Mare's War (25 page)

France is a whole different story than Birmingham. For one thing, the postal directory area and our quarters are in one big building. We have got floors 2 and 3, and the post office is down on the ground floor. We find our footlockers okay and then our bunks, which are some of the ugliest we have seen yet.

First off, our so-called beds aren’t anything but canvas cloth nailed across a wood frame. Folks complain about splinters nearly first thing. But worse than the wood against our backs, we got straw ticks—big burlap sacks—to fill and those are supposed to be the mattresses.

“We have to go into a barn and fill up a sack and sleep on straw?” are the first words out of Phillipa’s mouth. “And we have to make our pillows ourselves? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Good thing Annie isn’t here,” Ruby says. “She’d be fit to be tied.”

We are fit to be tied, too, not that it does us much good. Doris says the supply trucks haven’t come, and it isn’t the GI way to complain, so we’ve got to put up and shut up.

That first night, we sack out early, we are all so tired, but reveille doesn’t wake up anybody; all of us is already up, sore, and buzzing like mad wasps. That scratchy straw is something else!

During the next week, we hit our stride and get sorted as fast as we can. We walk through our post and find the laundry, base supply, recreation, and mess hall. When we turn out for duty, we got one more surprise—we have got some three hundred German prisoners of war here. Captain says we have them to wrestle the heavy bags and to clean up, and that is just fine. But we don’t have much need for them when we have two hundred French folks from the village set up to work with us, too. So it is Jerry POWs, French civilians, and us, all in one big old building.

The chief of mail, Captain Kearney, say it is for troop morale the 6888th Battalion moved closer to the front at Normandy, since some troops got to stay and rebuild roads and such that got bombed, and others are still rooting out the Nazis and bringing them in. I can see the sense in that: all the troops deserve to get their mail, and fast. But this just doesn’t feel right. Nobody can talk to each other in plain English, and there are a lot of regular army guards and folks walking around with guns. The French folk get frustrated, since they don’t even say the alphabet like
us. Working the post directory is for the first time real hard work, but at least it is not so cold and dark as in Birmingham. We know the work, but it is not easy with all these languages.

My second shift on duty is the early shift, and our squad is paired up with two French girls for each one of us WACs. CO says we have got to teach them how to help us.

I get a skinny little black-haired girl named Édith and an older woman with hacked-off brown hair who says her name is Geneviève, except they say “A-dit” and “Jon-veev.” Geneviève and me start off working on simple things—I got to teach her the American alphabet, which is work, but she works hard. Édith knows a little English, and we get a little work done, and after a lot of time waving our hands and pointing, they both understand that Robert and Rob, Bobby, Bert, Bob, and Robby might all be the same boy. By then it’s time for lunch.

The battalion feeds the French a meal a day as part of the pay for them working, so we march to the mess hall together, pass by the steam tables, and find our places. We get meat, some soup, some vegetables, mashed potatoes made from dehydrated potatoes, and a bit of bread and butter. Édith and Geneviève don’t say a thing when we sit down, so I don’t neither and we just take a break from trying to communicate till we go back on duty. But the French girls don’t look too good. Soon as we get back to work, Édith, the skinny one, turns a funny color like old oatmeal and—
wham!
—falls right on top of me, just about.

“Édith!” Geneviève drops all her mail and jumps up. Geneviève tries to pick Édith up, talking French to her, patting her hands, but Geneviève herself is shaking like a leaf, and she’s all shiny with sweat on her face.

“No … don’t!” I look around. “Somebody help me here!” I turn back to Geneviève. “Don’t mess with Édith, hear? Wait. Uh …
je … vous
… uh … aid.”

Geneviève try to say something, and then—
plop
—her eyes roll back in her head, and she passes right out on the floor.

“Medic!”

It is more than just me hollering. Some of us are trying to hold folks up, and some of us are about to panic. Dorothy Rogers looks like she’s about to be sick.

“Don’t touch ’em!” Dorothy steps back from the folks on the floor. “They’ve got some kind of disease for sure. They got lice!”

“Medics, coming through,” somebody hollers, and folks carrying stretchers come running.

“What’s the matter with them anyway?” Maryanne Oliver asks.

“Malnutrition,” our CO says. “Mess hall food is too rich.”

