“You get along home, too, miss,” I tell the little girl, but she acts like she can’t hear me.
I click my tongue. If that were Feen, I’d give her a piece of my mind and a swat on her behind. “Scram, girl!” I say again, and her eyes roll toward me, then back up at the sky. Poor thing’s so scared she can’t move.
Annie, Peaches, and I crouch in front of a house, craning our necks to see if we can see something. As long as you can hear that little motor on that buzz bomb whine, you know you’re all right—it’s still flying. Everybody ducks when the motor stops, though. Those bombs glide down in perfect silence—you don’t know where they will land. Sometimes we don’t hear any explosion at all. Those times, the bomb may not have gone off; it maybe just fell somewhere and is lying in a field.
We wait.
Somebody’s baby start to crying, and they hush it.
We wait.
A door opens and we hear a voice shout, “Victoria!” The little girl starts sidling along the houses till we can’t see her no more.
The door slams.
We wait.
We wait, we wait, we wait.
The times when we hear nothing, we go on, just thankful it didn’t hit here. Today, we don’t hear a thing, and after a while, the squatting man clears his throat and stands up.
“Not today, hmm?” he says in his funny, fast way, and then it’s like everybody thaws. We all straighten up, move, stretch. The lady puts her scarf back on. The world gets started again.
It doesn’t take much time for us to get to talking again, it happens so often. Peaches unstraps her helmet and swings it over her arm, fluffing up her hair. By the time we walk on to the post office, we hear engines growling again. I rub my eyes. “It’s going to be dark tonight,” I say, and Annie nods.
“Hate those blackout shades.” She sighs. We strain our eyes trying to read the names on the packages, but there’s nothing we can do about it. After dark, everybody in Birmingham has on blackout shades so we don’t give off light to the enemy flying overhead.
When a siren goes off later on that night, we just put on our helmets and keep working. I stand to pick up a package, and I almost fall as the ground shakes. Dust sifts from the walls as the bricks shift. I grab a table to keep my balance, and everybody looks around, smiling kind of nervous.
We have had a hit.
When the chips are down, we do our duty. I pick up my package and listen to the girl next to me muttering. She is saying the rosary, still working, reading off serial numbers and slotting her packages in the right piles. I remember to say my prayers, too.
22.
then
April 5, 1945
Dear Miss Josey,
Hope you had a good Easter. Thank you kindly for the card you sent. We got real eggs for Easter breakfast, not powdered. Nothing to do but go to church and listen to the radio. The Duffle Bag program take requests, and Dovey plays “I’ll Walk Alone” till I am sick of it. Poor girl, she misses her man, but that song really works my nerves.
We had payday the 31st but no base passes until today. Time moved up one hour at 0200 hours last Sunday. Didn’t think that “daylight saving time” kept up all the way over here, but it does. Feels like we’ll get no extra sleep now!
Do you know, somebody told these English folk that coloreds have tails that come out at night!
They say you don’t ever see the men’s ’cause they wear slacks, but if they look real close after midnight, they can see a tail on a colored girl. Lieutenant Scott let us out of curfew just so we could be seen on the street after midnight to prove we don’t have tails that come out after dark. You can be sure some white soldier told them that mess and they believed it. It shook me up a little to hear it—I thought folks were different here than they are back home. I guess folks are the same here as anywhere. Some are good, and some are not.
You might read in the paper that there are bombs falling here. We don’t get too many—they going mostly to London or sometimes out in the country. Nobody here even worries about getting bombed, so don’t you worry about us, either, you hear? Some of the English folk started calling these V-1 bombs “Bob Hope” bombs. You bob down when they call the alert, and you hope it won’t get you!
Every day I work at the post office on my eight-hour shift, I think I want to tell everybody in the world how to send their mail. If you write Sister Dials, tell her when she sends a package to her boy in the navy to wrap it tight. I don’t know about the navy, but people will send the army some of the most raggedy packages! Sometimes it’s impossible to put them back together.
Every morning after shift, we have exercise in our auditorium or march back to our quarters (we are still at the school) and have “tea” because only the Red Cross makes coffee that taste like anything. We have a few hours free, and then we hit the sack. I don’t have time to get into trouble, Feen. You keep telling Aunt Shirley that. You-all don’t have to worry about me.
