From New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Chiaverini, a bold, revelatory novel about one of the great untold stories of World War I–the women of the U.S. Army Signal Corps, who broke down gender barriers in the military, smashed the workplace glass ceiling, and battled a pandemic as they helped lead the Allies to victory.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Jennifer Chiaverini’s Switchboard Soldiers, which is out now!
In June 1917, General John Pershing arrived in France to establish American forces in Europe. He immediately found himself unable to communicate with troops in the field. Pershing needed operators who could swiftly and accurately connect multiple calls, speak fluent French and English, remain steady under fire, and be utterly discreet, since the calls often conveyed classified information.
At the time, nearly all well-trained American telephone operators were women–but women were not permitted to enlist, or even to vote in most states. Nevertheless, the U.S. Army Signal Corps promptly began recruiting them.
More than 7,600 women responded, including Grace Banker of New Jersey, a switchboard instructor with AT&T and an alumna of Barnard College; Marie Miossec, a Frenchwoman and aspiring opera singer; and Valerie DeSmedt, a twenty-year-old Pacific Telephone operator from Los Angeles, determined to strike a blow for her native Belgium.
They were among the first women sworn into the U.S. Army under the Articles of War. The male soldiers they had replaced had needed one minute to connect each call. The switchboard soldiers could do it in ten seconds.
The risk of death was real–the women worked as bombs fell around them–as was the threat of a deadly new disease: the Spanish Flu. Not all of the telephone operators would survive.
The women of the U.S. Army Signal Corps served with honor and played an essential role in achieving the Allied victory. Their story has never been the focus of a novel…until now.
Marie had disembarked two blocks short of her usual stop, and she quickened her pace to make up time. She was already five minutes late, and depending upon who was on duty as supervising operator, she might receive a written reprimand in her file. It would be an unfortunate blemish on a previously flawless record. Although she had worked for Cincinnati Telephone and Telegraph barely five months, she had moved from trainee to operator ahead of schedule, so well had she impressed her superiors with her dulcet tones, impeccable manners, quintessential “smile in her voice,” and remarkable ability to decipher callers’ accents, no matter how thick or obscure, an asset in a city with such a large and diverse immigrant population. Marie credited her musical training as well as her French heritage for that talent, which she had never considered a remarkable gift until her American-born acquaintances marveled at it.
Her parents had not wanted her to take a job after graduation. Her mother in particular had urged her to focus on her music as an independent scholar while continuing to audition for choirs and opera companies. Even that was a significant revision of Marie’s original plan, which was to graduate from the conservatory, accompany her mother on an extensive tour of the United Kingdom, Scandinavia, and Europe, audition for dozens of opera companies along the way, and accept the most promising offer. The war had shattered that dream. Cincinnati had no permanent opera company, nor did any other city in the American Midwest. She had not passed the audition for a traveling company based in Chicago, and her impressive pedigree had earned her a cordial letter in reply to her inquiry to the Metropolitan Opera in New York, but no invitation to audition. After a few weeks, discouraged but not entirely without hope, Marie resolved to find work so she could contribute to the household expenses while searching out new possibilities.
“Your job is music,” her mother protested. “You’ll strain your voice talking on the phone all day.” Unlike so many other, less fortunate girls, Marie did not need to earn a living. Her parents would be happy to provide for her as they always had; it was their duty and their delight, for they wanted only her happiness. But Marie could not bear to be a burden, however beloved, and she was determined to earn her keep. The telephone operator position became available at the perfect time, and since the girls were permitted to swap shifts, she could arrange her schedule around her auditions—which, truth be told, were becoming increasingly few and far between.
She was a full quarter hour late by the time she arrived at the Valley Exchange in Hartwell, one of the newer buildings, constructed a few years before to accommodate increased telephone service in the growing northern neighborhoods. Swiftly, but without drawing undo attention, Marie passed the administrative offices, left her things in the operators’ lounge, and hurried off to punch her time card—only to discover that it was not in the slot where she had left it. A quick search confirmed that a thoughtful friend had punched it for her, a minute before she had been due at the switchboard. If Marie could reach her station unnoticed, her supervisor would be none the wiser.
For the first time all day, luck was on her side. “You are an angel,” she murmured to her friend Ethel as she took her place in the next seat over, donned her headset, and adjusted the mouthpiece.
“You would have done the same for me,” said Ethel, pulling the plug on a finished call and doing a double take at the sight of Marie’s elegant coiffure. “My goodness, look at you. And all for an ordinary afternoon shift. You French girls sure have style.”