Maryanne looks at me, and she squats down and starts patting folks’ hands.

“It’s all right,” she says. “You’ll feel better. It’s all right. …”

I look up at Dorothy, and she can’t look me in the face. Lice. Please.

It’s a crying shame when a body doesn’t know what to do
when it get a little food. And our mess isn’t nothing like fancy food. We have got dehydrated potatoes and Spam like always. But the mess officer say they have got to cut the French folks’ rations and feed them twice a shift, or they’d be sick like this every day.

I write to Feen, remembering this. We are lucky, so, so lucky. Back home things might be tight sometimes, and we might not have too much we call luxuries, but we haven’t ever starved, not starved skinny sick like this.

“Psst!” I see Charline Spencer wave her hand at me next morning as she is about to go off shift.

“What?”

“Did you hear?” Charline grinning at me.

“Hear what?” I say.

“The men are here!”

I look out toward the gate, and I see the battalion commander; Major Addams, our CO; First Lieutenant Scott; and some MPs walking in front of the gate. I crane my neck and look up. In the officers’ quarters, heads are sticking out the windows, and folks are looking down.

“Ooh! Are they gonna let them in?”

Charline shrugs, her eyes sparking mischief. “Don’t know. They brought mattresses for every enlisted woman here, so some of ’em are going to have to get in here.”

“Mattresses? We don’t have to sleep on those nasty straw ticks anymore?”

“Nope,” Charline says. “We’ve finally got some real beds around here.”

“Isn’t that something? The Six-triple-eight has men bringing us beds!” I glance at the officers walking back and forth in front of the gate. “The CO looks worried,” I say.

“They say there are seven hundred and twenty-five enlisted men for each enlisted woman and thirty-one male officers for each female officer.”

My mouth drops. “Seven hundred and … Well, that’s plenty of men to go around, sure enough.”

“You going out there to see?”

I laugh. “Girl, I have got to get on duty. Can’t desert my post!”

“There’s always a first time,” Charline says, and we both laugh. Nobody wants the kind of trouble that comes with being AWOL, but we have some really curious women up in this post today. Most of us find all kinds of excuses to walk out from the post directory building all shift long, just to take a smoke or a breath of air and find a reason to look out toward the gates.

“So this is why you were telling us about boys in the back of cars,” Tali teases. “You must have gone out with a different guy every week!”

Mare laughs. “I did not. Sometimes it was two different guys in a week!”

I laugh but don’t say much. I’m a little envious of the long-time-ago Mare. I can’t imagine having that many guys interested in me just because I’m there. Actually, I can’t imagine any guys interested in me at all.

Mare hustles us through Houston to Beaumont, where she books us into a hotel suite with mahogany beds, leather couches, complimentary laundry service, terry cloth bath-robes (that we can’t take with us), and a minibar. Mare leaves us to look around and get unpacked while she goes to get a massage and a manicure. We’re on our own for dinner; Mare says that after days on the road, she just wants to catch up on her sleep in a decent bed.

“Check this out!” Tali sings out from the bathroom. I join
her and marvel at the size of the tub. There is a small TV screen across from it.

“Sweet!”

“I know! And the toilet seat has a heater thingy.”

“Okay, that’s gross.”

“Well, I’m using it anyway.” Tali shoos me out of the bathroom. “Move out of the way. I’m getting ready for dinner.”

“We could just get room service and watch a movie,” I remind her.

“No way! Did you see that restaurant downstairs? And the waiters? No way I’m staying in here. We’re going down to find some men—and I’m doing your makeup.”

I am excited that Tali wants to hang out with me, and it only takes us about two and a half hours to get ready. She won’t let me wear shorts, so I pair her blue plaid skirt and its matching baby tee with my yellow flip-flops, and Tali wears a little sundress that leaves her shoulders and long legs bare. I keep tugging on the hem of the T-shirt, wishing it were just a little longer, while Tali tries to adjust her dress to hit above the knee.

Tali won’t let me put my hair in a ponytail but gels it and makes quick twists in it while it is still damp. The curls look good, but a bit wild. And with the makeup we are wearing, in the mirror we both look older.
Way
older.

“We are total babes.” Tali grins, her expression triumphant.