It is still raining. We have nothing but clouds on clouds out here. Lord, this weather is about to wear me out.
Looking for spring, I am,
Marey Lee Boylen, Private, Second Class
Our third weekend pass, Ruby, Annie, Peaches, and me sign out to go to London. We have been here almost three months now, and Annie say it is past time for me to see it. Other folks have taken the train to Paris already and spent time on R & R all over the place, but I like Birmingham just fine. Still, Peaches says I have got to see London once before I die.
It is not really a weekend pass since we leave on Thursday and our orders are to report back for duty Saturday at 0800 hours, but we will take what we can get. It is the first time we have all managed to get away together, and Ruby won the drawing for a forty-eight-hour pass to London. The four of us are looking forward to taking in the sights.
It is easy to see London, Ruby and Peaches tell me, ’cause the train takes you all the way there, and in uniform, a WAC rides for free. It will be fun, Annie says, because we will see London Bridge and Big Ben.
Now, I don’t know that I care about London, but Annie says that’s because I am a “country rube” who hasn’t seen anything yet. She and Peaches talk so much they talk me into it. “A trip to London is just what the doctor ordered. They’ve got a WAC hotel for enlisted girls there. They’ve got noncommissioned officers’ clubs!”
“They’ve got men,” Peaches says, like that should settle my mind.
What settles my mind is this: today is my birthday. I am eighteen years old.
I have already heard from Feen. She has sent me a card she made with scraps of lace, paper, buttons, and paste, and she even sent me a paper flower for my hair from Woolworth’s. Letters home are postage-free for all WACs, but Feen still has to pay for postage. No matter what, she still writes me faithfully.
Mama still hasn’t written me a word. At all.
I think probably she doesn’t even know where to write me. Last time I wrote, we had just gotten here. Probably she’s sent something by now, and it is making its way to me. Probably…
But when I talk straight to myself, late at night, I know there’s no “probably” to it. Even though I am her firstborn child, seems like my own mama could not care less about me.
And then that feeling a bit low gets lower about some other things. Three weeks ago, our CO called a full base meeting that shut down even the two “eight shifts” at the base post office. Gossip ran that HQ was about to cancel all leaves without a base commander’s say-so. Folks had it that something real bad had happened, and when we crowded into the auditorium—all thousand of us, enlisted and officers—there wasn’t room enough to sit, and we were packed in like sardines.
Then our CO tells us some Red Cross ladies went and found us a hotel in London—a hotel of our own, just for the Six-triple-eight. Seems the Red Cross doesn’t think we colored girls are “happy” mixing with the white girls at the enlisted WAC hotel in London. Our CO asked us not to go to the colored hotel, just to make a point that
we are as good as everyone else in the Women’s Army Corps, and we won’t be pushed out from where the rest of the enlisted WACs stay. Our CO says she’ll hold out curfew in time for us to get back to base and sleep in our own beds since the trains run all night. We can go back and forth to London all weekend long that way. Or we can stay in a hotel and pay on our own or we can stay with a family.
Most folks didn’t take to that really well, and it has just brought me lower than before. It is crazy to be here fighting for freedom and democracy when we are not free. It tears me up to wonder why we are here, why our colored men go down fighting, when things will stay the same at home. I just don’t know if I did right to join the Women’s Army.
I guess I forgot that other folks just see “colored” wherever we go, even though all we see is worsted khaki uniforms and folks fighting on the same side around here. All of us planning to see London are fit to be tied.
“Are you kidding me?” Phillipa says as we head back to barracks. “How are we supposed to take a pass to London if we’ve got to come back in time for bed?”
“Well,” says Dovey, “if you can’t beat ’em, guess you gotta join ’em. As long as they’re stretching out curfew to match the train schedule, I’d rather sleep snug in my own bed anyway. You know you’ve got to put a sixpence in those little heaters all night long anyway, and some of those hotels are bound to have bedbugs.”
“I don’t know why those Red Cross ladies want to put us all by ourselves out there. Don’t they know we want to go to London to meet new people?” Annie shakes her head. “It’s just segregation all over again, plain and simple. I sure thought over here it would be different.”
Ruby shrugs. “It’s not the end of the world. London’s still a real good time.”