“I must do my part to keep up our international reputation,” Marie replied, responding to a blinking light by swiftly inserting a plug in the proper jack. “Number, please.”
A half hour passed before she and Ethel were able to talk again. “I was right about the phone service Over There,” Ethel said in an undertone. “Didn’t I say weeks ago that something was in the works with the army?”
“In the works?” Marie echoed, puzzled. Every operator knew that when General Pershing had arrived in France back in June, he had been dismayed by the state of telephone service there—the outdated equipment, the failing switchboards, the scarcity of intact wires and poles, and the limited number of skilled operators. Apparently the army had tried to train soldiers, former telegraph operators, to run the switchboards, but the men were said to be slow, inefficient, and inaccurate, frustrating the officers who expected the same swift, f lawless service they enjoyed back in the States. But that was old news, hardly worth the eager sparkle in Ethel’s eyes. “Do you mean our Reserve Signal Corps boys sailing for France?”
“No, not that. The poster. Didn’t you see the poster hanging in the lounge?”
Marie shook her head. “I was in such a hurry that I only had time to—” A light blinked; she snatched up a cable and inserted the plug. “Number, please.”
After that, the calls came in so steadily that there was never a lull long enough for Marie to ask Ethel to explain. What was Ethel referring to if not the work of the Reserve Signal Corps? As far back as January, even before the United States had joined the war, executives at the highest levels of American Telephone and Telegraph, their parent company, had forged a partnership with the U.S. Army to organize their skilled technical workers into reserve battalions that would be prepared to go to war as soon as they were needed. Their foresight proved invaluable, for General Pershing had no sooner discovered the antiquated state of the telephone system he was obliged to lease from the French than he realized he must construct an entirely new system using superior American
technology, a wire network running hundreds of miles throughout France, connecting headquarters to essential outposts and bases. Earlier that fall, two American Expeditionary Forces battalions had begun construction, raising poles to hang lines in some locations, resorting to tree branches or fenceposts where poles were impractical or unavailable, or running wires through dedicated trenches closer to the front. It was extremely hazardous work, leaving linemen dangerously exposed to sniper fire while working atop the poles and trees, or requiring them to crawl out into no-man’s-land to repair lines cut by the enemy.
It was not until she and Ethel left the switchboards for their dinner break that Marie was able to ask her friend what she was talking about. “The army needs us,” Ethel said earnestly, linking her arm through Marie’s as they set out for the operators’ lounge. “Or rather, they need you, because as much as I’d love to apply, I lack one essential qualification.”
“Qualification for what?” Marie asked.
In reply, Ethel led Marie to a small, plain poster hanging near the door to the cloakroom, understated black type on white paper, with no illustration.
“‘Army Wants Women to Serve as Switchboard Soldiers,’” Marie read the headline aloud. Astonished, she paused and turned to Ethel, who grinned and gestured for her to continue reading.
The U.S. Army was urgently recruiting qualified women telephone operators fluent in French to serve in the Signal Corps as part of the American Expeditionary Forces in France. For this essential overseas war work, the Signal Corps sought levelheaded young women who were resourceful, were able to exercise good judgment in emergencies, and were willing to work hard and endure hazardous conditions if necessary. Applicants who passed the initial screening would be required to undergo extensive training and to pass examinations in French and telephone operations to qualify as Signal Corps telephone operators. These “switchboard soldiers” would enjoy the same status and privileges as nurses, would be required to wear standard uniforms as specified by the War College, and in every respect would be considered as soldiers, coming under military restrictions at all times.
“Doesn’t it sound exciting?” Ethel sighed, wistful. “Unfortunately I don’t qualify.”
Marie’s gaze was fixed on the poster. “Because you don’t exercise good judgment?”
Ethel nudged her. “No, silly. Because I don’t speak French. But you do.”
“Yes, I do.” Marie read the poster over again more carefully, noting the requirements, the application procedures, the pay, the warnings, the appeals to pride and patriotism. She had the exact skills they urgently needed. She was precisely what they were looking for—and it was the first time throughout the long, disappointing months of auditions she had been able to say that.
Her heart ached whenever she thought of the terror and suffering the Germans were inflicting upon her beloved France. The war was already beginning to change her adopted city into a grimmer, crueler version of itself, as fear, suspicion, and anger turned neighbors against one another.
Now fate had presented her with the means to make a difference, to help the Allies win the war, to speed the end of the horrific violence and destruction, to restore peace to the world.
How could she ignore the call?
Excerpted from Switchboard Soldiers by Jennifer Chiaverini. Copyright © 2022 by Jennifer Chiaverini. Reprinted courtesy of William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
