Stage Door Canteen (22 page)

At Penn Station she was too late to hunt down a redcap so Jenny carried her suitcase at a run across the main terminal’s marble floor, down into the subterranean train platforms. As she boarded, the trainman confirmed SRO, Standing-Room-Only as far as Trenton. There a big part of the crowd would change to buses for Fort Dix. That was not too bad, he assured her. Conditions on the crowded New York to Washington line were such that some ticket holders were having to stand all the way. Passing through the coaches she was greeted by so many wolf whistles, so many offers of seats, especially in somebody’s lap, that she gave it up and took her suitcase out into the vestibule between the cars. Even there she found two Navy officers in greatcoats, a middle-aged man trying to read a newspaper, two soldiers, and a sailor with his canvas sea bag.

The train pulled out of the tunnel under the Hudson River and into the marshlands of northern New Jersey. One of the soldiers, his uniform showing the stripes of a tech sergeant, offered Jenny a cigarette. She, who rarely smoked, took one hoping it would warm her a little. There was too much noise in the open vestibule to talk. Minutes, a half hour, went by. They watched the Jersey marshes give way to brick factories, railroad yards, concrete bridges over highways, brown fields that were not quite country nor yet the outlying suburbs of cities. One of the naval officers went to see if the dining car was open for breakfast and came back to report that there was no dining car, but one would be put on at Washington. Of course, those who were only going as far as the nation’s capital were out of luck. The sailor sitting on his sea bag offered the information that candy butchers usually got on at Trenton. They pushed carts up and down the aisles and you could buy sandwiches and soft drinks, and hot coffee.

Jenny found herself seriously considering a cellophane-wrapped cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee in a paper cup. She’d gotten up before dawn to catch the early train, and now she was starving. It was cold in the vestibule. From time to time a wind-driven spatter of rain found its way in. A steady stream of passengers looking for seats made their way up and down the train. When the car doors were opened they could glimpse packed crowds standing in the aisles.

Jenny sat on her suitcase and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. The same peculiar excitement had followed her. The magazines at the newsstands in Penn Station had featured stories on getting the most out of the Thanksgiving holiday in the midst of war. Americans had much to give thanks for in their role as defenders of the free world. “A Prayerful Thanksgiving,” was on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. A newspaper headline assured the homefront that every fighting man would get a Thanksgiving turkey dinner delivered to them right up to the front lines if necessary, both in the Pacific and in North Africa.

Jenny leaned against the train’s metal panels, and pulled her coat around her as best she could without squashing the orchid corsage pinned to her suit. Right now Thanksgiving meant Brad. She supposed she was only one of thousands of women going to see their husbands or their lovers for the holiday. Not only that, but for two days she was going to be lucky enough to be out of the pressure cooker of rehearsals of a Away We Go. It couldn’t help but be wonderful.

And she couldn’t help thinking how much she missed Brad. She was surprised at the quick, excited thrill that coursed through her just thinking about it, passionate and hot, that hadn’t been there since the days when they were dating.

None of their friends had thought their marriage would work. Jenny Rose, small town girl from Wisconsin, daughter of the prosperous owner of a small drugstore chain, sometime Broadway actress with a degree in theater arts from a midwestern state university. And Bradford Haller, B.S., M.A. in mathematics and economics, University of Virginia and Harvard, conservative Old Dominion Democrat, pipe smoker, Wall Street editor and analyst. Friends even teased them about how they’d met.

They’d both been invited to a press party at the Time/Life building in Rockefeller Center honoring Life magazine’s overseas correspondents. Oscar Hammerstein and Jerome Kern were there. Jenny was playing the role of Magnolia in their New Haven revival of Show Boat. At one point she found a man standing next to her at the buffet table. It was not a moment, they both agreed later, that could be compared to the oft-quoted meeting of stage star Helen Hayes and playright Charles MacArthur. Who’d also met at a New York cocktail party. Instantly smitten, MacArthur had handed the petite Helen a dish of peanuts and introduced himself with the remark, “I wish they were emeralds.”