Peaches say she got friends of folks in the city where we could stay, but I think I’ll take a rain check on that. Today, I am no kind of good company. I was sure I’d hear from Mama before now. It hurts me that she would let my birthday pass without a word. It hurts me that I expected any different.
After inspection, we get all spiffed up to step out into the city. We are at the train station, looking sharp in our off-duty uniforms with our belts, gloves, and bags. Ruby lends me her lipstick for the occasion, and all of us look real nice. Even with our fine-looking hair, under our arms we’ve got our helmets. Makes no difference that the London Blitz has been over for a couple of years. We don’t play around with those V-1s, which are still flying at least a couple of times a day. Folks have got to put out their smokes and pull down the shades in every house and on every train every single time, so we won’t take chances. In our bags we got flashlights, or “torches,” like they call them here. It gets mighty dark on a train during a blackout.
Ruby’s all excited about what we’re going to do. “First, Marey,” she say, “we’re going to Buckingham Palace to see the changing of the guard. Then we’re going to ride us one of those double-decker buses and see everything—even St. Paul’s Cathedral, right where they were bombed the hardest. It’ll be just like that picture from Life magazine—how it’s the one big thing standing when everything else fell flat!”
“Oh, Ruby Bowie, you are precious,” I hear someone say all sweet. Oh, no. My stomach twists. “What’s cooking, girls?” Gloria Madden says, tilting her head to show off her hair. “Fancy meeting you here!”
“I didn’t think you got a pass!” Peaches says, smiling at Gloria. “You coming with us?”
“Not today,” Gloria says, cutting her eyes at me, and my stomach relaxes. “I know you’ve got to show Ruby and Marey the big-city sights and all. That’s not my scene. I’ve got people to meet.”
Annie rolls her eyes and sighs. Gloria Madden has got some nerve.
“Oh, you’re going to see your captain?” Peaches whispers, and Annie leans in.
“What? Captain? Gloria Madden, what are you up to, seeing an officer?”
“I don’t tell my business to just anyone,” Gloria says, fluttering her lashes like she’s crazy. “Can’t talk—that’s my train!”
I make a face, but I don’t let Peaches see me. Gloria Madden is nothing but uppity Eastern trash, but for some reason, those two are thicker than thieves these days. There’s no accounting for taste, I guess.
I don’t have too much time to worry ’cause the conductor is waving us in, and we all board. This is not the first time I have been back on the train since we got to Birmingham, but this will be my longest trip. For once, the sun is even shining, and it really feels like we might halfway thaw out one of these days.
In the train folks just sit—colored and whites. Folks smoke and talk, and the country rolls on by. I keep looking up, waiting for somebody to send us into the segregated car, but nobody does. Everybody huddles in their coats and folks nod, seeing our uniforms.
England is green, green, green, and it looks like there is just nothing but nice little hills for miles. Annie says some of those “hills” are airplane hangars with planes in them, all camouflaged against the enemy. It’s so pretty I wish I had a picture of all of those little hills.
Soon we see houses here and there, and then a few more, and then they are all stuck together, wall to wall, brick houses stained black from smoke, with chimneys all lined in a row. Next thing they holler is, “London Bridge Station!” and Annie says, “That’s us.” I fumble for my gloves and look around, my stomach jumpy. Today, I might see the king of England; wouldn’t that be something to write Feen about?
First thing Annie wants to do is find some postcards to mail to her folks back home. Ruby and I follow her into a little shop where everybody is nice as they can be. The folks don’t look at us like they do in Birmingham; nobody cares if we are colored or not. Afterward, we squabble about what to do next.
“Let’s see the Tower of London,” Annie say.
“I don’t want to go where they cut off all them folks’ heads,” I tell her. “Let’s see the king.”
“Nobody sees the king.” Annie laughs at me good. “We get to see the guards change.”
“I want to go to Piccadilly Circus,” Ruby say.
“They got a circus here?”
“That’s just what they call a circle in the street,” Annie tells me, smiling. “It’s way downtown, with lots of clubs and all of that.”
“Let’s go.” Ruby grins, her eyes all full of mischief. “It’s not too early to eat, is it?”
