Winter in June (7 page)

“More British influence,” he said. We passed a mission hospital where we saw a native woman sweeping the porch. This wasn't Dorothy Lamour primped for film with her flower-dotted hair and brightly colored sarong. This woman was naked from the waist up, her massive brown breasts swaying as she worked.

We drove and he continued narrating what we were about to see. “There's the governor general's house. And the British high commissioner's. Up there are the caves—that's where the Japs had their headquarters when they were here. And those are the Suicide Cliffs.”

“The what?” asked Jayne.

“The Suicide Cliffs. When the Japs had the island, they threatened
the natives, telling them that if they were friendly toward us Yanks, they'd skin them alive and rape their wives. When we invaded, rather than face what they thought was certain Japanese wrath, some of the natives opted to dive to their deaths instead.”

Jayne put a hand to her mouth. “How awful. Why didn't anyone stop them?”

“Some of them tried to. But they were so scared of the Japanese they wouldn't listen. Eventually the hysteria died down, the Americans got control of the island, and the natives realized they had nothing more to fear.” No wonder they were so nice to us when we arrived.

“What's up on that cliff?” I pointed toward what looked like a roadside billboard faced away from us. “Don't tell me Burma Shave is advertising all the way down here.”

He shook his head and stifled a laugh. “Nope, that's a sign Admiral Halsey put up.”

“What does it say?”

“You really want to know?”

I nodded.

He took a deep breath. “Kill Japs, kill Japs, kill more Japs. You will help kill the yellow bastards if you do your job well.”

My stomach churned. We were used to anti-Japanese sentiment at home—lord knows they'd earned it—but it didn't seem so…overt. We dealt with them by sending them away to work camps and making them villains in our movies (played by Chinese actors, since we didn't want to reward our enemy by employing them). Sure we called them nasty names and encouraged kids to join in the effort by distributing official Jap hunter cards, but I couldn't recall ever saying anything quite so pointed. If I couldn't handle the language of war, how was I going to deal with the violence of it? “That's subtle.”

“The military's not known for subtlety. The admiral did it to boost morale at a time when his men really needed it.”

“And apparently it did the trick.” Did the opposition have similar signs encouraging our deaths? What nicknames had they reduced the Allies to?

Dotty pointed in the opposite direction, at a number of buildings with curved rooftops that rose above the trees. The sun reflected off the steel structures, making them seem even more out of place against the rest of the environment. “You can see the enlisted mess and PX through there. Just past them is the commissary, the infirmary, and the supply huts.”

“I was expecting everything to be made out of twigs and leaves,” said Jayne. I shared her surprise. There was something disturbing about seeing these permanent-looking structures. If it was necessary to build buildings and make roads, then our government expected this war to go on for a very long time.

“Some things are made the native way, but when the military wants to put up something fast and sturdy, they do it by Quonset hut,” said Dotty. Ace followed the curve of the road, where canvas living quarters were lined up in clusters. The roof of each dwelling peaked at the center the way a circus big top did; only instead of inviting us with brilliant colors, these tents were made of army green canvas bleached by the sun. Wires strung from poles made it clear that while the living conditions were simple, there was, at least, electricity to be had. “And here we are.”

The Jeep in front of us stopped, and we followed suit. Jayne scanned the sight before her, her mouth so wide I was worried one of the myriad bugs flying about might go inside and set up camp. “This is it?” she said.

“What were you expecting?” asked Dotty.

She stepped out of the Jeep and examined tents that were little more than olive drab sheets tied to poles. “Walls.”

“Trust me,” said Ace. “These are A+ accommodations. You guys have a floor. Not many people can claim that.”

The others climbed out of their Jeep, and they led us into a large tent outfitted with five cots that hadn't yet been made up. Stacks of rough blankets and linens awaited our attention on each bed. There was another object there, which I think was a pillow, though from the condition of the fabric covering, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that they were filled with coconut husks rather than goose
down. Two-by-fours forming crossbeams were mounted to the tent poles, and at our eye level nails stuck out every which way. Ace hadn't lied; the tent had a concrete floor that immediately reignited every knee injury I'd ever done to myself. Someone had recently swept the floor, leaving a broom and dustpan full of island detritus leaning against one of the walls. The driver who'd brought Gilda and the other girls pulled a string dangling from the ceiling and illuminated a twenty-watt bulb that didn't do much more than tease us into remembering what real light looked like.

On the bright side, Violet had to be pleased to see that Gilda wasn't getting special treatment.

“Where are the closets?” asked Gilda.

