Sisters in Arms

by Kaia Alderson

  Rogers returned his attention to Eliza. “As for you, when we get back, make it two extra miles for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eliza began a slow jog. Her legs were still on fire, but she was going to get through the rest of the run, plus those two extra miles Rogers just tacked on. She made a mental note to speak with Dr. Vera later on about what she could do to get her legs and feet with the program. She couldn’t figure Grace out. One minute, she acted like she hated Eliza’s guts. The next, she was shielding her from Rogers’s wrath. But because Grace had stepped up for her once again, Eliza now felt fired up on the inside to push through the burn.

  Chapter 14

  Fort Des Moines, Iowa

  August 1942

  AS GRACE STEPPED off the bus that had brought them into town, the first thing she saw was the newspaper headline: “Army Will Send Our WAACs to England to Help Troops.” She hurried over to the newsstand and dropped her nickel into the hawker’s hand. She quickly began to scan the front page for the accompanying story. Her eyes widened.

  Eliza peeked over her shoulder. “What is it? What does it say?”

  A grin broke out across Grace’s face. She rolled up the newspaper and swatted Eliza on the shoulder with it. “It says they’re sending us to Europe.”

  “Us?” Eliza gestured her finger between the two of them.

  “Us. WAACs. What’s the difference? What matters is we are about to go places.” Grace tucked the paper under her arm. As she turned the corner onto Center Street, there was a little extra swing in her step, despite being in uniform.

  She loved coming into town whenever they were given leave to do so. The Negro community in Des Moines had embraced the thirty-nine women in the first WAAC officer training class with open arms. Whether it was to give a word of encouragement, a place to worship, or a much-needed press and curl, the local Negro community had been a breath of fresh air to the trainees. Today was no different. Dressed in their khaki off-duty Army uniforms, they stood out among the civilians passing them by on the street. Almost everyone nodded as they passed. More than a few smiled wider upon seeing them.

  “How do you do?” Grace smiled back. But never too wide. While the appreciation of what she and her uniform represented had made her proud at first, she still didn’t enjoy the extra attention. It only increased the pressure she put on herself to always be perfect, to never forget that everything she did didn’t just represent herself or her family. She was representing her entire race.

  Grace reached up to rub at the ever-increasing tension gripping her neck. She exhaled as the discomfort began to ease. Some days, she swore she carried the entire weight of Negro America on her shoulders.

  “Are you all right?” Eliza’s brow creased.

  Grace waved her concern away. “I’ll be fine once I get my head in Miss Hattie’s shampoo bowl.”

  Eliza nodded in agreement. “I understand. I’ve been waiting for this all week. I swear that woman has magic in her fingertips.”

  “Hey there, soldier girls,” a voice called out from the Billiken Ballroom’s doorway. The Billiken was the nightlife hot spot on Center Street. Even though Des Moines wasn’t as flashy as, say, Chicago or Kansas City, it still attracted all the top music acts that were on tour. And when those acts passed through Des Moines, they all booked a gig at the Billiken.

  A man dressed in the slick threads of the hepcat style emerged. He had his hair pomaded down to a slick shine against his scalp. “I hope you all are coming back later on tonight. We’ve got some cats from New York playing.”

  Now Grace really wished she weren’t in any uniform—off-duty dress or otherwise. If she weren’t so noticeable, she would have picked up the pace and scooted on past like she had never heard the man. But there was another part of her that was curious. It wasn’t like she knew every jazz musician in New York City. Just most of them.

  She stopped. “Really? Who do you have in from New York?”

  “Earl Hines and His Orchestra. As a matter of fact, here’s Fatha Earl coming up behind you now. Wanna meet him?”

  Eliza squealed. “Absolutely. I love his music.”

  “No. Definitely not him. We have to go.” Grace flapped her arm to get moving again. Doing so caused her newspaper to drop to the ground. She felt her stomach fall with it as she bent down to retrieve it.

  “Hey, Earl,” the man called out. “Come over here and meet these lady soldiers. They say they’re big fans of yours.”

