Lovely War(25)

“These aren’t British soldiers,” the blonde girl wondered aloud. “Wrong uniform.”

“British! Good heavens!” Mrs. Davies turned sharply toward where the two girls sat. “Didn’t they tell you where you were going?”

Hazel shrank back on her travel bag. “To the training base at Saint-Nazaire.”

“To the American army’s training base at Saint-Nazaire,” cried Mrs. Davies. “Headquarters will get a letter about this. Not informing the volunteers whom they’d serve! It’s a crime!”

“Figures they’re Americans.” The blonde girl craned her neck. “They’re giants.”

“The Yanks are tall,” admitted Mrs. Davies, “and as they’ve spent the last four years enjoying Mother’s home cooking instead of slogging in trenches, of course they’re robust.”

She resumed her role as tour guide. “Those buildings in rows are barracks,” she indicated, “and over there are mess halls. These are stables and pens for livestock—that’s pig you’re smelling—and there, hospitals. Straight ahead is our relief hut.”

The word “hut” had left Hazel picturing something small and primitive. This was vast. With tens of thousands of soldiers at the camp, the huts would have to be.

Mrs. Davies steered them inside to a table with tea laid out. “Do tell me your names once more,” she said, through a large bite of roll in her mouth. “In cold such as this, I can barely think straight.”

“I’m Reverend Scottsbridge, and this gentleman is Father McKnight, of the Roman Catholic profession,” explained the stout clergyman. “We’re here to provide spiritual consolation, eh, Father?”

“God willing,” answered the priest.

A small, slim man in a faded tweed suit polished his glasses with a pocket kerchief. “I’m Horace Henry,” he said. “Professor, retired. St. John’s College.”

“Ah! Cambridge!” exclaimed Reverend Scottsbridge. “Nothing but the best for our boys.” He winked. “Even if they come from the colonies.”

The professor took a gulp of tea. “They’re all our boys,” he said. “Even the Americans. I’ll provide lectures in the evenings. I thought I’d begin with a course in English history.”

“I wonder how interested American doughboys are in that,” mused the blonde girl.

“We’ll soon find out,” Professor Henry said mildly.

“Believe me,” Mrs. Davies said, “after rotating through the training circuits, never mind the trenches, these soldiers would be glad to listen to lectures on how to boil an egg.”

The professor chuckled. “I hope I can do better than that.”

Father McKnight’s eyes twinkled. “I doubt we’ll be as popular as these young ladies.”

Hazel smiled. “I’m Hazel Windicott,” she said. “Entertainment volunteer. I play piano.”

Mrs. Davies eyed her sternly. “Do you play well?”

“I . . . believe so,” she said. “I suppose it depends on your notion of playing well.”

The other girl laughed. “Ellen Francis,” she said. “Lacking any discernible talent, other than being chatty and amusing.” She winked at Hazel. “You’ll play piano; I’ll play checkers.”

Mrs. Davies gathered her tea things. “Gentlemen, we have a house in the village, not far from here, with rooms fitted out for you. You young ladies, for safety’s sake, will occupy the spare room here in my hut. Miss Ruthers and I are nearby. The nurses’ dormitories are full, so we’ll make do in this way. We don’t need you walking to and from camp after dark.”

“How many huts are there?” Ellen Francis asked.

“Two,” said Mrs. Davies. “And the Negro hut, at Camp Lusitania. You won’t go there.”

Mrs. Davies became aware of an awkward silence. “They have their own colored volunteers,” she explained. “So it’s all right. They’ve got plenty to amuse themselves with.”

Father McKnight’s balding head tilted. “What is the concern, Mrs. Davies?”

She waved the inconvenient question aside. “The girls’ safety, naturally. In a camp filled with thousands of hot-blooded soldiers, strict rules must be followed. The last thing the YMCA needs is a scandal, when we’re engaged in such important work.”

Hazel remembered her father’s words. Be braver than I have been. “I wouldn’t mind playing in all the huts,” she said. “I’m sure black soldiers enjoy music.”

Mrs. Davies peered over the rims of her spectacles at Hazel. “There is simply no need.” She attempted a conciliatory smile. “These American Negro soldiers supply their own music. It’s natural to them. Instinctual. In fact, their band is performing here tomorrow. But as for you going there, your more refined musical sensibilities won’t be to their liking.”

Hazel’s pulse thrummed in her ear. “I thought all the troops needed entertainment.”

Mrs. Davies sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Young idealists,” she muttered. “They’re all the war cause seems to attract.” She faced Hazel resignedly. “I don’t like using language of this sort, Miss Windicott, but you leave me no choice; Negroes can’t be trusted to behave like gentlemen toward young ladies.”