Read Online Winter in June by Kathryn Miller Haines - Free Book Online

day—breakfast and dinner—so rather than staying in the mess hall for our midday meal, we joined the officers in a smaller room in another part of the ship. After lunch, we had two hours to ourselves, which, weather permitting, we spent on the sundeck. Then we had another two hours of rehearsal. We usually retreated to our cabins after that to relax, nap, write letters, and take showers. We would start the evening off with another dinner with the officers, and then we spent the remainder of the night in the canteen. There we’d dance and chat with the men while a ragtag group of enlisted musicians serenaded us with whatever popular song they’d figured out how to play.
    The nights at the canteen, by necessity, ran late. As much as we wanted to go to bed, we knew that there was an unspoken rule thatwe be there until the bitter end. If the captain was obligated to go down with the ship, the five of us were expected to leave with the band.
    During my first night in the club, the evening’s activities were interrupted by a burgeoning chant. By the time it reached us, I crabbed what the men were saying, “Gilda, Gilda, Gilda!” When they had her attention, the chant changed to a song sung in four-part harmony that I later learned was called “I Want a Girl Like Gilda DeVane.” It was a silly little ditty, with a catchy chorus that went:
    Her hair is gold, her eyes pale blue,
    Her gams they stretch for miles
    She has a way of looking at me
    I’m weak whenever she smiles
    I want a girl like Gilda DeVane
    When they finished singing, Gilda rewarded them with enthusiastic applause, and they plied her with requests for an impromptu performance.
    â€œOh no,” she said. “There’s no way I could follow that. Besides, the band is doing a fabulous job.”
    The men wouldn’t listen to her excuses. When it became clear that the only way she was moving was by force, two sailors took her by the arms and playfully pulled her onto the stage.
    Clad in a simple dress she had brought from the States, her honey hair pinned back with a barette on one side and falling in a cascade of waves on the other, she slinked up to the microphone and, with a wink at the band, started a song in a low luscious voice that certainly seemed like it wouldn’t need to be dubbed for the movies. Nobody danced; we were all too far under her spell for movement. Her pipes may not have been as good as Kay’s, or her hoofing as polished as Jayne’s and Violet’s, but she was an expert performer, directing that song to each and every man in the room until they all had to feel as if they were alone with her in that marvelous moment.
    I knew much of what Gilda did was manufactured. She wasn’tso humble that she didn’t want to sing. She didn’t care for each of the men who stood wide-eyed as she performed. But I still found everything about her magical, even after spending untold hours rehearsing at her side.
    Jayne fell under her sway too. As we sat on barstools at the back of the room, we whispered our praise of Gilda back and forth like two small children who were amazed to see their normally plain-clothed mother dolled up for a night on the town. Her song reached its conclusion, and the men yelled for a repeat performance. Rather than giving in to their demands, she announced, “I want my girls up here with me.” The crowd parted and the four of us made our way onto the stage.
    Gilda gestured for us to huddle around her. “How about ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’?” she asked. It was a song we’d practiced in rehearsal, a sure crowd pleaser that relied on all of our voices. We agreed it was a good choice, and she asked us to put our hands in the middle of the circle we made. With a squeeze that managed to encompass us all, she instructed us to enjoy ourselves. The pianist plucked out a note, and my body instantly snapped to attention. As we invoked the harmonies