War Time Weddings by Peggy Scholberg

Parachute Wedding Dress

Even a world at war cannot stop romance. However, during World War II, resources for any sort of dreamt-about wedding celebrations were almost non-existent, especially overseas. Just a few women were lucky enough to obtain white parachute material from paratroopers, originally made of silk and perfect for making a fine wedding dress.

In Girls in a World at War, there were several unique wartime romances, and two weddings took place. Read more in the book to find out just how amazingly resourceful these women were. Even while facing scarcity and rationing, they successfully made those weddings very special occasions.

BOOK EXCERPT

Mathilda knocked at her door and danced in. “We’re going to be married. We’re going to be married! Saturday.”

Kathy hugged her. “Wonderful! Saturday! Just four days.”

“In four days, I’ll be Mrs. Hooch Novotny.” She whirled around the chair.

“Mrs. Novotny.”

Mathilda stopped at Mrs. Foster’s room to tell her too, but she was not there. She went in, stopping in front of the gilded mirror. “The wedding will be simple; our Chaplain, our chapel...” Her hands fluttered from her hair to her skirt. “My hair. How do I fix my hair? A dress. Is there time to make a wedding dress? I can’t have an olive- drab wedding—I won’t have an olive-drab wedding. Olive drab uniform. Olive drab underwear.”

“In this land of fashion, we can find a dressmaker. But, where could we get material?” asked Kathy. The quartermaster and PX wouldn’t stock wedding dress material. The 82nd Airborne and their white nylon parachutes had flown off to Germany. “The dress doesn’t make the wedding. You need only a Chaplain, a bride and a groom. Or should I hunt in Paris for material?”

“Flowers. I must carry flowers. Can you make a bouquet? A bridal bouquet? I want a pretty wedding.” She turned before the mirror. Handsome as her uniform was, it was not a bridal gown.

“Yes,” said Kathy. “I can get flowers.”

“No. There aren’t any flowers.” Mathilda ran from the mirror back into Kathy’s room and flopped dejectedly onto her olive-drab bed. “The flowers have all dried up. No wedding dresses. No flowers. I’ll be an olive drab bride.”

“Mme. Duval has white roses. And maybe some pink ones for your maid of honor.”

“Her roses are all dried up, too.”

“No. They are beautiful. She watered them with dishwater.”

“The soap would kill roses.”

“She had no soap. Her roses are fresh and beautiful.”

“Will you be my maid of honor?”

“I’ll be delighted to be your maid of honor, Mathilda.”

Vivienne came shouting down the hall. “We’re moving out. We’re moving on. Next week. South Pacific, here we come.”

Saturday was as hot as the rest of July had been, yet no one questioned that Mathilda’s wedding would be conducted in full dress uniform. Mathilda, with flushed, perspiring face, twisted her necktie and patted her hair straight. “I wish, I wish there was at least one thing dressed up for my wedding. Same shirt, same skirt that I wore yesterday.”

“You’ll have one new thing, a wedding ring.” Kathy brushed Mathilda’s woolen jacket. It didn’t need brushing, but Mathilda wanted someone to fuss over her.

Mathilda straightened her collar. “You should be able to tell the bride from the bridesmaids. How can you when we’re all dressed in olive drab?”

Vivienne gave her a reassuring smile. “You look different. Your eyes sparkle. Your cheeks are flushed rosy. You’re a beautiful blushing bride. The rest of us are all slightly green with envy, wishing we were getting a wedding ring.” She glanced at her watch. “Ready?”

Kathy took the bouquet of white roses that she had bound together with adhesive tape, wiped the drips on an olive-drab towel, and handed them to Mathilda.

She glowed happily. “Perfect. Kathy, they’re beautiful. I’m a bride.”

Kathy took her pink roses, and they walked from their barracks to the chapel in a Quonset hut.

Hooch waited at the front of the church, with Chaplain Kirkemo on one side and the Colonel as best man on the other. He looked uncomfortable, with perspiration dripping on his chin, but he managed a fond smile for Mathilda.

The organ played the wedding march. Kathy, as maid of honor, walked down the aisle. Hooch watched her, and she lowered her eyes to look at the pink roses quivering in her hands. Hooch should be watching only Mathilda. What kind of life was ahead for her, always wondering, never certain of Hooch’s love? She would want him to conform, but he would seek escape. Hooch would in fact escape right after the honeymoon, off with another unit to China, while Mathilda would return to the States. However, even if he never returned to her, she had a child to love, a better life than the empty one she had lived.

Kathy looked up again, and Hooch was smiling at Mathilda. She loved him. Mathilda’s love would reach him. With love, anything was possible. Hooch would be a good husband. At a wedding, you anticipated a good marriage. At a wedding you thought of the miracles of love.

Kathy passed Charles. His sober eyes were eloquent. This, he was thinking, is what you want.

The Chaplain spoke. “Harry Laurence Novotny, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“Love him, comfort him, honor and keep him...” No, Kathy would not catch a man, nor trap him, nor find a father-figure to hold a shotgun on her groom. She would find first a man who wanted to love, comfort and honor and keep her—and she him—who wanted the responsibilities of children. Mathilda’s wedding was fine for Mathilda, yet Kathy wanted more.

At the officers’ club, Hooch and Mathilda together cut the wedding cake. The Colonel proposed a toast in champagne. Then the bride and groom drove off in a jeep to Paris for their honeymoon.

When they had left, Charles took off his uniform blouse and necktie. “The wedding’s over. Back to the war.”

Kathy wrapped a piece of cake in a napkin, to have to dream on. “Don’t you have something flattering to say about the cake? It had frosting! I made the figurines of mashed dehydrated potatoes. Fortunately, no one tasted them.”

“What dreams will you get on mashed potatoes—dehydrated mashed potatoes, that is? Think you’re clever, don’t you? That’s all right, you are. The cake was superb.” Charles grinned down at her, proud of her. “I say, back to the war. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Girls in a World at War by Peggy Scholberg is available online wherever books are sold.