Winter in June (13 page)

Never had I felt so moved performing. Certainly every show during the tour had received expressions of gratitude from the audience, but for the first time I felt a sense of purpose in what we did. We may not have been breaking enemy code, but for that hour of songs, jokes, and dance, these brave wounded men were able to forget about their aches and pains—both those that were temporary and those that might never go away. We had given them peace and respite, neither of which were available to them through any other avenues. And it felt great.

No wonder Irene had enlisted in the WACs. This was the purpose she was searching for. She just didn't realize she didn't have to be in the military to get it.

When it was over, we didn't gnash our teeth over who got more attention or who missed what steps. Instead, we hugged and silently acknowledged the awesome experience we'd just shared.

“We're going to have to be leaving, ladies.” Our driver popped his head into our curtained-off backstage area. “We're already running an hour behind.”

“Can't we stay a little longer?” asked Jayne.

“It's not my orders, ma'am. The officers expect you for dinner at eighteen hundred hours, and I was instructed to have you back at least an hour before then.”

I hadn't realized how long we'd been at the hospital. The time had flown by.

Jayne's neck strained as she tried to set her eyes on Billy.

“Can we have ten minutes to say good-bye?” I asked.

Our driver conceded that that was fine. While Kay, Violet, and Gilda dispersed to say their farewells, Jayne and I headed toward Billy.

“You were great,” he said with a smile. For the first time I really took in this boy who made Jayne's heart flutter. His hair was the color of hay, his eyes as rich as coffee spiked with real cream. “I've got to say, the last thing a guy with a headache like mine wants to hear is tap dancing, but you two made it pretty darn riveting.”

I couldn't tell if it was a pun or not.

“Billy,” said Jayne. “Rosie has something she wants to ask you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “About Peaches?”

“No. I mean, kind of.” Just get it out, my head screamed. “Do you know a sailor named Jack Castlegate?”

He paused too long for me to have any hope. “Nope. It doesn't ring a bell.”

“Peaches knew him,” said Jayne. “So we thought you might too.”

“He transferred into my squadron after we got back from Stateside. Maybe Jack was someone he knew on his old carrier?”

“Peaches transferred ships?” I asked.

Billy fidgeted with a wristband that stated his name, rank, serial number, and blood type. “Yeah. I guess there was some sort of problem. He never told us what. I'm glad he made the move though. The guy he replaced was a real son of a bitch.” As soon as he said the words, he caught himself. “Sorry.”

“We've heard worse,” I said. I knew Jayne was dying for a moment alone with Billy, so I took my leave. “It was nice to finally meet you. I hope the head heals fast.”

Everyone but me managed to sleep on the way back to the base camp. My head was too full of Jack for rest.

I knew I shouldn't be discouraged. After all, I couldn't have expected to find Jack after only a few weeks in the islands, but it still felt like every conversation I'd had about him was a preview of more disappointment to come. And the knowledge that Peaches was so nearby was gnawing at me, and not only because he was a potential source of information. When I'd last seen him, he'd told me about the events leading up to Jack's disappearance, and I'd confessed that I wasn't a sweet little Stage Door Canteen waitress named Delores. Up until that point I think we both thought we were headed toward a relationship, but the knowledge that I still harbored feelings for an old flame was enough to extinguish the beginnings of a new one.

I never thought he'd be back in the South Pacific. To be honest, I never thought about him at all. Not because Peaches wasn't worthy of it—if memory served, he was a handsome, witty man who any girl
would be a fool not to fall for—but because my mind had been so wrapped up in getting out of the States and finding out where Jack was. I didn't like the idea that I was going to have to confront my guilt over the way I'd treated him again. I had assumed that phase of my life was over.

We arrived at the base camp, where we had landed that morning, and were mercifully shown to an area that had been set aside for our R & R. We had an entire luxurious hour until dinner, after which we'd do our last show of the day.

This time I slept. When I awoke, the others were scrambling to get themselves ready for dinner at the officers' mess. Out came lipsticks, combs, and vials of perfume they'd been wise enough to stash away with their costumes. At 1800 hours, we were taken by Jeep to a house up on a hill behind the encampment. Torches flickering like fireflies lined the drive. From inside we could hear music—not a phonograph playing the latest platters, but a pianist plucking out a tune live and in person.

“Holy smokes,” said Violet as we parked in front of the building. “What is this place?”

“Welcome, ladies,” said a man with a British accent. He helped us step down from the Jeep before introducing himself. “I'm Lance Upchurch of the RAF.”

“Where are we?” asked Gilda.

“We call it Shangri-La. It's a plantation owned by a private French citizen who's been kind enough to invite us to join him. It's much more pleasant than eating at camp, don't you think?”

