Sisters in Arms

by Kaia Alderson

  “Great.”

  “Good.”

  They stared at each other awkwardly with him looming over Grace. She was the one who made the first move, reaching out to him. He followed, cupping her face in his palms. The kiss that followed surprised them both. Grace knew she should pull away. But her normal sense of discipline seemed to have disappeared. She wanted to be irresponsible on purpose for once.

  He pulled away first.

  “I . . . shouldn’t have done that either.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m not complaining.” The truth was she was glad that they had done that.

  “We probably shouldn’t do that again. There are rules.”

  “Agreed.” That was a lie. Grace wanted more. But she didn’t have the nerve to push Jonathan any further.

  “I should go.”

  “Probably.” Whatever spell had made Grace forget her normal reserve was gone.

  “Okay. Well, goodbye. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  He let himself out, locking the door behind him. Grace lay down on her “new” bed. She had no regrets about breaking the rules just now. The warmth from his lips on hers remained as she drifted off to sleep. It had been . . . delicious. Grace licked her bottom lip. Too bad what she and Jonathan shared could never happen again.

  Chapter 16

  Washington, D.C.

  December 1944

  IT HAD BEEN over a year since Grace arrived in Washington, D.C. In that time, she had settled into a rhythm: go to work, come home, help Mrs. Wilson prepare dinner, and, on weekends, meet her father for lunch whenever he passed through town.

  Mrs. Wilson’s home had none of the stress she’d endured back home with Mama. Well, except for Mrs. Wilson’s well-intentioned attempts to get her to go out more socially. Mildred would always block those attempts with a good-natured “She doesn’t have time for another boyfriend, Mrs. Wilson. She has her hands full with the one she has at work.”

  “I do not have a boyfriend,” Grace would protest every time. But that never stopped the teasing.

  Despite the rumors and occasional comments, Grace and Jonathan worked well together. His job was to report on the morale of Negro military personnel to the secretary of war. He also followed up on, and did his best to resolve, any problems that they faced. It was Grace’s job to collect the data he needed to compile those reports. She had already implemented several processes that eliminated a number of the headaches Jonathan faced in his stressful position.

  Grace now considered him a friend. Most times, she was able to ignore the underlying hum of attraction whenever she was too close to him. Thankfully, he never broached the subject of that kiss.

  Everyone who worked with her said she had been a godsend to the office. Grace was grateful to finally be making a contribution to the war effort. She just wished she could do something more. Something closer to the action.

  It was like an answered prayer when Charity Adams called her out of the blue one afternoon.

  Charity didn’t waste a breath after she said hello. “If I were to ask if you wanted to go to Europe, what would you say?”

  “I would say, ‘Hell, yes!’” The old Grace would have never sworn out loud like that at work. But she hadn’t been that old stickler for propriety since the train ride that had brought her here to Washington, D.C. She paused for a moment to absorb both what Charity had said and what she didn’t say. “Why do you ask?”

  Grace could hear the smile in Charity’s voice as she hung up with a promise of “I’ll see what I can do.”

  But when Grace excitedly mentioned the brief conversation to Jonathan later that day, he shared none of her enthusiasm.

  “If you do make it onto the list for the European unit, I’ll do everything in my power to get you off it.”

  “What?” Grace’s face heated with anger. Not just at the admitted betrayal, but at the nonchalant way that he had said it. The words had come out of his mouth in the same casual tone he would use to comment about the weather. “You know better than anybody that I’m a top performer. Why would you snatch away the opportunity of a lifetime from me?”

  “It’d be better than having the Germans snatch away your life. The Navy might have gotten the upper hand over the German U-boats lurking in the Atlantic as of late, but that crossing is still too dangerous. You’ve seen the reports. We’re still losing one or more ships with every convoy. You can still go to Europe after the war is over.”

  She griped about Jonathan’s threat later on to her roommate.

  Mildred shrugged. “If it were me, I’d go over his head.”

  “Over his head? The only person he answers to is War Secretary Stimson. That man barely knows I’m alive.”

  “Then go talk to his boss.”

  “Who, President Roosevelt? Please.”

  “If that’s what it takes.” Mildred shrugged again. “How bad do you want to go?”

  A few days later, Charity called again from Iowa. “Off the record, I put you on the list. But nothing is guaranteed.”

  Then Grace’s other WAC officer friends started receiving their orders to report to Fort Oglethorpe in Georgia for overseas training. No such orders came for Grace.

  When Mildred received her orders for overseas training the next day, she asked, “Did you call the president yet?”

  Grace picked up the phone and took a deep breath. She hadn’t felt this apprehensive about doing anything like this since her failed Juilliard audition over two years prior. She still didn’t have the nerve to dial up the White House. She imagined its operators received more calls than any one person could count. This was a request she had to be sure did not get lost in the shuffle.

  Instead, she called her old Fort Des Moines classmate Major Harriet West. Major West, along with Charity Adams, was the highest-ranking Negro woman in the WAC. She had been sent to work in WAC director Hobby’s office immediately upon their OCS graduation, which meant she interacted with the top officials who could override Jonathan’s interference. Grace asked Harriet to meet her for dinner after work.

