Winter in June (3 page)

He cleared his throat and flipped the page on his clipboard. “From this moment forward, you are under the rules and regulations of the U.S. Navy. You will obey every order you are given without question. At no time will you be told where you are or where you're going, nor should you request that any such information be shared with you. While onboard this ship, there is no smoking on deck at night, though you are welcome to smoke when there is no chance of anyone from an enemy ship being able to see the flame. Also, we do not permit books, papers, playing cards, or anything else on deck that could be inadvertently knocked overboard, leaving a trail of debris for the enemy to sight. Once we leave U.S. waters, we will be under strict blackout conditions.” My mouth went dry. I didn't think we'd be in danger until we got to our destination. It never occurred to me that we were at risk the moment we left California and headed into the open sea. “You will each be assigned a Mae West that you are to keep with you at all times. Please do not use it as a seat cushion.”

We looked at one another for an explanation as to why the navy
was handing out buxom blondes. Reg clapped his hands, and a sailor appeared with a stack of five life preservers teetering from his arms.

“Maybe my eyes are deceiving me, but those look like life jackets,” said Violet.

“I forgot you don't know the lingo. They are indeed life vests. We call them Mae Wests.” Reg demonstrated how to don the vest, and it became clear how they'd gotten their nickname. In profile, those of us who weren't already blessed would look like we had the impressive bosom of W. C. Fields's favorite leading lady.

“It is essential,” said Reg, “that you listen to all intercom announcements and respond immediately to any instructions to ensure your safety. In the event of an emergency, you are to convene here in this mess hall. Finally, prior to landing, each of you will be asked to complete a medical physical with the ship's doctor.” Again he cleared his throat, and I realized that the entire time he'd been speaking, he'd been directing his attention to Gilda. This man, who'd probably fought an endless number of navy battles, turned into a nervous schoolboy in the presence of Hollywood royalty. He wet his finger with his tongue, then used his fingers to smooth his eyebrows. “Any questions?”

“What time does the bar open?” Violet muttered under her breath.

“And now, ladies, I will leave you in the capable hands of Molly Dubois.” He saluted us—or, rather, Gilda—and hurriedly left the room. Molly Dubois took his place and smiled in everyone's direction.

Her spiel was much shorter. Molly was simply there to advise us on the types of material we would be performing and how frequently those performances would be taking place once we reached our destination. We would be assigned a base camp and would travel throughout the islands to perform for as many soldiers as possible, including those who were currently in makeshift military hospitals. We wouldn't be provided much in the way of costumes, props and set pieces, since the extensive traveling would make it difficult to
carry much with us. It would be a tough schedule, she warned, involving lots of travel by Jeep, boat, and plane, but she guaranteed that it would be an unforgettable experience for all of us.

“I must remind you that from this moment forward, you are ambassadors of the USO. Everything you do—both positive and negative—reflects on the United Service Organizations. We are providing an essential service to our enlisted brothers and sisters, and I would hate for that to be jeopardized because the U.S. military was unhappy with the way one of our girls was behaving. I ask that you remember at all times whom you are representing and maintain a high standard of moral and ethical behavior.

“Miss DeVane will be serving as your troupe's leader, and, ultimately, your performances will be at her discretion. We have provided her with collections of songs and skits that other USO troupes have used to great success. This is a chance, however, for all of you to expand your talents by creating work that best shows off your individual abilities, and I hope that you will make this a collaborative experience. As well, we encourage you to seek out other performers in camp. Many of your enlisted men are musicians and actors who would love the opportunity to get onstage and join you in your performances. Take advantage of their unique skills, and give them a chance to shine. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak to Miss DeVane alone.”

With that, Molly and Gilda left the room.

For the first time since we'd left New York, I hummed with excitement.

“Collaborative, my ass,” said Violet. “This is going to be the Gilda DeVane show from start to finish.”

“What?” asked Kay.

“Nothing,” said Violet. She pulled a flask from her bag and opened and closed the attached silver lid in rapid succession. The noise got my dander up.

“I can't get over how pretty she is,” said Jayne. “Don't get me wrong—I knew she was easy on the eyes from her movies, but I just figured half of that was lights and makeup. It's nice to know that a
woman can look that way for real.” It was funny hearing Jayne assess another woman's beauty. My pal was a platinum bombshell who thought catcalls and compliments were as common as candy, but in Gilda's world she was average at best. I hated to think what that made me.