  “Of course, of course. I love me some women in uniform.” Earl came around to face them. His mouth spread into his trademark smile upon seeing Grace. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Mini-Mozart of Harlem herself. I was wondering where you had disappeared off to. I know you said you had enlisted, but”—he reached out and fingered the lapel of Grace’s uniform—“I never thought I would bump into you in the middle of Iowa.”

  “Earl.” Grace nodded tersely. Her eyes darted back and forth between the musician she admired the most and Eliza, who was staring at Grace wide-eyed.

  “Wait. Grace, you know him? You know Earl Hines?”

  “Of course we know each other.” Earl laughed. “She’s the only piano player I know who’s almost as good as me. She’s one hell of a composer too.”

  “Piano player? Composer?” Eliza grabbed her by the arm. Grace immediately snatched it back. “How did I not know this? Wait. Did he just call you ‘Mini-Mozart’?”

  Grace would have given anything for the sidewalk to open up right now and swallow her whole. “The Mini-Mozart nickname is a bit of an exaggeration. And I wouldn’t really call myself a composer. I just scribble down some ideas here and there.”

  “If you’re as good as he says, then you must come back tonight,” the club promoter chimed in.

  “Sam, put her down on the list as my guest. Her friend too.”

  “Already done. What’s your name again, little lady?”

  Grace imagined this was what a deer stunned by oncoming headlights must feel like. It wasn’t that she kept her musical past a secret from her new life here. It was just that she made a point to not play anymore. She darted her eyes from Sam to Earl and finally to Eliza. That girl liked to talk too much for Grace’s liking. How could she not blab about meeting the Earl Hines when they got back to base and that Grace knew him from back home?

  “Sorry, Mr. Sam,” Eliza cut in, to Grace’s amazement. “We have graduation tomorrow. Gotta get our beauty rest tonight.”

  “You sure? Earl and them put on a helluva show.” Sam nodded at Grace. “You already know they do. And I’m not sure how much more beauty rest you could handle because I think you’re both stunning already.”

  Eliza nudged Grace in the side with her elbow as she whispered, “This guy is a piece of work.”

  Eliza then gave Sam her most dazzling smile. “Aren’t you the charmer.” She laced her arm through the crook of Grace’s elbow. “But I’m afraid we must get going or else we’ll be late for our hair appointments. And we can’t have that now, can we?”

  Eliza winked at Sam as they continued on. Eliza nudged Grace again. “Say goodbye to your friend,” she whispered.

  Grace gave Earl a weak smile. “I’m so sorry. They have us under curfew. You know how the military is.” She shrugged.

  “I understand. Well, don’t be a stranger the next time you’re home. The word on the street is that cat up at Juilliard has been asking about you.”

  She laughed as they started to walk away. “That’s a good one. You always were the joker.”

  “I’m not laughing, Grace,” he called out as they turned into the hair salon a few doors down.

  Once the door closed behind them, Eliza sat Grace down in one of the chairs in the waiting area. They nodded at Miss Hattie, who was finishing up the client who was already in her chair. “I’ll be with y’all in just a minute.”

  “Take your time. We’re in no rush.” Eliza turned to Grace. “Here I was, thinking all this time that you were some boring goody-two
-shoes stick-in-the-mud. It’s bad enough you were holding out on that hottie in the War Department.”

  “What hottie in the War Department?”

  “You know, that Jonathan guy.”

  “Why does everybody keep bringing him up? I’ve told you all time and again, we only met that one time right before I enlisted . . .”

  “Okay, right. Whatever, Grace. You expect me to believe that after finding out you’ve got more secrets? We’ve been living and training together for the last six weeks and I’m only finding out now that you’re some kind of musical genius. Girl, spill.”