We agreed that it was and followed him into the house. Just like the high commissioner's house on Tulagi, it was the sort of big-island structure that seemed to have been lifted whole cloth from
Casablanca
. The house itself was nothing special—just four walls and a thatched roof—but the interior was immaculate, outfitted with rugs and furniture that had clearly been imported from Europe. The centerpiece of the joint was a stone fireplace that had been cobbled together out of a mismatch of rocks. Verandas ran the length of two sides of the building, both screened in to allow visitors to enjoy the
great outdoors without suffering her pests. As we arrived, a group of men left one of the porches with glasses of scotch in hand and heralded our arrival.

Our host was a portly Frenchman named François Le Clerk. The rest of the men weren't the lieutenants and captains that typically dined with us. They were the elite of the armed forces, the ones who strategized but never had to worry about their own hands getting dirty. Dinner was a formal affair. Tonkinese men in white jackets delivered food from the left and cleared from the right. We ate four courses off china so fragile I could see the table through it and chased each delicious dish with copious amounts of whiskey. Conversation was lively, though I was both tired and famished enough to keep to myself for most of the meal. Instead, I watched the way the men leered at the five of us, feigning interest in our tales of performance, even though I knew the only reason we were there was because they hoped we would provide dessert.

Eventually, the conversation turned away from us, and the men began to discuss what they'd really hoped to talk about: strategies, plans, supplies, and manpower. The level of detail was overwhelming. As they tossed about figures, named countries I'd never heard of, and described the peculiarities of particular military leaders, I tried to make sense of what it all meant. What was the “fog of war”? Were the figures they quoted fatalities or injuries? Did my ears deceive me, or did one of them praise the Nazis for their ingenuity?

Through it all the pianist played a variety of classical tunes. Just when I was worried his fingers would fall off from overactivity, he took a break. In the distance I could hear other music—snippets of folksongs like “Home Sweet Home” and “Swanee River.”

“Is that coming from the camp?” I asked.

Le Clerk cocked his head toward the veranda to hear what I had heard. “No, that's the Japanese.”

“So what—they want our music now too?” asked Violet.

“It's a wartime maneuver. A form of propaganda, if you will,” said Le Clerk. “They broadcast the music every night in hopes that it will make your men homesick.”

I filled in the rest of the strategy. “And the homesick don't sleep well and don't fight as effectively.”

He rewarded me with a flick of his fork. “Exactly.”

“Is it working?” I asked.

He laughed, sending out an unpleasant combination of spittle and flecks of bread. “Oh no, your men are much too strong for that. I should say it succeeds in annoying them more than anything.”

“If we're hearing their radio signal, then they're close by, aren't they?” I asked.

He nodded. “Close enough that we can hear them breathe. I often get radio broadcasts designed to demoralize the men by claiming that the war has turned in the enemy's favor. Sometimes you can even see flickers of the Japanese's campfires.”

The idea that we were so close to the enemy killed my appetite. How could men sleep knowing that at any moment a grenade could be thrown into their tent? And what must it be like to live on a battlefront of information? How did they know they could trust what the Americans told them but not what the Japanese said? “It must be terrifying, living like this,” I said.

Le Clerk shrugged. “It's just war, my dear.”

 

After coffee and cake our driver took us to the amphitheater. We were running behind, and already the performance space was filled with thousands of anxious enlisted men awaiting our show. Men crammed themselves into every available inch of space. Even the cliffs surrounding the performance area had been taken over as seats.

We got into costume and quickly reviewed the program. The booze from dinner was making my head swim, and I forewarned Jayne that I wasn't going to be able to go off script much. I'd washed away my wit with the whiskey.

Gilda's face was flushed red. Perspiration formed droplets just below her hairline.

“Too much hooch?” I asked.

She patted her brow dry with a tissue. “Too much something.”

Violet leaped to her aid and placed a maternal hand on her forehead. “You're cold and clammy. Open your mouth.” Gilda did so, revealing a bright red tongue. “You look okay to me, but if you don't feel like going on—”

Gilda closed her mouth. “No. I'm okay. Really.” She lifted her foot to change her shoes and wobbled slightly. I don't think the other girls caught it, but I could tell she knew I'd noticed. She shot me a look that begged me not to say anything. I mimed zipping my lips to assure her I'd keep quiet. For now.

 

As the show began, the men's enthusiasm seemed muted. I couldn't tell if the crowd was more subdued or if the whiskey scrambling my thoughts merely made it seem that way. I suspect it was a combination of things—after all, many of these men had been working all day and were now sitting through the show in preparation for sleep. Despite being under the weather, Gilda gave it her all. Everything went off without a hitch until we came onstage for “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” As the song began, I caught a flash of light up in the cliffs to my left. One by one our attention was drawn to the spot high above the soldiers who were using the earth as their seats. Soon the men were searching out what was drawing our attention away from them. As the song came to its climax, a commotion rumbled through the crowd. Someone drew his weapon, and a wave of men rushed to the cliffs, oddly silent as they climbed the craggy rocks. We continued singing because we didn't know what else to do. The men never returned. We finished the show and accepted lukewarm applause from the remaining audience.

