I walked up several flights of stairs and relished the silence, which was interrupted by the foghorn at regular intervals. The Queen Elizabeth had been designed as a luxury cruise ship meant for about two thousand passengers per voyage. At the end of our first day on board, however, we were told there were fifteen thousand military men and about a hundred Red Cross workers heading to England via the vessel. This meant it was always loud and crowded. Everyone ate two mediocre meals a day in assigned shifts. There were never enough chairs, and while GIs would often offer to give up their seats for us, my friends and I were usually more comfortable just sitting on the floor picnic-style.
The late-night emptiness and quiet were a welcome change from the daytime hustle and chaos. As I reached the top of the stairs to the officers’ deck, I stopped for a minute and listened. I heard someone playing the piano in the lounge. I walked toward it, pulling my jacket tighter around me. It was a cool, starless night, and the ship was surrounded by fog. As I got closer to the lounge, I saw a soldier sitting at the piano, his eyes closed, completely immersed in his playing. A lit cigarette sat in an ashtray next to him on the bench, along with a pack of Lucky Strikes. I recognized him by his red hair—he had been playing drinking songs on the piano a couple of nights earlier, and an enormous crowd of officers and Red Cross workers had been singing along. At the end of the night, the beer was still flowing, and verses of the song “Roll Me Over in the Clover” had become increasingly bawdy.
I opened the lounge door, walked in, and sat down on one of the oversized brown leather chairs to listen, tucking my legs underneath me. It smelled like stale beer, and there was an ever-present haze of cigarette smoke. A few officers were playing cards at a table in the opposite corner, and they all gave me nods and smiles.
The GI played the piano as if he were in a trance. Jazz. I knew the song. When he finished the piece, he turned and looked at me with a small smile. He had warm brown eyes.
“There’s so few women on this ship, seeing you is like seeing a ghost.”
“‘Rhapsody in Blue’?” I smiled back.
“Yes,” he said. “Very good. That’s the one.”
“I’m sorry to disturb your playing,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep and came up here for some air.”
He waved his hand and took a drag of his cigarette. “It’s fine. I’ve been coming up here every night. I like the quiet. Not a lot of quiet time on this boat.”
“True,” I said with a nod.
“Here, would you like a Krueger’s?” He reached under his bench and grabbed a can of beer, offering it to me. “The bartender’s off duty, but he left several six-packs for us night owls.”
“Why not?” I said with a shrug, taking the can from him and cracking it open. “Thank you. Maybe it will help me sleep.” I took a sip before adding, “You play beautifully. Are you a professional musician?”
“I am, thanks,” he said. “I’m head of a swing band in Chicago . . . well, I was before this whole mess. Do you play?”
“No, but my friend Dottie, who’s here with me, plays piano and guitar. She’s incredibly talented. We’ve been trying to get her to play all week, but she’s shy about it,” I said. “My friends and I love swing, love the big bands. I’m Fiona, by the way. Fiona Denning.”
“Nice to meet you, Fiona. I’m Joe Brandon,” he said, reaching over to shake my hand. “You’re one of the Red Cross girls, I take it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What are you going to be doing over there? Do you know yet?” he asked.
“My friends Viv, Dottie, and I will be in one of those Clubmobiles—in DC they said we’d most likely be sent to France. We have training in London for a couple of weeks, and they’re going to officially assign us then. How about you?”
“Captain in the Twenty-Eighth Infantry Division,” he said, lighting up a fresh cigarette. He had long fingers. Fingers meant to play piano. “I’m going to be heading up a band over there, believe it or not.”
“I believe it, playing the way you do,” I said. “Maybe my friends and I will get to see your band sometime.”
“Maybe you will,” he said, smiling at the idea. “Where are you from, Fiona Denning?”
That’s how the conversations on board had started all week. Where are you from? What do you do? Where are you headed over there?
“I’m from Boston,” I said.
“Ah . . . Red Sox fan?”
“Of course,” I answered. “Cubs fan?”
“Are you kidding? From birth,” he said. “What do you do with yourself in Boston?”
“I work—well, I worked—as an assistant in the mayor’s office in city hall,” I said.
“Did you like it?”