  Grace leaned back in her chair and sighed. Eliza was right. She had to stop being so uptight all the time. The funny thing was that she thought, now that she had been in an all-Negro, all-female work environment, she had been loosening up some amid their camaraderie. But there were just some things she couldn’t bring herself to open up about, something that made her hold back still. Just thinking about her old musical life resurrected waves of anxiety. She could talk about the classical music stuff all day. But Eliza was sure to ask about how she was so friendly with jazz musicians. Any talk of jazz and the clubs would ultimately mean that Grace would have to talk about Tony. And she just wasn’t ready to go there yet.

  Despite that, she had felt herself starting to come around. It had been the little things. Eating her meals in a group of women who had become her friends instead of eating all alone as she had back in college. The comfort of looking over either of her shoulders at any given time and seeing her sisters in uniform working as hard at perfecting their drill commands or preparing to train the first group of regular enlisted women as she was. But when it came to “the rules” . . . she just couldn’t seem to shake her prim and proper ways.

  “I don’t know if I would go so far as to call myself a musical genius. Once upon a time, I was a cute little girl who was really good at playing the piano. Until I wasn’t.”

  “Until you weren’t what?”

  Grace shrugged. “You know how it is. You grow up and things change.”

  “Okay, I’m ready for you Army girls now.” Miss Hattie tapped her now empty styling chair. Grace got up before Eliza could ask her anything else.

  THE NEXT DAY, the thirty-nine Black women in the first class of WAAC officers were commissioned as third officers. Only a few of their families came for the ceremony, mostly due to the distance and the cost. That was the case for Grace’s parents. Her father couldn’t get away from his Pullman porter responsibilities. Mama was entangled with making gowns for one social engagement after another. Her biggest client was the chairwoman of a war bond dinner that night back home in New York. Grace knew that Mama could’ve passed the reins off to one of the assistants she had hired. But that was the thing. Loreli Steele was too much of a busybody to do that. She would rather claim bragging rights over a dress she had made over witnessing her daughter’s greatest accomplishment to date.

  Because of her last name, Grace was one of the last in her training class to be pinned a third officer. She wanted nothing but to peek down the line to see how much longer until Colonel Hobby and General Faith would make it down to her. But she was trained better than that. She continued to stand at attention. Tall. Proud. Disciplined.

  Grace pressed her fingers harder against the sides of her thighs. She had had her doubts at first. Especially during the early-morning runs they had been ordered to take those first few days. But she had soon grown used to the rigors and structure of a soldier’s life. In fact, she liked it. Unlike in the civilian world, she could rely on her fellow officers in training to get the job done.

  She smiled to herself. Correction, they had had to figure out how to work together to get the job done or there would have been hell to pay. Even if some of them did not like each other. Especially when any of them weren’t getting along.

  Eliza still got on her nerves more often than not. But they had seemed to come to an understanding. At least, enough of one to work with each other without ripping each other’s hair out.

  But most of all, being in the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps had restored a sense of structure and discipline that had been missing in her life. It replaced a deep craving in her when she had lost her desire to play the piano, when Tony had been taken from her life.

  No one had ever told her how to get her heart to abandon a dream once the dreamer stops dreaming.

  Somehow, having the expectation of being perfect coming from an external source was a lot less stressful than placing that same expectation on herself and then having to maintain it. Perhaps it was because the Army had stripped her of all her outside responsibilities. She didn’t have to worry about getting Mama up out of bed and getting her ready for the day on top of doing the same for herself, and then cooking breakfast for them both. She only had to worry about herself.

  The crunch of military boots grew louder as the head brass made their way farther down the row of newly commissioned WAAC officers. They were getting closer. Her turn was coming soon.

  Grace only had to worry about the things she could control: making her bed, keeping her uniform clean and wrinkle-free, perfecting her execution of the drill exercises, issuing commands, and studying the Army’s manuals. She’d had no control over the state of her physical conditioning at first. Her mama had been right about that. But she knew if she kept at it, she would be able to keep up with their instructor and the rest of her company on their daily runs. And she had.

  Army life kept her busy. Too busy to think about any guilt her mama had laid on her when she was packing to leave for Iowa. Too busy to grieve for her brother. Too exhausted to miss her old routine of practicing her scales and perfecting the Mozart piece that had been giving her trouble for months.