“What the deuce was that?” I asked as we went backstage.

“Beats me,” said Jayne.

“Do you think we were under attack?” asked Violet.

“I didn't hear any gunfire,” said Kay. “Besides, if we were under attack, they wouldn't have let us keep singing.”

I hoped she was right, though part of me was convinced that in the eyes of the military we were expendable.

“Where's Gilda?” I asked.

“She went to get the scoop,” said Violet. “She said she'd be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

We put on our street clothes and remained hidden in our dressing area as we waited for Gilda's return. At last she joined us, her face even more flushed than before.

“There were three Japanese up in the cliffs watching us,” she announced breathlessly.

“Were they going to kill us?” asked Violet.

Gilda laughed. “Heavens no! The men said they'd snuck up there to watch the show. I guess they were so engrossed in what we were doing, they didn't even notice when the group of men disappeared to go after them.”

“And did they capture them?” I asked.

“You bet they did. And the men are attributing all of it to us.”

“Did they have guns?” asked Jayne.

Gilda shrugged. “I didn't think to ask.”

“We're heroes,” said Violet. “Though I've got to say—I'm kind of disappointed there were only three of them. I mean, aren't we talented enough to rate an entire platoon?”

“Maybe the other fellows went away after they heard your jokes,” I said.

“Why? Were they afraid my clever repartee would slay them?”

We all groaned.

“So can we can get out of here now and go back to Tulagi?” asked Jayne. “I don't like the idea that the Japs are out there watching us. This place is giving me the heebies.”

Gilda said the Jeep would be there to take us to the airstrip in ten minutes. I was eager to leave, too, though not for the same reasons as my pal. I didn't find the idea that the Japanese had been eyeballing us frightening. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I was fascinated by an enemy that would risk everything for a little entertainment. At any point they could've attacked the crowd, but that hadn't been what they were there for. What did it say about them that they were as desperate for laughter and amusement as the rest of us? I wanted to ask the other girls what they thought about it, but
I knew I was treading on dangerous territory. After all, the last thing anyone wanted to hear was that the people we were hoping to kill were just like us.

 

Outside the dressing area, a score of men were waiting for the chance to meet us. We shook hands, signed programs, and posed for photos with the eager beavers while they showered us with praise for how we'd handled ourselves during the disturbance.

“Ya'll were as cool as ice cream,” said one guy. “For a moment I thought the whole thing might've been part of your act.”

“Rosie's known for being calm in the face of danger,” said a voice. I turned toward the sound and found Peaches with his hat in his hands.

“Hiya,” I said, my icy exterior melting as heat rushed to my head. “I guess you saw Billy.”

“I guess I did,” he said. “He asked me to give you this.” He passed Jayne a thick letter that refused to remain folded. “He wanted to come himself, but they wouldn't discharge him yet.”

Jayne beamed and backed away from us so that she could tear through the tome. As though they sensed the amount of baggage each of us was toting, the crowd also moved away and directed their attention to the three remaining performers.

“You look good,” I said. He did too. The color was back in his skin, and his face showed the peace and exhaustion that came from doing a full day's work. His eyes still possessed the wry twinkle I'd first been drawn to, and his voice was flavored with the lazy Southern drawl of his native Georgia.

“So do you,” he said.

“I thought about writing,” we said in unison. As we each heard the other parroting our words, we broke into a laugh.

“I didn't really,” I said.

“Me neither,” said Peaches.

“Gosh,” I said. “I can't believe I ever thought this would be awkward.”

“Should we start over?”

I delivered my permission with a wave of my hand. “Be my guest.”

He took a long, deep breath and showed me his palms. “You are the last person I ever expected to see here.”

“The feeling's mutual.”

“I thought for sure it was the concussion talking when Billy said he'd met you.”

“I guess you would've preferred it that way, huh?”

He didn't answer. In fact, I don't think he would've preferred it that way at all. If he could've changed anything, it wouldn't have been my arrival but who I was to begin with.

“Anyway,” he said. “I thought I should say hello before we accidentally ran into each other. The islands are smaller than you think.”

“So I'm learning.” The Jeep arrived, and the driver jumped from his seat and began loading our costumes. If I was going to ask Peaches about Jack, it had to be now. “Look—”

“You have to go, right?”

I nodded.

He tapped my shoulder with his closed fist. “Be safe. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll run into you again.”