“I expected her to be…well…mean or something,” said Kay. “She always plays those kinds of characters. And with everything the slicks say about her, I assumed—”

“Don't worry,” said Violet. “Your instincts were right.”

“What the deuce does that mean?” I asked.

Violet's mouth opened and closed as quickly as her flask had. Gilda returned with her arms outstretched, as though she were going to embrace us in one enormous hug. “I'm so glad all those formalities are finally over and done with. I don't know about you, but hearing all those rules and regulations made my head spin. I forgot this wasn't just a show we were doing but a show for the military.” We murmured our agreement. I looked for a sign that Gilda was planning on making this whole venture about herself or that she was the sort of self-centered Sally that Violet was determined to mark her as. “I want you all to know how much I'm looking forward to these shows. From here on out, we're in this together, and not one of us is more important than the other.” She glanced at a wristwatch that seemed to question the idea that we were equals. It was a dazzling confection of platinum and diamonds that made the ship's chandeliers look shoddy by comparison. “We'll be pushing off in the next hour, so why don't we take a look around before the launch? And then maybe we can spend tonight getting to know one another.”

The ship was set up like a miniature city. In addition to the mess hall, there was a commissary stocked with any number of things soldiers might want to take with them for their next destination. There was a gedunk—which I figured out was another word for canteen—where you could get ice cream, soda, and candy. At the onboard barbershop, two sailors, whose own hair was in desperate need of cutting, were employed to do for you what they hadn't done for themselves. The ship's tailor could lengthen or shorten your army-issue pants so they were no longer the standard too short or too long. You took your mail to the post office, where the ship's newsletter awaited distribution. Inside of the newsletter were fun little tidbits about the men and women aboard the
Queen of the Ocean
(seen last night: Captain Malloy cutting a rug with a pretty little lass in a WAAC uniform. We sure hope Captain Malloy is more deft in the battlefield than he is on the dance floor), and less entertaining stories about what was
occurring in one of the many countries we were headed toward, brought to us courtesy of the ship's wireless (that day the rag was all aflutter about the Germans crushing the Jewish uprising and the RAF smashing German dams). For entertainment, there was a movie theater that offered three films a day—we could watch
Shadow of a Doubt
,
Girl Crazy
, and
Action in the Atlantic
. You could borrow books from the ship's library, visit the game room and play billiards, Ping-Pong, shuffleboard, checkers, and chess or attend religious services with one of three onboard chaplains.

On the sundeck where the officers milled about if the weather was nice, there were golf clubs and balls for the officers to practice their swing—a net put into place to prevent the balls from landing in the water—and a swimming pool in case anyone needed to cool off. Nobody ever did. I don't know if it's because the officers felt that it would be undignified to strip down to their skivvies, or if the thought of swimming made this whole enterprise feel too much like a vacation.

After we toured the ship, we all went up on deck to see the launch. Side by side, we stood at the rail and alternated our views between the land we were leaving and the open sea we were headed toward. As the boat pulled away from the dock, we waved at passing strangers who paused in their day to watch the magnificent
Queen of the Ocean
set sail. Among them was a cluster of newshounds with their cameras trained on us. Gilda turned her left cheek their way, and as the wind caught her dress and the sun reflected off her hair, she started singing “God Bless America.” We all joined in, repeating the simple chorus until we could no longer distinguish the features of the people standing onshore.

Almost unconsciously, my peepers kept dropping to the spot near the dock where the woman had been floating in the water. Even though she was no longer there, I swore I could see her dark silhouette rippling with the force of our takeoff. Did they know who she was yet? Was she supposed to be on this boat? Had someone realized she was missing?

We stayed ondeck for a while, trading stories about other voyages
we had taken. Jayne and I had only our tales of ferry rides and train trips, but the other women had been out of the country before, and they regaled us with stories of other lands and other people. I wanted to pipe in with questions and comments, but I was feeling less and less like standing on deck as the sea bounced the boat to and fro. My normally steel gut churned at the motion, and I found myself feeling increasingly dizzy. It was probably just the sun, which seemed twice as powerful now that we were away from the shore. Or perhaps the eggs we'd had on the train that morning weren't quite as farm fresh as the menu claimed. Or maybe it was the memory of the woman whose blood-red nails had been varnished in anticipation of a very different ending.