  Yes, Army life suited her fine. Just fine.

  IT WAS HER father’s ego that kept Eliza’s parents from coming. They could have easily made it a newspaper business trip by accepting the invitation of the local Negro paper’s publisher, Mr. Morris, to stay at his home. Eliza’s mother had graciously accepted the offer at first, but then awkwardly rescinded it not twenty-four hours later.

  Eliza gave Mr. Morris a wide smile as he snapped yet another picture of her. She was grateful that he had volunteered to attend the graduation ceremony in her parents’ place. But she wasn’t naive. He was a die-hard newspaperman at heart, after all. She knew good and well that that picture would be front and center on the first page of the next issue of the Iowa Bystander. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had already sold it to the other members of the Associated Negro Press syndicate. Too bad she was more interested in having her byline featured on the front page than a picture of herself.

  “OH, COME ON now, baby girl. I know you can smile better than that.”

  Grace watched Eliza whip around, her face brightening at the sight of an immaculately dressed older woman.

  Eliza held her hands up high and ran into the nearby crowd, screaming, “Mommy! You made it.”

  Bands of jealousy gripped Grace’s throat as she watched Eliza throw her arms around her mother. The two spun in a circle as they embraced. Mrs. Jones had moved a mountain—her husband, Mr. Jones—to be here today. There had been nothing to stand in Grace’s mama’s way to get here but a pile of dresses, yet she was still alone on her special day.

  Grace waited a beat before heading over to the Jones women’s enthusiastic reunion.

  “Hello. You must be Mrs. Jones.” Grace extended her hand to Eliza’s mother.

  Mrs. Jones squinted as she struggled to place her face. She took Grace’s proffered hand by the fingers and gave them a gentle shake. “I’ve seen your face before. Where do I know you from?”

  “From around Harlem most likely, Mrs. Jones. A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Third Officer Grace Steele.” It was Grace’s first time using her new rank while introducing herself. She liked the sound of it.

  “Oh my goodness! Of course! Weren’t you that little girl they used to call ‘Mini-Mozart’?”


  Grace ducked her head, her face warm, hoping no one else had heard what Mrs. Jones had blurted out. Meanwhile, Mrs. Jones looked around the crowd.

  “Is your mother here? I’d love to meet her. She must be so proud of all your successes.”

  “No, ma’am. She’s chairing a war bond fund-raiser tonight, so she couldn’t come,” Grace lied. “You know how it is.”

  Mrs. Jones’s smile flattened into an understanding line. “Yes, well . . . I’ll just have to be a proud mama for the both of you girls. Now, let me get a good look at you. You all look so sharp in your uniforms.”

  Grace let Mrs. Jones wrap her arms around her shoulders. She closed her eyes for a moment, pretending that this was her own mama, and not someone else’s, holding her. But that fantasy lasted only a moment. Everything about it was wrong. Mrs. Jones’s embrace had been too tight, too loving. Her delicate perfume had the wrong scent—jasmine, not Mama’s signature rose.

  Mrs. Jones stepped back, giving Grace’s arm a final squeeze. “I know it’s not the same as having your own mother here. But I’m sure she loves you in her own way. Your being here does mean a lot to the rest of us back home.”

  Grace was grateful for the hot breeze that blew a bit of dust in her eye. She blinked rapidly as her eye began to water. “Thank you for that, Mrs. Jones.”

  Grace did wish Mama was here for her. Just this once. To be a mother to her instead of always bragging about Grace as if she were a showpiece.

  Mrs. Jones handed her a handkerchief and patted her on the back. “Mothers are funny like that, aren’t they? What’s important is that you’re here, living your life for you. Now, chin up.”

  Grace complied with the older woman’s command like the good soldier she was.

  “That’s better. Now, would you care to join Eliza and me for lunch?”

  “I beg you ladies’ pardon,” a deep voice interrupted. “But I was hoping Miss Steele—pardon me, Third Officer Steele—would do me the honor of dining with me this afternoon.”