then one evening after the last show, I saw him leaning against the wall of a building across the street. He sauntered across the street and hugged me … lightly. I wiped away my few tears.

We dated when he had leave and wrote short notes to each other when he returned to his base. In the spring of 1942 we became engaged. On our way to one of London’s best hotels to celebrate our engagement, Sherman bought me a posy of violets from one of the many flower ladies, who for centuries have occupied the side walks around Piccadilly Circus, their baskets and wheelbarrows filled, quite often with posies of wild flowers.

From a very meager selection we ordered our meal. Sherman asked for coffee, our meal was served with the flourish of British waiters. No coffee. He asked again for it. A small salad was served. No coffee. Again he asked for coffee. Our desert was served and the table cleared. He repeated his request for coffee. The waiter, still very prim and proper, left our table and returned with two cups and saucers and two containers. He asked “White or Black?” A questioning look crossed Sherman’s face. I enlightened him; “Coffee is considered to be the last course of dinner, and the waiter is asking if you would like hot milk in your coffee or have it black.” Sherman shook his head rather perturbed with the protocol and snapped, “Black.”

After a Saturday night show we rode the Underground and double-decker bus to my home in Sutton, Surrey. Time had to come to introduce Sherman to my parents, my younger brother and my sister Diana whose husband was with the British Army in the Middle East, to announce our engagement and wedding plans for July 21 to the man of my dreams, who would then have 10 days of leave.

I could tell by the easy conversation that my family was impressed with my choice of life-mate.

Mum asked, “What is the area like where you live.”

Sherman replied, “I’m taking your daughter so deep into the mountains that she’ll never get out.” An amused smile softened his words.

My Daddy said: “Mother and I have talked of immigrating to the sates. Now we would have a reason, if that’s agreeable with you.”

Sherman agreed.

“You know you will be far from home,” Mum said while she looked at me.

I answered, “I know.”

With our wedding party member we traveled again from London to my home. The next morning Sherman’s buddy, “Blackie,” a French Canadian, and best man, Jeanne, my maid of honor and my mum rode a bus to Epson, Surrey for our ceremony in the Registry Office.

I wore a pale blue dress, a wide brimmed, brown straw hat and brown accessories. A vase of snowdrops graced the Registrar’s Desk. The new bride and groom were hugged and congratulated. Our happy wedding party walked across the street to a pub where we were toasted by our friends and strangers. At home we enjoyed our wedding cake that had a false, decorated, white removable cover because of the shortage of icing sugar.

Before our return to London, “Blackie” raised his glass of wine and said: “To Barbara, and my Buddy Sherman. If you never have anything else in your life, you will have beautiful children.”