Page 5 of The Women of Oak Ridge
CHAPTER TWO:MAE
OAK RIDGE, TENNESSEE
CLINTON ENGINEER WORKS
APRIL 1944
The first thing I noticed about Clinton Engineer Works was the armed guards. Uniformed men stood at a gate flanked by guardhouses, guns holstered at their hips, faces unsmiling. Barbed wire fencing extended out of sight in both directions from the gate, whether to keep people in or out, I wasn’t certain.
The sight was unexpected and unsettling.
Our bus, full of young women my age who’d all boarded in Knoxville, stopped at the entrance. Soldiers, their armbands indicating they were military police, searched every inch of the vehicle and checked each woman’s ID. When they were finally satisfied, we were allowed to enter what was oddly referred to asthe Reservationby one of the guards, tucked in a valley of tree-covered hills somewhere in East Tennessee.
After we passed through the gate and wound our way along adirt road to a small town, the second thing I noticed was the mud. Acres and acres of thick, reddish-brown mud filled the landscape as far as I could see. It gave one the impression that once-fertile farmland had been plowed over by a giant tractor and was left devoid of all manner of vegetation. Miles and miles of wooden walkways led to dozens and dozens of simple, unattractive buildings and hordes of structures under construction, eventually disappearing into woods at the edges of the red-brown mud. A spring rain shower had erupted over us as we made our way west from Knoxville, intensifying the already uncomfortable humidity, but upon seeing the squishy, saturated ground here on the Reservation, I gathered it had rained quite a bit lately.
The third and most baffling thing I saw were large billboards and signs meant to catch our attention. One depicted three monkeys, each with their hands over eyes, ears, or mouth, that readWhat You See Here, What You Do Here, What You Hear Here, When You Leave Here, Let It Stay Here. Another readLoose Talk Helps Our Enemywith a picture of a German soldier and a swastika.
I couldn’t begin to guess their meaning.
The brave driver slowly navigated the muddy path as best he could and eventually came to a stop in front of a large, two-story building. A cluster of people stood outside, ostensibly waiting for us to arrive.
With my old suitcase clutched to my chest, I disembarked with the other women. I did my best to follow the foot impressions of those who’d gone before me, hoping to keep my brand-new saddle oxfords from being completely ruined on the first day. Mama had sewn two dresses for me—one made over from her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ best, and another from piecing together two I’d outgrown—but she’d splurged to purchase the sturdy shoes and white socks from the coal company store. She’d saved our shoe ration coupon for a special occasion, but I was familiar enoughwith the greedy practices of the company-owned store to know the exorbitant price would be added to the already enormous debt Pa owed. I’d protested the extravagance, but Mama wouldn’t hear of me going off to a new and exciting job in Tennessee with worn-out footwear passed on from a kindly lady at church.
I fell into line with the women who’d traveled on the bus with me, all headed to the same destination, with the same questions on our minds: Where are we going, and what will we do once we arrive?
No one, it seemed, knew the answers.
I thought back to the day a man approached me while I worked behind the counter of Wagner hardware store in our small Kentucky town. He introduced himself as a recruiter for Clinton Engineer Works, a Tennessee company involved in “war work.” Ever since President Roosevelt announced that the United States had declared war on Japan, Germany, and Italy, factories all over the country changed course and were converted to produce things the military required to defeat our enemies. Automakers built trucks, tanks, aircraft engines, guns and munitions. Clothing factories put out thousands of uniforms and boots. Even the Lionel toy train company got involved and began making items for the war effort, including compasses and compass cases for ships.
The recruiter was impressed with my knowledge of plumbing parts and tools and declared that kind of experience could be useful to the company he worked for. He guaranteed I would earn three times the salary I was making now if I came to Tennessee.
That got my attention.
“I can’t tell you exactly where Clinton Engineer Works is located or what they’re producing there,” he said, seemingly sincere, “but I promise it will help win the war. And isn’t that what we all want? To end the fighting and bring our boys home?”
He’d given me a pamphlet to take home to my folks and talk over the job offer. Pa, who’d gone back to work at the coal minedespite his failing health and Mama’s pleading to stay home, had heard companies with military contracts were recruiting women. With most of the country’s young men off fighting in Europe or the Pacific, it fell to the female population to roll up their sleeves and work in the factories.
Pa’s face came to mind.
Last year the coal company owner warned we’d lose our housing if Pa didn’t come back to work. I’d cried silent tears watching my frail, bone-thin father pull on his blackened helmet and carry his lunch bucket out the door. It was the very reason I stood in ankle-deep mud somewhere in Tennessee, ready to accept a job I knew nothing about. The money I hoped to send home would surely be enough to pay off the store debt and allow Pa to quit his job in the mines.
“Ladies,” a woman’s voice rose above all the others, bringing me back to the present. Everyone fell silent. “Welcome to Clinton Engineer Works. I’m sure you have many questions, but I’ll need you to keep them to yourselves for the time being. When you hear your name, come forward.”
She called us in alphabetical order, so it would take time before she got to me.
The pretty blonde woman in front of me turned and offered a friendly smile. “Ain’t this excitin’?”
I nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Me neither. I can’t imagine what we’ll be doing in a place this far from the city, but I don’t guess it matters as long as it helps end the war. My brother Joe is in Europe fightin’ Hitler, and Mama worries every day something bad is gonna happen to him.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Sylvia Galloway, but everyone back home calls me Sissy.”
I shifted the case to my left hand and shook hers with my right. “Maebelle Willett, but most folks call me Mae.”
We chatted about the small town in Georgia where she grew up, and I told her about Kentucky. It wasn’t long before she was called forward and we bid each other goodbye.
There were only two of us left in line by the time I heard my name.
After quizzing me on how I learned about the job at CEW and what type of experience I had, the woman handed me a piece of paper with typed information on it. “Take this and go through that door.” She indicated one of the entrances. “Someone inside will give you further instructions.”