“I actually really did. And I was good at my job too,” I said, thinking of my coworkers, all the girls in the office who had been so supportive after Danny went missing. “It was hectic, and every day was different, dealing with some crisis or another. But the hours flew by, and the people I worked with were nice. Mayor Tobin was a decent boss. Not perfect, but fair.”
“So, what made you do this?” he asked. “I mean, I have to go. Guys have no choice. I’m always impressed when I meet girls like you who want to go to the war. Why’d you and—your two friends you said, right? Why’d you girls decide to do this?”
I paused and looked at him. This was another test. Since the beginning of the week, I’d been asked this question dozens of times. I had yet to share my story with the soldiers I had met on the ship. I swallowed the grief down. I hadn’t been chosen as a Clubmobile girl so I could tell soldiers my sad story. I was there to help them get through the war, not remind them about its horrors.
“Yes, my two best friends from Boston’s Teachers College are here with me. After seeing so many of our friends and family, so many men the same age as us, go over and do their part, it didn’t seem right to be on the sidelines anymore.
“We went to a Saturday matinee a while back, and we saw this reel of Red Cross Clubmobile girls all over Europe and Africa helping the troops, and that did it. The three of us had to apply. My friend Viv was gung ho from the start. She loves art and design and got a job at this prestigious advertising firm in downtown Boston last year, but they hardly ever let her do anything except serve coffee. She figured if she’s just going to serve coffee and doughnuts, it might as well be for the troops.
“But my friend Dottie, the shy one? She took some more convincing. She was a music teacher at an elementary school in Back Bay, in Boston. She loved her job, loved her kids, so she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave them. It was the thought of me and Viv traveling the world without her that finally changed her mind. And she has a brother in the Pacific. A bunch of our friends from college are fighting too. We just felt like it was a great opportunity . . . And I’m sorry, I’m rambling on . . .” I felt my cheeks grow warm and took a sip of beer.
“No, I asked. I was curious,” he said. “We’ve all got friends and family in this war now . . . ,” he said, running his fingers through his cropped hair. He pointed at me. “I bet your sweetheart is already over there too, right? Or in the Pacific or North Africa maybe? You must have a fella, a pretty girl like you.” The foghorn punctuated his compliment.
I hoped he didn’t see the shadow that crossed my face when he said it. I shook my head, probably one too many times, and said, “Thank you, but no. It was just the thought of being able to travel together and serve—we thought if the three of us could get accepted, how amazing would that be? How about you? Do you have someone back home waiting?” I was eager to change the subject.
“I do,” he said, smiling even bigger than before. “Mary Jane Abbott. She’s an English teacher with the prettiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Want to see her picture?” He was already reaching into his pocket for it.
“Of course,” I said as he handed it to me. It was a picture of a striking dark-haired girl with enormous doe eyes. She was wearing an eyelet dress and laughing into the camera.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“She is.” He sighed. “And maybe she’ll actually wait for me.”
“You really doubt that she will?” I asked, frowning.
“A little,” he said, his smile fading. “I’ve heard too many stories. The Dear John letters guys over there get, telling them their girl’s engaged or even married to someone else.”
“I have a feeling she’ll wait for you,” I said. I wanted it to be true for this nice, handsome piano player. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“Thanks,” he said, not reassured at all. He looked down and fingered a few of the keys.
He started to play again, and some of the other soldiers looked up in appreciation. It was “Moonlight Cocktail,” a song that Glenn Miller’s band had made hugely popular a couple of years before. It was still one of my favorites, and I watched as he closed his eyes and disappeared into the music. I’m not sure if it was the melody or the beer, but I felt much more relaxed than when the foghorn had jolted me awake.
“Well, I should try to go back to sleep, although I’m not sure I will,” I said after he finished the song. “Between the foghorn and my friend Viv’s snoring . . . oh, and I think I actually heard mice scurrying around our cabin tonight too. Ick.” I made a sour face.
Joe laughed. “Good luck, Fiona Denning. It was nice to meet you.”
He stood up when I did and shook my hand.
“You too, Joe. Thanks for the beer. If I don’t see you in the next couple of days before we disembark, good luck,” I said.