Hundreds of volumes have been written about the American home front during World War II, but in so many ways, the tome still eludes us. Yes, we’ve heard all about the ration books. Even more about blackout raids and civil defense measures. Internment camps? They’ve gone as far as receiving a nod from the National Park Service. And don’t get me started on Rosie the Riveter. She’s all but become our new Uncle Sam. What we haven’t explored – not even partially, let alone in full – is the role of women like Helen Morrison (Doris Dowling). You know the type. While their men were fighting and dying and bleeding for mere yards – on two fronts, mind you – they were keeping their options open. Some single, some engaged, others married, but all, every last one of ‘em, playing the percentages. Half of humanity on the prowl.
Maybe it was simple fear, knowing that even if he came home alive, he’d be missing parts of himself. The best parts most of all. He, facing death, had but a picture to warm his nights. She, facing loneliness and a wartime dearth of sex toys, had her pick of the litter. Some were on leave. Some were familiar faces; like the milkman or the guy down at the hardware store, 4-F’d due to his weak ticker. Others worked at the plant, catching her eye at just the right moment. Key is, they were like ripe apples falling from the proverbial tree. Ready, willing, and able to make their way to the bedroom of your choosing. Who would know? Or care? Something about a global conflagration to suspend one’s sense of shame. A woman has needs, and I’m guessing the Japanese won’t delay operations so your man can meet you in Honolulu for some much-needed R&R.
Yes, my friends, the women of America, while civilization hung in the balance, spent every morning, noon, and night fucking. In beds, in cars, atop dressers, and on shop floors. During breaks, on weekends, after church, and in lieu of shopping. The country became, in but a few hours after Pearl Harbor, a giant, neon-blasted whorehouse, only no one was paying. At least not with cash. From coast to coast, STD’s were exploding with a force unseen until the disco 70’s. Illegitimacy was the new buzzword, and kids were being conceived and birthed with such frequency, women everywhere were being forced to adjust assorted timelines so that, just in case, they could convince returning vets that the babies who looked nothing like them were, in fact, theirs. It was madness. Sodom and Gomorrah redux. The greatest display of disloyalty the world had ever seen. And it was here, in what had been known as God’s country.
So no, Mrs. Morrison was nothing special in that regard. She saw her husband off at the dock and was knee deep in dick before she left the parking lot. She threw parties, rarely went home, and the kid she already had with noble warrior Johnny (Alan Ladd), a mere afterthought. While she wrote her hubby that the lad died of diphtheria (tragic, but manageable), in fact, he died in a smoldering, twisted mass of wreckage. Yes, he was killed in a drunk driving accident with Mama Morrison at the wheel. Because in addition to being flat on her back from Midway through Normandy, she drank. A lot. Never stopped, in fact. What was it she said? “I take all the drinks I like, any time, any place. I go where I want to with anybody I want. I just happen to be that kind of a girl.” While Johnny managed his unending PTSD with the belief that wifey-poo was in a Bible study group or local sewing circle, she was, in actuality, inhaling the bodily fluids of an entire neighborhood. Maybe even a few counties. Over there, sacrifice and nobility. Over here? A once proud vagina reduced to a revolving door.
Leave it to film noir to lay bare the unspeakable, and while the cinema was typically giving us a mythical Mrs. Miniver view of life, the sheets of Anytown, USA were being soaked by men decidedly not husbands or boyfriends. Interlopers. Assorted Johnny-come-latelys while the real Johnny was taking shrapnel to the groin. But as he left his buddies to make his way home, he knew. Even his fellow soldiers suspected as much. This guy is not exactly rushing to the front door. Maybe he believed he’d encounter the no-good tramp In flagrante delicto, so blissfully arrogant she wouldn’t even bother closing the shades. He knew his wife’s nature, from the betrothal to the delivery room, only he thought that maybe, just maybe, a world on the brink might suspend her appetite. No, sir, not for a moment. Her time was her own and all was permissible, like a criminal in a city having voted to disband the police.
Helen may have avoided a prestigious date with AOTC infamy, only she insisted, within moments of her husband’s return, of making no apologies. Fake a little excitement, I move on to another, worthier character. But she couldn’t change her spots. Not on her life. Had to have the biggest party of them all on the day she knew he’d be back. Packed to the rafters with men who had seen her naked. She flaunted every last bit of it. Squeezed every ounce of blood from her hateful turnip. Left every clue right out on the open. You saved civilization, I finally had an orgasm. Or ten. We all do our bit for king and country. Not a thank you, not a how ya been, just smudged lips and mussed hair, daring you to mention the musk on her breath. She is, in the words of the TCM host who introduced the film, arguably the most hateful bitch in the history of the genre. Thankfully, she is murdered. Quickly, before she sets another scene aflame with her selfishness. And no, the man responsible is not her husband. Cuckold, yes. Simp extraordinaire? You bet. But he’s no murderer. He wouldn’t waste the bullet.