“Rosie?” asked Jayne. “You all right? You look a little green.”

Just as she described the color I'd turned, I leaned over the railing and threw up what little I had in my stomach.

“Seasick,” the other three women announced with the pride of a doctor making a swift diagnosis.

“Oh God,” I said, as my breakfast dispersed across the miles of ocean. “Do you think the Japanese can see that?”

“If they can spot puke from that far away,” said Violet, “they deserve to win the war.”

 

Jayne helped me find our quarters. While we may have been given two rooms, it was clear that four of us were intended to sleep in one of them while our fifth, more important, member got digs to herself. Our cabin was crammed with two sets of bunk beds, a built-in bureau, and a bathroom designed to accommodate those who enjoyed peeing and showering simultaneously. I didn't have the energy to comment on the arrangements. I claimed one of the bottom bunks out of necessity and stretched out on my back.

“How do you feel?” asked Jayne.

“Jingle-brained. How come you're not affected?”

“Gilda said it might be a dancer thing. I know what to focus on to keep my balance.”

I was many things, but a skilled dancer wasn't among them.
“Great. Another thing that my rotten hoofing skills have robbed from me.” I closed my eyes only to realize that made things much, much worse. “Do you think it's an omen?”

“Lots of people get seasick.” She wet a washcloth in the ersatz bathroom.

“I meant the woman in the water.”

She wrung the excess water out of the cloth. “And what would she be an omen of?”

“That death is going to follow us to the South Pacific?”

She returned to my side and put the wet washcloth on my forehead. As soothing as it was, it did nothing to settle my stomach. “She has nothing to do with us,” said Jayne.

“When did you turn so hard?”

“You know what I mean. Don't look for signs that things are going to go badly. That won't help anyone.” She was right, of course. Jayne had a knack for being much more rational than me. “Can I get you anything?”

“No. I think this is one of those things I have to wait out.” I tried to find what I could safely set my eyes on. The whole room seemed to be echoing the choppy motions of the ship. “On second thought—can you get me a trash can or a bucket or something?”

She brought one from the tiny bathroom and set it on the floor beside me. “What do you think about Gilda?”

“She's not what I expected. I really thought I'd resent her being here, what with the special treatment, but I like her so far.” In all fairness, I wasn't exactly known for my ability to read people. After all, I'd inadvertently befriended two murderers in six months.

Jayne was kind enough not to point this out to me. “I like her too. And the others?”

“Remains to be seen. I don't have a wire on Kay yet, though she seems like a good egg. Violet's a stitch. And a lush. And I'm betting the source of all our sorrows.”

“What do you mean?”

I stared at the bunk above me. Calcified chewing gun clung to the bedsprings. “Haven't you noticed? Violet's got more faces than
Mount Rushmore. She's sweet as pie to Gilda one moment, and the next it seems like she's trying to get a rise out of her.”

“It sounds like garden-variety jealousy to me.”

I flipped the wet washcloth over. “Yeah, but we have every reason to be jealous of her, too, and somehow we keep a lid on it.”

“They were at MGM together. It must be hard to watch someone come up when you're going nowhere.”

Didn't I know it? It was the story of my career.

“It'll pass,” said Jayne. “She's just got to get used to the idea that Gilda's not the enemy.” That was the nice thing about war: when we weren't clear about who the enemy was our government made posters to point them out to us.

As though she'd been summoned by our talking about her, Violet entered the room and flung her pocketbook onto the other bottom bunk. “So this is it? I thought we had two rooms.”

“There's only one bed in the other one,” said Jayne.

“And let me guess who gets that one.”

Jayne stood up. “I don't think the decision was hers.”

Violet kicked off her heels and massaged her dogs. The stink of sweaty feet filled the small space. “That's what she wants you to think. She's playing a role right now to make sure everyone likes her. Just you wait—the real Gilda will come out soon enough. If she wanted to be down to earth, she'd share our room, use her real name, her real hair color, and her real nose.”

The room lurched to the left, my stomach to the right. “She had a nose job?” I asked.

“Years ago, when they were first developing her,” said Violet. “It was about the same time that they changed her hairline, gave her a bigger bosom, and capped her teeth. A big nose, flat chest and small forehead might be fine for homely Maria Elizondo of Laredo, but it's unacceptable for a glamour girl like Gilda DeVane.”