Bradford Hammel, managing editor of the weekly Wall Street Gazette, had said to Jenny, “Excuse me, but could you tell me what that is on your plate?”

He was good-looking, square-jawed, with the shoulders of a Notre Dame quarterback, not the sort you would picture as the boss of a New York money magazine. Newly divorced, rumored to be one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. Jenny heard herself murmuring, “I believe it’s lobster salad.”

He considered that. “I think I’m allergic to it. If I eat it, it might kill me.” He seemed quite serious. “But then, the question is, would you care?”

She took a moment before she burst out laughing. He said later that was when they fell in love.

And she still loved him just as madly. She couldn’t wait to get to Washington, to put her arms around him. He was going to meet her on the platform, whisk her off for drinks, then to dinner. There still so many things to say to each other in spite of the letters and the long distance telephone calls.

The train slowed. She straightened up, gave the brim of her hat a tug. Through the vestibule’s open half-window an empty railroad platform slid by. Not Trenton.

One of the officers said, “Oh, oh, we’re going off on a siding. Thats bad. You’re not going to make your meeting, Ray.”

“To hell with that,” the other said, moving up beside him.

The train slowed even more. Then there was a jerking and grinding as the brakes caught, followed by a final jolt that made them all grab for something to hold on to, ending with the explosive hiss of the air brakes.

Then silence. After all the Washington train’s noise and motion it was as though the world had come to a standstill. The sailor got up from his seat on his sea bag and went to look out. “Here she comes,” he told them.

They heard it before they saw it, on the main line so close they could almost reach out and touch it. The oncoming freight train approached them like a wall of sound that gradually enveloped them. The sailor said something; they could see his lips move but they couldn’t hear him. The freight train’s cars were loaded with mysterious shapes under olive drab canvas, outlines of jeeps and military trucks. As it roared past jeeps gave way to shrouded guns, their muzzles sticking out through the canvas into the grey light.

“We’ll never make Washington by three o’clock,” one of the officers shouted.

The other said, “That thing’s a damned mile long at least. They must have four engines on it.”

Jenny stuck her hands deep in the pockets of her coat and got to her feet. Everyone, including the man with the newspaper, had moved to that side of the train to watch.

“What is it?” she asked the Navy lieutenant.

He turned to her. “You’re looking at what’s going to win the war.”

She nodded, not understanding.

He moved over to let her have a place. “See that stuff? Black magic! Hoodoo weapon. Seriously.”

The tech sergeant leaned out into the rain for a closer look. “Radar.” Now they were watching round shapes under canvas glide by. “Radar finds subs, finds enemy bombers, anti-aircraft. I’ve seen it operate.” He turned back to them. “Hoodoo weapon—that’s a good one!”

Hope rose inside Jenny, wildly, irrationally. She wondered if Brad knew about this secret weapon. It would be so wonderful if the war were over quickly. She lifted her voice. “You’re not joking?”

The tech sergeant bent to say in her ear, “Radar transmits electromagnetic waves toward an object, receiving the waves reflecting back. Radar can find anything, tell anything. Enemy can’t hide.”

“We have radar on ships now,” the Navy lieutenant shouted. “Soon to be in planes.”

Jenny nodded, trying to look wise. “Submarines?”

“Submarines, yes,” they both agreed. “Anti-aircraft guns, airfields.”

They fell silent. The freight train cars rolled by. The sailor picked up his duffel bag and left and did not return. Jenny went back to sit on her suitcase. The soldiers and the officers remained at the open window. She only heard snatches of their words. Signal processor. Microwave frequency. Doppler effect.

The freight train with its cargo of war materiel slowly moved on to its far destination. A few minutes later, a trainman got down from their Washington train and walked alongside the track, carrying a dark red flag. Then he turned and walked back again. It had stopped raining.