  At dinner, Grace explained her situation to Harriet. “I thought you might be able to put in a good word for me. Or maybe get Colonel Hobby or even Dr. Bethune to—”

  “Girl, I can’t even get myself on that overseas list. Any time I have to travel on behalf of the corps, Colonel Hobby demands to know the exact date and time I’ll be back.”

  Harriet’s job at WAC headquarters was to track and report back on Negro issues within the Women’s Army Corps. It was similar to the work Jonathan did on behalf of the War Department.

  “It sounds like I’m in the same bind as you. Mildred said I’d be better off calling the president.”

  “That call would never get through.”

  “That’s what I told her.”

  Harriet thought about it for a moment. “You know what? I know someone who is an even better option . . .”

  “Better than the president?” Grace blurted out.

  Harriet shushed her, then looked around their immediate area. “Girl, lower your voice. You know everybody in this town is nosy.”

  Harriet fished a piece of scrap paper and a pencil out of her pocketbook. She began scribbling down a phone number. “Call this number first thing tomorrow morning. But for the love of God, if they ask, you did not get it from me.”

  THE NEXT DAY, Grace picked up the phone again. Her hands were shaking by the time the operator answered.

  “How may I direct your call?”

  Grace took a deep breath. It was now or never.

  “I’d like to speak with Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, please.”

  She didn’t speak with Mrs. Roosevelt directly, of course. But she was put through to her assistant, Malvina Thompson. Miss Thompson listened to her request, then ended the call with “I can’t promise anything, but I will let her know.”

  At the end of the day, Jonathan stormed out of the office after what sounded like a difficult call. He gave her a wither
ing look on his way out. Almost begrudgingly, he said to her, “I have to admit I didn’t see that one coming. You’ve got guts, kid. Enjoy the trip.”

  Grace didn’t have time to ponder on the confusing comment. Her phone rang almost as soon as Jonathan had slammed the door behind him.

  “Captain Grace Steele?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  The operator on the line said, “Please hold for Mrs. Roosevelt.”

  “Mrs. who?”

  A crackle of static was the only reply. A moment later, the very distinct voice of Eleanor Roosevelt said her name. “Captain Steele. Are you there, dear?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Roosevelt.” Grace felt her heart leap into her throat.

  “Do you still want to be a part of the unit of Negro WACs who are deploying out to Europe?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said breathlessly.

  “Good. Then you are to report to Union Station tomorrow morning to take the train down to Georgia. Your orders will be waiting for you at your boardinghouse here in town.”

  Grace yelped.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say, dear?”

  “I can’t believe it. Thank you, Mrs. Roosevelt. Thank you so much!”

  “My pleasure, dear. You ladies go over there and do me proud.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Unlike the many other times she had left town on official business, Jonathan did not come by Mrs. Wilson’s that night to say goodbye. His slight stung more than it should have. They were just friends. No, friends who worked closely together. Grace should still be mad at him for trying to take away her opportunity to go overseas.

  She would be better off forgetting she was ever attracted to him.

  The next morning, Grace joined Mildred on the train down to Georgia. Jonathan did not come to see her off then either. And she was okay with that.

  Six weeks later, she was headed to Last Stop, U.S.A., Camp Shanks.

  Chapter 17

  Camp Shanks, New York

  Late January 1945

  IT HAD BEEN a hell of a week by the time Captain Grace Steele was able to step out of the officer quarters that had been set aside for Negro WACs at Camp Shanks, which served as the New York Port of Embarkation.

  It had started with boarding a train in Fort Oglethorpe with an unknown destination, then getting off a day or so later in Weehawken, New Jersey. They could see a line of troop ships and ocean liners waiting at piers across the Hudson River, the famous New York City skyline in the background. She had bent down to grab a handful of the dirty snow in her gloved hands, happy to be so close to home again. The brown dirt mixed into the white snow was a welcome sight. Her latest stint in the Deep South hadn’t been a walk in the park. Jim Crow aside, the red clay mixed with the snow they had down there had been a nightmare to get out of her dirty clothes.

  Since their arrival at Camp Shanks, it had been a whirlwind of equipment checks, filling out paperwork, and practicing last-minute drills. She had expected the paperwork to verify her emergency contacts and permanent address. But it was a grim shock to them all when they had been sat down in a room to complete their last will and testaments and designate their life insurance beneficiaries.

  Grace’s pen hovered over the spot where she was to write her next of kin. A sense of dread wrapped around her as she placed her pen tip on the paper and wrote out her parents’ names. When she finished, she said a quick prayer—more of a plea really—that her parents not be put through the anguish of another dreaded visit from an officer in uniform because of her.

  Grace shook off the grim thoughts as she handed in her forms to the administrative WAC seated by the door on her way out.

  “I’m glad to have all that paperwork done and over with.” Mildred, her D.C. roommate, fell in step beside her.

  “Yeah, I was looking for adventure when I first signed up. Never thought it would lead to me having to worry about wills and insurance beneficiaries so soon in my life.” Grace sighed. She was over thinking about these kinds of morbid matters. She wished they could just ship out already and let whatever would happen to them happen.