As much as Violet was starting to annoy me, I have to admit I was fascinated by what she knew. I understood that Hollywood was a star machine manufacturing people with new names and new pasts, but I was strangely naïve when it came to someone completely mak
ing themselves over for their career. The very notion seemed…well, it seemed like an idea out of a movie. Had Gilda really reinvented herself so thoroughly, or was Violet creating this history to match the scorn she felt for the woman?

“Give me a break,” I said. “There's no way you could possibly know any of that's true.”

“She and I arrived at MGM at the same time. She may not remember me, but I definitely remember her. The
real
her.”

“Actually,” said Jayne, “I did see a picture of her once in
Movie Story
. It was one of those sidebars where they ask you to guess who the young woman in the picture grew up to be, and given how different Gilda looked at eighteen, it's clear she had something done.”

Violet smirked at me, but I wasn't going to bite. The only bile I wanted to deal with was churning in my gullet. “All right—fair enough,” I said. “But what's the matter with that?”

“It's deceptive.” Violet fumbled inside her purse until she located a silver cigarette case and lighter. Just the thought of smoke made me queasy. “She's making everyone think that she got where she got by talent.”

“And who's to say she didn't?” I asked.

She checked out her reflection in the cigarette case and seemed pleased by what she saw. “Anyone who's seen her movies.”

“Come on now. If she was a lousy actress, she wouldn't be where she is.”

She lit the gasper and took a pull. “And to think they believe the girls in New York are smarter and more sophisticated.” She underlined her scorn with a long exhale of smoke. “You know those musicals she used to do? They dubbed her voice. And the dance sequences? If you really paid attention, you might've noticed that they never showed her face and her feet in the same shot. All that work was someone else's—someone who could really sing and really dance but lacked whatever was needed to make up the whole package. Gilda got where she got because she was willing to let the bigwigs turn her into whoever they wanted her to be and because she didn't care how many other people's careers it took to make
that possible. And now every Tom, Dick, and Harry in Hollywood believes that's what makes a star. No matter how talented we are the rest of us don't stand a chance.”

Jayne stirred beside me. “Couldn't we, though, if we did what she did?”

“Assuming you could afford it,” said Violet. “Would you really be willing for someone to completely change you like that?”

Of course, I wouldn't. But I was bothered enough by Violet's attitude that I wanted to be disagreeable. “If it got me where it got her, sure,” I said.

“Then I feel sorry for you.”

I let her know how I felt about her sympathy by vomiting in the trash can.

 

Apparently, being trapped in a small room with a trash can full of upchuck was unappealing. Jayne and Violet left, leaving me in the bottom bunk cursing the irregular rhythm of wartime sea voyage. I'd always imagined Pacific passage to be relaxing and leisurely, with gentle waves rocking the boat into a comfortable lull. While that may have been the case back when the
Queen of the Ocean
was a luxury liner, during wartime the path we took was about as relaxing as a horse cart racing through rocky terrain. To avoid potential torpedoes, the ship made a zigzag course, changing directions every five minutes to ensure that an enemy vessel didn't have its sights on us. Conveniently, five minutes was precisely the amount of time it took to convince me that my stomach was better before the ship's rolling would summon the next wave of green goo.

I couldn't sleep. For a while I focused on the photo of Jack, hoping that his black and white image possessed the ability to heal the infirm. It didn't, so I tried to read, tearing through the copy of the ship's newsletter I'd snagged during our tour. Our troops had invaded Attu in the Aleutian Islands. With help from the Brits, we'd forced the Nazis to surrender in North Africa, and the Germans and the Italians had surrendered in the North.

Things weren't going quite so well for all of our Allies. The Japa
nese had sunk an Australian hospital ship called
The Centaurian
, and the newsletter said officials were predicting several hundred dead, including the wounded who were being transported on the vessel. It was hard to wrap my head around the scope of the tragedy, not just because of the numbers lost in a single submarine attack but because many of the dead had probably believed that after suffering whatever injuries they'd endured, they had finally won their ticket home. What had their final moments been like? Were they hopped up on morphine to ease their transport, or were they alert and helpless as they met their end?

You were never safe when there was a war on. Not on a ship headed for home. Not even within your barracks.