Louise's Crossing Page 3

  The water almost reached the Plimsoll line on the Amelia Earhart, so it was nearly loaded. One winch maneuvered a crate on to the deck, where a couple of seamen manhandled it into an open hatch to lower it into the hold. Another winch lowered a dangling ambulance on to the deck, where it would be secured with steel cables to steel cleats to prevent it from rolling off the ship and into the sea.

  Lester parked the car across the road from the ship in front of a plain brick building, which had the words ‘Waiting Rooms’ stenciled across the door. ‘You can’t board until the ship is loaded,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can find a warm spot for you to wait.’

  We carried my luggage to the waiting room door, which had a sheet of paper stapled to it beneath the sign that read ‘Today’s Departures’ with ‘SS Amelia Earhart’ typed below. Lester opened the door and we went into a large room with benches on two sides with the usual sign over each: ‘White’ and ‘Colored’. A pot-bellied coal stove blazed in a corner. Only one woman waited there, a plain cardboard suitcase by her side, on the ‘White’ side. She was less than thirty, I thought, dressed in a tweed suit, wool tights and heavy brogues. Her thick wool coat and beret were draped over her suitcase. She was reading a book and didn’t even glance at me as I walked over to her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, sitting down next to her. ‘Are you waiting to board the Amelia Earhart?’

  ‘I am,’ she said, finally making eye contact. She spoke in a lovely British accent. ‘It’s still loading cargo. The second mate came by and said it would be several hours before passengers could board.’

  ‘Lester,’ I said, as he set down my trunk on the floor next to my other suitcase, ‘you go on; I’m fine here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said, looking around the room. ‘Aren’t there any other passengers?’

  ‘There are,’ the woman said, ‘but they went to the canteen for hot drinks.’ She dropped her eyes to a book in her lap, obviously avoiding more conversation.

  ‘I’ll go on, then,’ Lester said. I reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘You take care, hear?’ he said.

  ‘You too,’ I said. He touched his hat and left the room, letting in a cold blast of air when he opened the door. I stood at a window and watched him hurry to the car through the cold. He was the last person I would see from my former life in DC for a very long time.

  The room was completely quiet except for the roar of the fire in the stove. A few minutes passed, and then my companion set her shoulders and looked up as if she had made a decision. She reached out to shake my hand, and I took hers. She had a strong grip.

  ‘My name is Blanche Bryant,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Louise Pearlie,’ I answered. ‘You’re English, obviously.’

  ‘Yes, on my way home. I’m from Winchester.’

  ‘I’m from North Carolina, but I’ve been working for the government in DC for a couple of years.’ Neither one of us volunteered any more information. This was wartime, when strangers didn’t talk about their jobs or much else, for that matter. We had secrets to keep.

  A blast of cold air struck us as a young colored woman, barely more than a girl, came through the door carrying her suitcase and a large purse thrown over her shoulder. She was quite pretty, reminding me of Hazel Scott, the jazz singer. She had those faux bangs you make by rolling up the front of your hair into a fat curl. Another roll rested on her neck, all of it tucked into a knitted Dutch bonnet that covered her neck and ears. Just thinking about how warm it must be made my ears feel even more chilled. She wore a scarf that matched the bonnet’s blue-and-gray pattern, a heavy wool coat and thick tights with saddle shoes. She gave Blanche and me a warm smile as she carried her suitcase over to sit on the ‘Colored’ bench. I smiled back at her and Blanche roused herself enough to nod. But the young woman didn’t sit down after she put down her suitcase.

  ‘Ma’am,’ she said, coming over to me.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  ‘Are you traveling on the Amelia Earhart?’

  ‘I am. My name is Louise Pearlie.’

  ‘I’m your stewardess, Grace Bell,’ she answered. ‘That trunk of yours – it needs to go in the ship’s hold. There’s a cart out front for the hold luggage. Didn’t you see it?’

  ‘No,’ I answered, and bent over to grab the trunk’s handle.

  ‘Let me help you,’ she said, taking the other handle. The two of us easily carried the footlocker out into the frigid air where I saw a hand cart clearly labeled for hold luggage for the Amelia Earhart. Together, we hoisted my trunk on top of the stack of large trunks and boxes already there.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how I missed this. I guess I had my head down to avoid the cold. Where are you from?’ I’d recognized from Grace’s accent that she was from my part of the world.

  ‘Hampstead, North Carolina.’

  Just a few miles up the coast from my home. ‘I’m from Wilmington. I’m a government girl, been working in DC for a couple of years.’

  ‘I came north after I graduated high school so I could get a decent job. My mother picks crabs for the Hampstead Seafood Company and I didn’t want to spend my life doing that.’

  Grace held the door open for me and we headed straight for the pot-bellied stove to warm ourselves back up.

  ‘I joined the merchant marine after Pearl Harbor,’ Grace said. ‘I live with my auntie on U Street. She has a flower shop.’

  ‘I didn’t know …’ I said, hesitating.