“Where are the bathrooms?” asked Jayne.

“Where's the bar?” asked Violet.

Their driver made a sound that was something between a chuckle and a guffaw. Whatever it was, he spit when he made it. “Those nails there are your closets. The latrine is out that flap and to the right. As for the bar—the U.S. Navy's been dry since 1914.”

“Then it sounds like I'll be hanging out with the army, air force, and marines,” said Violet.

Dotty tipped his cap at her and smiled. “Don't you worry. You'll never go thirsty here. The men who get a ration are always happy to share. And rumor has it that the men who don't have figured out how to make their own brew, though I wouldn't recommend drinking it.”

Jayne nudged me with her elbow. “What's a latrine?”

“The bathroom,” I said.

“A shared bathroom,” said Violet.

I wanted to kick her. Jayne could take only so much bad news at once.

In the corner of our tent was a barrel turned on its side with a faucet sticking out of it. The top of it had been cut open, and this exposed portion reached beyond the tent, where it could catch the water whenever it rained.

“What's that?” asked Gilda.

“That's your sink,” said Dotty. “And you're one of the only tents that has one. The men rigged it up for you special.” He gestured for her to move close to it and took a picture of her posing, unenthusiastically, beside it.

We looked at the barrel warily. It was like no sink I'd ever seen before, but now that we knew it was an honor to have access to it, we felt obligated to use it.

Dotty disappeared to help the drivers with our luggage, while the five of us slowly took in what we'd gotten ourselves into. I won't lie—when I'd thought about what awaited me in the South Pacific, I hadn't pictured anything quite so…bleak. In my imagination, there was a veranda, palm fronds, ample booze, and a hammock that swayed gently in the island breezes. The word
latrine
hadn't entered my vocabulary.

But then I'd also kidded myself into believing that I would be able to find Jack. Clearly, I was batting a thousand when it came to realistic fantasies.

Gilda clapped her hands together. “Well, girls, I know it doesn't look like much, but we're not going to be here very often anyway. And I think that between the five of us, we can make this place quite homey.”

A siren sounded somewhere on the island. A loudspeaker crackled, but my ears couldn't discern what was being said.

“Gilda's right,” I said. “We just need to use our imaginations.”

“Well, my imagination just saw a rat duck under one of the cots,” said Violet.

The four women screamed and climbed onto the furniture. I decided to be more proactive and grabbed the broom. I poked it beneath the bed, flushing out something that was at least two feet long and one foot wide. If that was a rat, I was a monkey's uncle.

The men returned with our trunks and hurriedly piled them on the floor. “Sorry, ladies, but you're on your own for a while,” said Dotty. Ace passed out what looked like large green steel bowls to each of us. Some sort of cloth had been wadded up and shoved inside them.

“What's this?” asked Jayne.

“Helmets and nose bags,” he said. “And I suggest you put them on. We're at condition red. That alarm means there's enemy aircraft in the area. “

“But I thought you said the Japanese weren't here anymore,” said Jayne.

“I said they're not on the island,” said Dotty. “I can't account for the sea and the air.”

The good news was that we had a roof over our heads. The bad news was…well, we were in the middle of nowhere with bombs dropping out of the sky. All in all I'd had better days.

For a long time we sat on the cots each of us had claimed for our own and waited for the world to blow up. When it didn't, one by one we found the courage to put on our M1 helmets and stick our heads out of the tent flap to eyeball what was going on.

There wasn't much to see. Our part of camp was a ghost town, though we could hear men shouting and planes flying somewhere in our vicinity. Nevertheless, we kept the steel helmets on, grateful not only that they protected our noggins but that their rain visors obscured our view of any destruction that might come within our line of sight.

“Comfy, aren't they?” said Violet.

“Not the word I was thinking of,” I said.

She removed her helmet and showed us the plastic liner inside
it. “The beauty is not only will it protect you from shrapnel, but you can use it to cook, wash yourself, even sleep on if the mood suits you. They had something in
Stars & Stripes
once about a nurse who came up with over twenty ways to use her M1.”

I wondered if one of those uses was clobbering your tent mate to get her to close her head.

Jayne tried to fasten the chin-strap on her own helmet, but her fingers couldn't quite close the clasp.

“Don't bother,” said Violet. “You're never supposed to fasten the strap. It makes it much worse if you do get hit with something.” She flopped her head to the right, illustrating the fatal neck injury we were headed for.