Jenny was so cold she knew she had to close her coat and button it. She tried to unpin the orchid corsage, but the faux pearl-headed pins were stuck in the suit lapel. The young tech sergeant turned and saw her and offered to help.

She accepted with a sigh. As he knelt before her she looked down at his close-cropped head, the boyish pink skin on the back of his neck. He got the orchid loose and, with something of a flourish, handed her the big purple bloom to put on her coat.

“Look,” she said on impulse, “why don’t you take it?” She really wanted to get rid of it. “There must be some pretty girl on the train you would like to meet. You know, just go up to her and tell her you give away orchids to beautiful girls every day!” She tried to laugh. “It’s a great introduction, don’t you think?”

He gave her a quizzical look. She found herself thinking that lately soldiers seemed to be not much older than nineteen or twenty. Jenny was reminded she would be thirty-one her next birthday.

“I don’t need to do that, ma’am,” he was saying. “I really don’t need to meet any girls right at this time, you keep it.” He gave her a shy smile. “You want me to pin it on your coat for you?”

He held up the pearl-headed corsage pins. She nodded, wordlessly. He put the orchid against the collar of her coat and with deft strength ran the pins into the silver-wrapped stems, anchoring it.

“Besides, where I’m going,” he told her, so close that his warm breath touched her cheek, “I may not see another girl as pretty as you.”

“Lack of weapons is no excuse for defeat.”

—Lt. General Renya Mutaguchi,

commanding general, Japanese 15th Army.

THIRTEEN

Jenny saw him coming down the train platform at the Washington station, so wonderful-looking in his spick and span Army Air Force major’s uniform that she wanted to scream out his name.

Instead, she started to run, the suitcase banging against her leg. She was sure he saw her. No, he seemed to be looking into the windows of the coaches. She couldn’t stand it any longer, she dropped the suitcase on the concrete and ran the last few steps.

He had seen her. He let her fling herself on him, grab him around the neck and slam her mouth against his. At the same time he threw his arms around her and kissed her back so passionately his uniform hat fell off. The train passengers steering around them smiled. Someone bent and picked up his hat and handed it to him.

He put it back on and they stared at each other, breathless. He said, seeing the huge orchid corsage, “Christ, you’re getting married. Or engaged.”

She giggled. “It’s well wishes from my senior hostess committee at the canteen. They know I’m going to Washington to get laid.”

“God willing,” he said fervently, kissing her again. “Great snakes, woman, but you are beautiful. I married the most beautiful woman in the New York theater, I’m reminded of it all over again every time I see you.” He picked up her suitcase and steered her toward the stairs. “I have bad dreams that one of these days you’ll stay in New York to become an even bigger Broadway star. And never come to see me when I’m stuck in some forgotten dungeon of the Pentagon.”

“I’m not even a small Broadway star,” she reminded him, “especially with this show. Dear Brad, would you believe Richard Rodgers is holding the whole thing together? He may be arrogant and overbearing, but this month he’s been like a rock, calming Reuben and Agnes and the others, and telling us don’t despair, everything is going to work out. Still, there are bets all over town that we’ll never see opening night.”

He didn’t comment, so she went on, “Darling, I heard some wonderful news on the train, that we have a secret weapon that’s going to end the war! I swear to you, we saw it from the Washington train, rolling by on freight cars. There were a group of us standing in the train vestibule because there weren’t any seats, a sergeant and some Navy officers, and they described it as an invisible ray that seeks out enemy weapons like submarines and airplanes. It’s called radar. And the enemy can’t hide from it because it goes through buildings and trees and whatever happens to be in the way. Isn’t that wonderful? It sounds like Buck Rogers!”

He turned his head to smile down at her. “Radio Detecting and Ranging. It’s been around since the Twenties.”

“The Twenties?” She slowed, deflated. She’d wanted to believe the war was going to end quickly. “Oh damn, I wanted to surprise you. Everyone seemed to agree it’s going to win the war. There’s no secret weapon, then?”