Lovely War(24)
He pulled his hands from his pockets and blew on them. His breath turned to ice before it could do any good. He shoved them under his shirt. A pianist couldn’t risk his hands.
Was he even a pianist anymore? Everyone else in the band could pack their instrument in a case and bring it with them. Not Aubrey. A pianist’s got to play, or his fingers lose their tunes. And Luckey Roberts, darn him, usually got the lead.
The band had played on board ship for two weeks. Hymns and Christmas carols, old plantation tunes, and hours of rehearsing jazzified versions of patriotic melodies. “La Marseillaise” and “Tipperary” and “Pack Up Your Troubles” and “Over There.” But only by day. As soon as the sun set at around four p.m., it was lights-out for the entire ship, lest German vessels spot them. And anyway, the old ship Pocahontas had no piano. So Aubrey, as third drummer, clashed the cymbals now and then, while the Wright twins (who weren’t even brothers) on percussion rapped out Europe’s syncopated rhythms. When they disembarked in Brest, they performed an impromptu concert in the square. Aubrey played castanets.
The French gave the 15th New York a hero’s welcome, and applauded their jazz wildly. Then the regiment boarded the train and set off, exhausted and hungry, for their next stop.
In the cattle car, a soldier began to sing in the darkness, softly, slowly, in time with the engine, in a plaintive, resonant baritone:
I WANT TO BE READY, I WANT TO BE READY . . .
Heads rose and ears turned to locate the voice.
I WANT TO BE READY, LORD . . .
Another voice joined in. A tenor, doubling the melody an octave higher.
TO WALK IN JERUSALEM, JUST LIKE JOHN.
“Aw, go to sleep,” someone said in a rear corner.
But there was too much momentum now. A deep bass joined the group, and then a high tenor, singing the alto part. They repeated the refrain. By the time they reached “Jerusalem,” someone had added a rat-a-tat rhythm by knocking on the steel walls of the car with the heel of his hands. Murmured laughter rippled through the tired heads, and the quartet sailed into the first verse at a driving double tempo.
OH, JOHN, OH, JOHN, OH, WHAT DID YOU SAY?
WALKING IN JERUSALEM, JUST LIKE JOHN.
I’LL MEET YOU THERE ON THE CROWNING DAY.
WALKING IN JERUSALEM, JUST LIKE JOHN.
OH, I WANT TO BE READY, I WANT TO BE READY . . .
The whole car sang now. Freezing cold, stiff as oak, heading off to war, and terribly far from home, Aubrey felt his cheeks smile and his belly warm. He had his boys with him, and they’d been through a lot already. No matter what happened, they’d keep on singing.
APHRODITE
Relief Huts—January 4, 1918
HAZEL ARRIVED IN Saint-Nazaire, France, on the morning of January 4, 1918, after a cold Channel crossing and an overnight train ride.
She couldn’t believe this was really happening. Her entire life, she’d sailed upon the quiet ripple of her parents’ lives. But here she was now, watching the sun rise over the frozen fields and frosty hedges of coastal France. The sky was pink, flush with promise, and golden sun glistened off filaments of ice webbing the world. It was hard to comprehend that this glorious morning, this fairyland view, shone over a country ravaged by years of war, and that she was hurtling her way toward thousands of soldiers in need of comfort.
Hazel’d never even comforted a dog. Perhaps she’d made a very grave mistake.
The train pulled into the Saint-Nazaire station. Hazel rose and collected her things.
When the train left, four other persons stood on the platform. A young woman with thick blonde curls, and three middle-aged men. She caught a glimpse of the young woman’s uniform jacket under her coat and ventured a question.
“Pardon me,” she said. “Are you a YMCA relief volunteer?”
The blonde girl’s face lit up. “I am,” she said. “You as well?”
Hazel nodded.
“I am also,” said one of the men, “if you’ll excuse my interrupting your conversation.”
“And I,” the others said in turn.
“Greetings. Welcome to Saint-Nazaire.” A brisk older woman in half-moon glasses dismounted from a wagon and greeted the arrivals. “All here for the YMCA, then?” She gestured to a pair of soldiers to load up luggage into the wagon. “I’m Mrs. Davies. I work with Mr. Wallace, the head Y secretary here. Come, you must be ravenous.”
After brief introductions, the five arrivals climbed into the wagon and sat upon their bags. Mrs. Davies twitched the reins, and the horses plodded down the hill toward camp. Chickens waddled across the road, nearly perishing under the horses’ hooves before scuttling off in an indignant spray of feathers.
As the camp rolled into view, Hazel’s heart sank. It was all so gray and dirty. What did you expect? Not this. She’d volunteered to bring cheer to a cheerless wasteland.
Numberless soldiers marched in razor-straight rows across frozen training grounds, their rifles slung over their shoulders. Most stared straight ahead, but a few curious faces turned as the wagon passed. Some eyes found hers, cocky and saucy; others made her gulp at the loneliness there. Commanders’ voices lashed out, and all eyes turned away.
James. She would write him another letter tonight. Was that too many, too often?