While she rattled on about the wonders of military ingenuity, Jayne and I once again wandered outside the tent. “I didn't think it would be so close,” she whispered. Her hand was in mine, squeezing my fingers to the rhythm of her clanging heart. I didn't know what to say to her. Usually, when one of us was scared, the other one would reassure her that everything was going to be just fine. But I didn't know that it would. In fact, I didn't know anything. This whole trip was unexplored territory. “Tell me we're going to survive this.”

“Of course we are,” I said. I was an actress after all. If I couldn't fake confidence, I didn't deserve to be on the stage.

“Do you know what today is?” she asked. “It's Dedication Day. You'd think it would be the one day the men wouldn't have to fight.”

She had that wrong. More likely, it was the one day when the men would be driven to fight their hardest.

Gilda joined us outside, and for a moment the three of us stood in silence, straining to hear the sounds of battle taking place perilously close to us. Why couldn't we see anything? Why did it sound like the noise was coming from all around us?

“Let's unpack,” said Gilda. “Worrying about what's going on isn't going to accomplish anything.”

She was right. We each set to hanging up our clothes on the crooked nails that dotted the tent frame. As we worked, Kay began
to sing “When the Lights Go on Again,” and soon all of us were belting out the words with her to drown out the sound of the planes.

“You know if the bombs don't work,” said Violet, “our singing might be enough to disable the enemy.”

While most of what we hung consisted of cotton shirts and lightweight dresses, Jayne's clothes looked oddly out of place.

“I don't mean to be judgmental, but what did you pack?” I asked her.

The remaining contents of her luggage spilled across the bed. Along with the few summer things she'd worn for the trip, she'd brought sweaters, wool skirts, scarves, and gloves.

“Winter clothes of course. You said it was winter here.”

Why hadn't I caught her error back home? Because I was too full of Jack, I suppose. She could've put the cat in her suitcase, and I probably wouldn't have thought twice about it. “We're on a tropical island, Jayne. We'll be lucky if it gets cool enough at night to need a sheet.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. Poor Jayne didn't realize that we'd entered a topsy-turvy world where summer was winter, men were plentiful, and murder was just another act of war.

Gilda hooked her arm in Jayne's and pulled the tiny woman to her side. “Don't worry, Jayne: I almost made the same mistake myself. Luckily, I always overpack. You're welcome to borrow anything you need.”

Gilda pulled out a number of items she thought would fit Jayne, and soon we were all admiring the clothes she'd crammed into two trunks. Rather than shooing us away, she handed out items like she was distributing for Bundles for Britain, encouraging us to try on her couture shoes, jackets, and gloves.

“Where did you think you were going?” asked Violet as she wrapped a mink stole around her neck.

Gilda laughed. “I know, I know. You just never know what you might need.”

If Jayne thought it was winter in the South Pacific, Gilda apparently thought it was award season. I rifled through her trunk and
found a dazzling array of hats, hosiery, and pocketbooks to match each pair of shoes she'd brought along. There were satin handbags with sequins, beaded ones that must've taken months to make, and the everyday bag in brown leather that she'd carried the day we met her.

I put one of her hats atop my head and caught my reflection in the mirror affixed to the trunk lid. It was a strange little jumble of fur, ribbons, and what looked like Christmas ornaments. It did nothing for me.

Gilda removed the hat and turned it around so that the front was no longer facing the back. “Like I told Jayne: you're welcome to use whatever you like.”

I planned to take her up on that.

Soon the clothes hanging around the tent had transformed the place. It may not have been the prettiest joint I'd ever lived in, but the colors of our dresses and the combination of fabrics did a fine job gussying up the humble army surroundings. By the time we were done, the all-clear signal sounded and we were once again serenaded by the sounds of Jeeps and convoys heading back from wherever the men scurried to when their services were needed.

Violet produced a bottle that had miraculously made the Pacific journey unscathed and passed it to me so I could take a swig. “Congratulations, ladies—we've survived our first brush with the enemy.” We each took a pull until the liquid reached the halfway mark. Then, like a generous uncle who realizes that if he gives out too much cash he won't have a dime left for rent, Violet returned the bottle to her bag and pushed it out of sight.

Outside, passing men made shadow plays on our canvas walls. Kay began to sing again, and the silhouettes paused near our tent debating whether or not it was an actual woman they were hearing. Finally, one of the men decided the only way to find out for sure, was to poke his head inside our living quarters.

“Knock, knock,” he said, to warn us of his imminent intrusion. “Anyone here?” He was a towheaded boy with large blue eyes and skin so tanned by the island sun that his flesh was darker than his
khakis. As he gave us the up and down, his peepers expanded in shock. He disappeared and we watched as his shadow excitedly joined the other silhouettes and announced, “Real girls. Five of them. And one of them is a dead ringer for Gilda DeVane.”

