The Pittsburgh Press (July 3, 1943)
Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
North Africa – (by wireless)
Bill Stevenson, the head of the American Red Cross in Africa, has been married 17 years and has two daughters, 15 and 14. Mrs. Stevenson is just as handsome as her husband, and the two stand out in a crowd because of their smart good looks.
Mrs. Stevenson’s name is Eleanor, but it is a name so long unused that she probably wouldn’t respond if you called her by it. Her name before her marriage was Eleanor Bumstead, and ever since she can remember, she has been known as Bumpy.
The two met while Bill was at Oxford in the mid-20s. Bumpy’s father had gone to England on business, and Bumpy went along. She and Bill knew of each other but had never met.
Bill says Bumpy followed him to England and asked him to marry her. Bumpy says, well, what the hell if she did?
There is a sort of unspoken rule in the Red Cross against husbands and wives being together, but in this case, it is unthinkable that Bumpy should not be along. The two operate as a mechanism. Bumpy wears a Red Cross uniform, and in addition to a terrific amount of headquarters work she is a sort of roving delegate, cheerer-upper, smoother-over and finder-outer for the whole Red Cross of Africa, and half the Army too. She travels a lot, and everywhere she goes, she lands her pretty ear to tales of woe, turns her pretty smile on generals and privates without distinction, and gives her strong shoulder to be wept upon by all and sundry.
Bill calls her “the G.I. girlfriend.”
Bill says with a laugh:
I have to be super-nice to everybody because I never know whom I’m talking to. Soldiers come barging into my office and sit and talk by the hour. I’ve got work to do but I don’t dare hurry them off, for it’s probably Bumpy’s latest boyfriend. It’s always either generals or privates with Bump. Nobody in between stands a chance.
Bumpy and Bill have a way with them of making everybody crazy about them. Bumpy especially is a sponge that attracts the spilling of private griefs. The soldiers think she is wonderful. She is always getting herself in a mess by going to bat for somebody she thinks is being mistreated. Like Bill, she is in work up to her ears and has no axes to grind.
To everybody who knows them, Stevenson is Bill and Mrs. Stevenson is Bumpy, but to each other, they exchange the latter for the slightly more intimate Bump and Billy.
The Stevensons have an Oldsmobile sedan for their own use over here. They live in a small but nice apartment on a hilly street. They have no servants, and seldom sat at home. It’s easier and cheaper to eat at the Red Cross mess downtown.
Both are blessed with indifference to social-climbing. They have entrée, as a matter of course, to high circles, but they are the kind who don’t need to be seen with the right people. They dine with Lt. Gen. Spaatz, for instance, not because he’s a general but because they like him and have business to talk over with him. They have no purely social life whatever. They can skip that for the duration.
The Stevensons have been overseas more than a year now. They were in England together, and Bumpy followed Bill down here. Bill had a few bad days when he heard Bumpy’s boat had been sunk, but it turned out she was on a different boat.
Bumpy has not been back to the States at all, but Bill took a flying trip home this spring to thresh out some details at Washington headquarters. He did his business, saw their two children, stayed a total of three weeks, and was glad to get back over here.
Bumpy’s presence in a theater of war with her husband is a strange repetition of history. The whole thing parallels the experience of her own parents. In the last war, her father was on the faculty at Yale and frequently went to England to give special lectures at Cambridge. He was there when we entered the war in 1917 and was immediately appointed scientific attaché of the American Embassy in London. So, Mrs. Bumstead left her children with their grandmother and went to England to be with him.
Today, Bumpy’s daughter are left in the hands of their grandmother while Mama works overseas. Bumpy says she remembers when her mother went away to war and how lonely and horrible she felt, yet what a thrill it was to show off before the other kids in a sort of stuck-up way about having your mother overseas. And when Bumpy left for England in the spring of 1942, one of her little girls said as she kissed her goodbye:
Mummy, we’ll be awfully lonesome, but we’re awfully proud too.
Meaning, mainly, as Bumpy says, that they can go around bragging about it.