  GRACE GOT HER wish the next day. Her back ached under the weight of her pack and all the other assorted gear she carried on her person. Nonetheless, she continued marching forward. Her heavy-soled boots stomped against the pavement in step with the rest of her company as they made their way toward the trains. The cold wind coming from the east off the Hudson River slapped her in the face, causing her to squint. The brim of her military-issue helmet offered no protection from the elements. That wasn’t its purpose. Shielding her from German bullets and bombs was.

  What a sobering thought. It had been almost twelve hours since word came down that her unit was officially on “alert.” That meant she, along with almost five hundred other Negro women, were on their way into an active war zone. Her heart began to thump a little bit faster. She couldn’t wait.

  Their pace began to slow gradually. Grace could see that the seemingly endless flow of soldiers was beginning to bottleneck up ahead. She had never seen so many bodies assembled at once. There had to be almost ten thousand soldiers marching toward the trains. Surely they weren’t going to cram all of these people onto one ship. “Stay in formation, ladies.”

  She knew the command she had given was superfluous. The marching columns made up by the women under her command were perfect. This was even more impressive when she considered how much gear they all were carrying—the weight would’ve given even some men trouble.

  But her girls were special. Their mere presence, at overseas training in Fort Oglethorpe down in Georgia and now here at Camp Shanks, was a first for the Army and for the race. Never before had a unit of Negro WACs been ordered overseas. Not during the Great War, and definitely not in the one they were currently engaged in. There wasn’t anywhere on base or off at Camp Shanks where they hadn’t been stared at since they had arrived. There wasn’t a day when some newspaperman, from the Negro press or otherwise, wasn’t following one of them around.

  There was no way to deny it. Grace’s girls were a very big whoop-de-doo.

  “Halt!”

  The other troops surrounding them began to break formation. Their complaints soon followed. What was taking so long? The packs on their backs and the gear that they carried were too heavy. Would they even set sail that day?

  Grace remained at attention. She gave her girls a side-eyed glance, daring them to utter any kind of complaint. But again, that had been unnecessary. Each woman in the company she commanded stood straight, looked forward, and spoke not one word. But at any given moment, almost all of them cracked a smile. They were just as eager as she to go to Europe.

  Grace remembered how eager to please she had been during her first review at Fort Des Moines in front of Colonel Hobby, Dr. Bethune, and . . . Jonathan. She leaned over to the woman closest to her and whispered, “Don’t lock your knees. That’s an order. Pass it on.” The woman complied with her order, passing the message to the WAC beside her.

  Her thoughts floated back to Jonathan and how she never said goodbye to him before leaving D.C. Why did she have to think about him now? She had been so mad at him for attempting to block her from being in this unit, from being a part of this historical moment. Anger flared in her belly. It was quickly replaced by another wave of regret.

  About twenty minutes later, a groan erupted across all the assembled military personnel. The word had come down that no troop ships would be heading out today or the next. Only then did Grace’s company let their displeasure be known. But Grace smiled because she knew something that they didn’t know. She’d already had her orders in the event that this happened. When they got back to camp, she would be informing everyone that they all had been granted weekend passes.

  “WHAT ARE YOU going to do with your forty-eight-hour pass this weekend?” Grace asked Mildred once they were back on base.

  Mildred’s face broke out into a wide grin. “With New York City a few train stops away? Any and
everything. The base newspaper says a new servicemen’s club just opened in Harlem.”

  “Really? Where? I grew up in Harlem.” Grace couldn’t imagine where a USO club could be located where a GI couldn’t get into some “good” trouble nearby.

  “Um, somewhere on Seventh Avenue. 124th Street, I think. Sorry, I’m still learning my way around that area. I’m from Boston, remember?” Mildred smiled.

  “Seventh and 124th Street? That’s where the Hotel Theresa is located.” Grace raised her eyebrows. After Sugar Hill and Strivers’ Row, the Theresa was one of the most desired residential spots in Harlem. “I’m impressed. Anyone who was anybody lived there. I might have to check it out. Let me know when you plan to go. You never know who you’ll see in there.”

  “Okay, I’m getting a group of us together to go. I’ll let you know what time we decide to head out.”

  “Great. I hope to see you there.” She nodded as Mildred turned in the direction of the camp post office.

  Even as the words came out of her mouth, Grace knew she said them just for show. Her plan for her forty-eight hours away from base had nothing to do with hanging out with anyone she knew from the WAC. The agenda she had already worked out on her own included grabbing a dirty-water hot dog and a slice of real New York–style pizza and seeing if any of her old friends were still hanging around the jazz club on the corner of West 118th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue.

  As much as she missed her father, she was not too keen on visiting her parents’ apartment a few blocks away. The odds were hit or miss that her father was in town anyway. He said in his last letter that he was going on another trip South. However, it was a 100 percent guarantee that her mother would be there.

  That fact settled her dilemma. Grace and her father had exchanged letters since she left for training camp, which was how she’d been able to stay up on how Mama’s dressmaking business had picked up since Grace had left home. And then there were the times they’d been able to have a quick bite together in D.C.’s Union Station when his route passed through town while she was there. As for her mother, Grace had not directly communicated with her in any way since she had first left for Iowa.