Soon, each of them was popping his head in, after uttering the requisite “knock knock” to verify that the initial scout hadn't gone goofy from heat and stress. They stayed long enough to take us all in, before the next man was encouraged to verify the news on his own. At first, the sight of those heads popping in and out was a riot, but we quickly tired of being a zoo exhibit. Besides, if we had hope of maintaining any sort of privacy during the tour, we had to set some ground rules.

Violet took the lead and stepped outside the tent. She was greeted by a chorus of wolf whistles, further elevating her good mood. “All right, boys,” she said. “There are real live girls in here who need real live privacy. If you want to see us in the flesh, let us know where a girl can get a stiff drink and a little conversation. Now scoot, so we can get our beauty rest.”

Her approach seemed to work. Violet and Kay headed for the latrine to clean up. Gilda lay down on her cot and put on a black satin eye mask to block out the sun streaming through the thin walls. Jayne searched the floor to see if there was an electrical outlet at our disposal, and I unpacked the pulps I'd brought and hunted out a story to distract me from reality.

I was just starting a tale called “Give Me Murder” that wasn't giving me anything but a headache when another male voice sounded his warning before sticking his head through the tent flap. Given the distance and the angle, I was pretty sure I could throw my shoe and nail him in the forehead.

“Out,” I said. “No visitors allowed.”

“I've got the mail, ma'am.”

“Mail? For us?” said Jayne.

“Probably not all of you, but I do have a few pieces for Jayne Hamilton and Rosie Winter.”

Jayne and I leaped from our spots and approached him at the
flap like hungry dogs awaiting dinner. He was so taken aback by our speed that he shoved all of the mail into my hands before fleeing.

I divvied up the letters and was thrilled to see that I had three of my own. One was from my ma who, while not much for writing, wanted me to know she was thinking about me and hoped I was safe. It was a funny change from our usual correspondence. She'd never been thrilled with my chosen line of work, but when she learned that I was joining the USO it was as if she'd decided that acting was a perfectly noble profession as long as I was doing it for the military.

The second letter was an official bit of correspondence from the USO. Or so it appeared. Inside the envelope was a note from Harriet Rosenfeld, our former roomie who'd pulled strings not just to get us into the camp shows, but to see to it that we ended up with the newest crew headed for the Solomon Islands.

I grinned as I tore the letter into tiny pieces. Harriet and her fiancé had been working for months on an expose on USO spending, and it sounded like it would be hitting the press soon. Most people would've waited until the war was over before biting the hand that feeds them. Harriet knew that wasn't wise. After all, what if the war never ended?

The last letter was from Zelda DeMarcos, our newest roommate at our rooming house in New York:

“I got a letter from Zelda,” I told Jayne. She hummed a response that I took to mean
Please go on
. “Belle rented our room.”

“That was fast.”

“And Zelda says Tony stopped calling.”

She waved one of her letters at me. “That's 'cause he started writing.”

“How'd he get the address?”

She shrugged. “How does he get anything?” Jayne's ex-boyfriend, Tony B., was a well-connected mobster. When she'd given Tony his walking papers, he'd had a hard time taking no for an answer. I was thrilled the two were finally kaput. Right before we left New York I'd heard from a reliable source that Tony wasn't just a criminal—he was a murderer.

Jayne sifted through her other pieces of mail. They all looked as if they were written in the same hand. If Tony had any positive qualities, he was persistent. And had excellent penmanship.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I thought I would've heard from Billy by now. It's been almost a month.” Billy DeMille was a sailor Jayne had met at the Stage Door Canteen and developed quite a correspondence with. After all of the drama between her and Tony, I'd been thrilled to see her focusing on a man whose only record involved 78 revolutions per minute. Jayne didn't talk much about him, other than to report when he wrote and when she replied, but it was obvious the two were becoming more than mere pen pals. She was sweet on the guy, and it was impossible to believe that he wasn't feeling the same for her.

“Did you tell him we were leaving?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Maybe he forgot and wrote to the Shaw House. I'm sure his letters will show up soon.”

“You're probably right,” she said, though I knew she didn't really believe that. If a man in the military stopped writing you, it was usually because he no longer could.

 

Kay and Violet returned, their faces much paler than when they departed.

“How was the latrine?” I asked.

Violet fanned herself as though she needed to push away the scented memory that orbited her. “It's basically a glorified outhouse. Only a paper-thin shower curtain separates you from the rest of the camp.”