We end up at a little lunch spot where Ruby gets us some sandwiches and tea. Then we strut up and down the street, looking at the shops and the clubs. Folks look at us and smile, especially at me, since I am craning to look at everything. Downtown at Piccadilly is one big noisy place, and London’s the biggest city I’ve ever seen. Folks are walking, jeeps are driving servicemen and officers around, and people are riding bicycles. I hear a growling sound, and I look up, grabbing my helmet. A lady says, “That’s no Jerry, luv. That’s the tram!”
Of course, one or two soldiers—navy—try to talk to Annie, but she isn’t having that. A girl with three brothers knows how to give them that Look, so they leave her be. We walk a bit more, and the sun breaks through for real. I am almost happy. A fat little boy in short pants and a big hat says “Cheerio,” to us and waves. His little cheeks are round like Peaches’s, and she gives him a chocolate bar.
I buy Feen some hair clips in a tin box. After Ruby buys a book for her sister back home, we go to a pub called the Hawk ’n’ Dove. I look around at the mirror and all the bottles and smile. Mama would be fit to be tied if she knew I was in a place like this!
“What’ll it be, ladies?” The bartender is looking at us expectantly, his white rag rubbing up and down that clean bar. He looks like he could work for Lieutenant Scott, the way he’s wiping up what shines already.
“Scotch and water,” Ruby say, calm as you please. My mouth drops.
“Gin and tonic,” Annie say, and the bartender nods and turns away.
Peaches nudge me. “Girl, you’re catching flies. Come on. W
hat’ll you have?”
“Lemonade?” My voice is high.
Peaches giggles. “Two Pimm’s Cups, please.”
I turn on her, shocked. “A lemonade, I said.”
“Come on, Marey girl. You’re in London!”
“What’s a Pimm’s Cup?” asks Ruby. “Is it good?”
“Sure! It’s just a teensy bit of gin; it’s mostly fruit, some cucumbers, and—”
“It’s got lemonade in it, miss,” the bartender says, looking like he is trying not to laugh.
My face is tight and hot. Reverend Morgan says “Wine is a mocker,” and I am already feeling shamed.
“If you don’t like it, Marey Lee, you don’t have to drink it,” Ruby says, real soft.
I nod, just a little, and the bartender slide me that drink. It is just a little glass, not big. It has fruit in it, and cucumbers, like Peach say.
Probably it can’t be that bad if it has fruit.
That stuff Mama drinks is malt whiskey straight from the bottle. It is not like I never tasted that, but liquor is the devil’s own brew, I know what Reverend Morgan say, and Mama’s stuff sure enough burned me like hellfire. I made certain Feen never got into Mama’s whiskey.
But this isn’t all liquor. And Mama hasn’t had a thing to say to me for months.
And when I take a sip, it’s not too bad at all.
23.
now
“I’m so jealous.” Tali sighs. “I want to go to London.”
As long as we’ve been driving, it feels like we could have driven there twice now. We’re going to be in this car forever. Mare’s only been driving something like five or six hours a day, and since she doesn’t like to drive when it’s hot, and she doesn’t like to drive when it’s dark, and she likes to follow signs that say Amazing Roadside Attraction, 45 Miles! to see what they are, we’ve been crisscrossing the map, back and forth, hours off of any main roadways. We’ve seen cliff dwellings and conservation areas. We’ve seen Native reservations, natural wonders, and national parks. Every night, Mare shells out for fancier and fancier hotels and complains more and more about her “barking dogs” and her aching back. At the rate we’re going, this trip will take all summer. I didn’t think I had a problem with being on an all-summer road trip in theory, but in reality, it is getting kind of hard. For one thing, who would have thought I’d get sick of pie for breakfast? Or sick of truck stops and diner food? Tali’s been looking in phone books in every place we stop so she can find some off-the-highway restaurants that have table-cloths and decent salads. Mare insists we stop at every fruit stand and farmers’ market in search of fresh foods that haven’t wilted under a heat lamp. Tali’s even started jogging when we get to the hotels at night. Even if it’s just doing laps in the parking lot of a motel, she thinks it’s necessary. “All this sitting is giving me a huge butt,” she says. If she wasn’t so obnoxious, I might run along with her. So far, I’m doing sit-ups when she’s not around. If only my phys ed coach could see me now.
Mare's War Page 14