“Yeah, we are,” I agree, staring in shock. My eyes look huge, and it seems like my face is all lashes and big hair and
shiny lipstick. With her short hair all gelled into points and wearing shimmering eye makeup, Tali almost isn’t recognizable. “Don’t ditch me, okay? If some guy comes to talk to you?”

“What do you mean, ditch you?” Tali exclaims. “They’re totally going to be talking to you, too. Come on!”

Tali drags me down to the hotel restaurant, and we are seated at a high table with stools. I look around at the long polished bar with a mirror behind it. Someone is playing quiet music on a piano, and people sit talking and laughing. I look over the top of my menu at my reflection and can’t keep a grin off my face.

“Can I get you ladies the wine list?” The server is completely gorgeous, with dark green eyes and a smooth Texas drawl.

My mouth opens, but Tali’s ready with a quick answer.

“No, thanks. She’ll have a coffee Italian soda, and I’ll have Kahlúa and cream, please.”

“My pleasure. Back in a moment.” The server melts away.

I gulp.
“Tali—!!”

“Shhh!” Tali grips my hand with her nails and smiles around the room. “Shut up, Octavia.”

“But—”

“He could have asked for ID, right? So it’s not like it’s a big deal.” Her nails dig in.

“Tali, Mare’s going to kill us.”

“Kahlúa has as much alcohol in it as, like, vanilla. It’s not
like Mare doesn’t have a drink every night. She started drinking when she was practically my age, too.”

My stomach lurches, and I stare down at my lap. The sophisticated little adventure we were having suddenly feels lonely and upsetting. While Tali is looking around the room, smiling at people, I pull away and twist my fingers together tightly.

Tali and Suzanne have all kinds of things they do that are cool and fun. They dressed up in old prom dresses from the thrift store and went grocery shopping one weekend, and they came back laughing at how people looked at them. They go to poetry slams, and once they joined a picket line in front of the state hospital because they were bored and wanted to carry signs and yell things at cars. I used to wish that Tali would take me on one of her adventures, but now that I’m here, I’m not sure what to do. When we were little, whenever Tali and I did something, I was always the lookout, the one who would tell her if Mom was coming while she dragged over the chair and took the box of sugar cubes down from the cabinet. Now I don’t know if I’m supposed to watch so she doesn’t get caught or help her pretend she’s not a minor ordering a drink.

“Octavia.” Tali’s voice is a whisper. “Check out the hottie.”

I glance up and follow my sister’s eyes toward the broad-shouldered guy in cowboy boots and tight black jeans. He swaggers into the restaurant, his eyes scanning faces like he’s looking for someone. When he sees Tali, he nods slightly and keeps looking around.

“Yikes,” I say, looking at his huge arms and chest. “Do you think he takes steroids?”

Tali drops her forehead into her hands. “Octavia …,” she groans. “Wrong answer.”

“I’m just saying!” I insist, miffed. “Either he takes steroids or he’s been in prison. I mean, who else has all day to just work out?”

“Ladies, your drinks.” Our server is back, sliding a tall glass half filled with dark and light liquid and ice in front of me. Tali’s drink looks almost the same, except her glass is shorter and wider and her straw is small and red, not red-and-white-striped like mine. From his tray, the server also slides a small glass of water in front of each of us and a basket of bread.

“Someone will be right with you to take your order.”

“Thank you,” Tali says serenely, and picks up her menu again, turning to see where the man with the cowboy boots is going.

I hesitate. “Tali? Do you think—”

“Cowboy coming this way! Now don’t say anything, Octavia, nothing. I mean it. Don’t ruin—”

“Look at you two, looking all grown.” Mare suddenly appears at our table in a whiff of perfume. I stare at her wig, which tonight is long wispy curls, the color of copper. She is wearing a striking fuchsia dress, with a manicure to match.

“Mare!” I swivel speechlessly between my sister and my grandmother.

“I thought you were going to bed,” Tali blurts.

“Well, that massage left me feeling so good I thought I’d
see if I could catch you girls for dinner. …” Mare’s voice trails off as her eyes take in our drinks.

“Mare,” Tali begins.

“Did you already order?” Mare’s voice is even.

“Not yet.”

“Do you know what you want? Octavia?” My grandmother’s eyes drill into mine.