Lovely War(41)

“It’s like I told you,” Europe said. “We’re saving lives, one rag at a time.”

Yuk, yuk.

“One trunk at a time,” said Alex Jackson, tuba. Murmurs rippled through the band.

“Look, I know you’re sick of unloading trunks and boxes,” Lieutenant Europe said. “We came to France to fight, so we’ll fight. Colonel Hayward’s figuring it out. But we also came to play jazz. So let’s get to it. Sis, pass this new music around, will you? It’s labeled by instrument.”

Noble Sissle took the pile of pages and began distributing them to the band.

Lieutenant Europe consulted his notes. “Now, let’s see. Oh yes. You piccolos, you were dragging two nights ago on ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ What do I always say? Without you, it’s just a bunch of blatting horns. If you don’t get those trills on time, and on pitch, so help me God, I’ll take a flute and trill you over the tops of your heads, you hear me?”

Muttering and elbowing among the woodwinds.

The bandmaster returned to his notes. “Oh. Get this, boys: the army has taken over a luxury resort for American troops on leave,” he said. “Place called Aix-les-Bains. It’s got baths and a spa, mountains and a lake. Casinos, theaters, you name it. Quite the hot spot. J. P. Morgan and Queen Victoria used to vacation there. We’ll go at the end of our tour. We’re the opening act.”

“Sending us there to relax?” asked Pinkhead Parker, saxophone.

“To play music, not roulette,” Europe replied. “Maybe, in free time, you could, but . . .”

“But what?” demanded Pinkhead.

Europe paused. “We’re the entertainment,” he said. “The resort’s not for black soldiers.”

Silence, that rare commodity, fell over the band.

“Just like back in New York, playing for the swells,” said Pinkhead. “Use the servant’s entrance, and eat your soup in the kitchen.”

Jim Europe sighed. “We’ll figure something out, all right?” The band was full of flat expressions. “It’s a big place. I’ll do what I can to make sure you fellas get some fun.”

Drum Major Sissle handed Aubrey his music. He took it without much interest. Leave Saint-Nazaire? Go play Dixieland at some fancy resort?

Come on, Aubrey. This kind of chance is the reason you enlisted. Seize it!

But all he thought of was that girl. Not, at that moment, what a fine musician she was, nor how they could duo their way to fame. This was your dirty work, Goddess.

“Edwards . . . Edwards!”

Aubrey blinked. Lieutenant Europe had his fists on his hips and was glaring at him.

“You with us today, or what, Private?”

Aubrey stood up straight and held his drumsticks at the ready.

“Perhaps you’d care to take a glance at your music, once in a while?”

Any idiot could read a drumbeat if they understood rhythm. Aubrey was made of rhythm.

“I see it, sir, Lieutenant, sir!”

“Do you, now.”

Snickers ran through the woodwinds.

Aubrey looked around. Behind Lieutenant Europe, off to one side, stood Noble Sissle, all eyebrows and exclamation points, holding up a sheet of music and pointing hard at the top.

“Reveille Blues,” it read. By A. Edwards. Orchestration by Jas. R. Europe.

“Oh,” said Aubrey.

You’re on your way, I told him. Barely twenty, and Jim Europe’s scoring and performing your music! The future’s yours! This is your moment. You’re at a fork in the road. One fork leads to certain heartache. The other, immortality. Choose your music!

But all he could think of was what it would sound like if Colette sang along.

Goddess, I tell you, you do not fight fair.





ARES


     In the Trenches—January 9, 1918





NOTHING IN THIS world had prepared James Alderidge for life in the trenches.

The message came. Replacement troops needed in the trenches. Forming a new section. Get your packs ready, and wait to meet your commanding officer.

They ate, mailed letters home in case they might be their last, said a prayer if they were that sort, and strapped on their seventy pounds of gear. Six new conscripts: James Alderidge, Billy Nutley, Mick Webber, Chad Browning. An Alph Gilchrist and a Vince Rowan. Two returning soldiers: Frank Mason, whom they knew, and Samuel Selkirk, whom they didn’t.

An officer appeared. “Morning, lads,” he said. “I’m Sergeant McKendrick. This section is under my command. You’re the Third Section, First Platoon, D Company, Thirty-Ninth Division.”

3rd, 1st, D, 39th. Stationed outside the town of Gouzeaucourt. James tried to file that where he could remember it.

“Button that top button, soldier,” the sergeant told Billy. “Slovenly dress is punishable.”

He worked his way down the line. “Who taught you to wrap your puttees like that, Private?” The cloth strips wrapped around Chad Browning’s chicken legs drooped. “We’re soldiers, not mummies, for God’s sake.”

This emergency addressed, the sergeant ordered them to open their packs for inspection. They slung them off their backs and opened them. When satisfied, he led them on their march.