  ‘That colored women could join the merchant marine? You should know there aren’t enough white men to go around these days,’ she said, her hazel eyes twinkling. ‘When there are women passengers on a merchant ship, you got to have a stewardess to wait on them. Can’t have a man draw your bath.’

  ‘Do you know who the passengers are?’

  ‘A Dutch family, husband and wife and two daughters. Then there’s a salesman from the American Rubber Company. He’s back and forth to England. I’ve sailed with him before. And an elderly Irishman going home to retire.’

  ‘In the middle of a war?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s wacky.’ Grace nodded toward Blanche, who’d hadn’t moved since we took my trunk outside, except for turning the pages of her book. ‘You’ve met Mrs Bryant.’ Grace’s tone was a little odd when she mentioned Blanche, enough so that I looked at her quizzically. ‘I’ve traveled with her too, on her voyage here to the States,’ Grace said, again in that strange tone of voice that sounded … well, not fearful exactly, but wary.

  ‘What about her?’ I said, lowering my voice.

  Grace shook her head. ‘I’ve said too much already,’ she said, moving over to sit down on the ‘Colored’ bench.

  I returned to my own seat. Blanche was so absorbed in her book that I didn’t speak to her. I pulled one of the new books I’d purchased out of my musette bag – a P.G. Wodehouse. I’d not read him before. A friend told me his books were quite humorous, and I reckoned I’d need a few smiles as I crossed the Atlantic to take my mind off submarines and storms.

  Our little group of what the ship’s manifest called ‘casual passengers’ clustered at the foot of the accommodation ladder, the portable steps winched down from the deck of the ship to the quay, waiting to be permitted on board. I had no difficulty putting faces to the descriptions Grace had given me. The Dutch family were gathered in a small clutch, murmuring to each other. They didn’t look a thing like the plump, smiling Dutch boy on the paint can, though. All four of them, both parents and two daughters, were thin and pale. The wife leaned up against her husband as though she was too tired to stand. As if she’d been ridden hard and put up wet, as Merle would have said. The Irishman had to be the compact man with thick shoulders, calloused hands and white hair streaked with faded red. Another woman, whom Grace hadn’t mentioned, also waited to board. She wore a WAC winter uniform and a heavy army parka. I knew she was a nurse because of the emblem on her hat and the medical utility bag, marked with a red cross, thrown over her shoulder. I e
stimated that she was a few years older than me, which would place her in her mid-thirties. There was Blanche, of course. And finally a young man with slicked down hair wearing a heavy coat, fedora and a professional salesman’s smile. He was the first to introduce himself.

  ‘I’m Gilbert Fox,’ he said, offering his hand to everyone in turn. ‘Call me Gil. I work for the American Rubber Company. This is my third trip across the pond.’

  The Irishman touched his worn tweed flat cap. ‘Ronan Murphy here. I’m retired. On my way home to Northern Ireland to live with my sister.’

  The Dutchman half smiled at the group, his hands gripping his suitcase as if he didn’t dare let it go to shake hands. ‘Bram Smit,’ he said. ‘And my wife, Irene, our daughters, Alida and Corrie.’ I guessed that Alida was nearly eighteen and Corrie about twelve. ‘I hope we are permitted to board soon,’ he said, in excellent English. ‘We have just gotten off the train from Chicago and we are all very tired.’ Indeed, Irene looked as if she was done in. She leaned on her husband’s arm, closing her eyes occasionally.

  The WAC nurse shook everyone’s hand firmly. ‘I’m Olive Nunn,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way to take up a hospital job in England. Don’t know what hospital yet, or even where it is. I’m traveling with you because the troop ship I was supposed to take couldn’t wait to depart until I got over a case of the flu.’

  It was my turn. ‘My name is Louise Pearlie,’ I said. ‘I’m a government file clerk and typist. Going to England to file and type there.’

  A sudden gust of wind carrying freezing rain drops blew over, as if to remind us that we were sailing at a very questionable time of year. Our group felt silent, all of us lost in our own thoughts. After a few minutes a grizzled seaman wearing a sou’wester opened the gate to the staircase. ‘Time to board,’ he said. ‘Come on up. The chief steward will meet you in your quarters.’

  A couple of crewmen had followed the first to collect our suitcases and tote them up the staircase, leaving us with just our personal bags to carry. It was a good thing, since I doubted most of us could carry a suitcase up the metal stairs. It was too steep and the ship rocked in its berth. Then there was the wind.

  As I climbed, I noticed a young man at the foot of the stairs talking to the steward who’d directed us to board. The youth was dressed like a seaman but wasn’t from the crew, although he looked as if he wanted the job. He carried a duffle bag over his shoulders. The merchant marine was chronically in need of manpower and our ship was likely short a couple of hands. The young man, his carrot-colored hair sticking out from under his cap, showed some sort of paper to the grizzled seaman, who then gestured him to board the ship. The young man was obviously elated: he jumped up several steps as he mounted the stairs. I guessed he’d been hired.

  We scaled the portable staircase, hanging on to the rail for dear life to keep from being blown off. The climb up the side of the ship had to be three stories. By the time we reached the deck, Irene looked as though she couldn’t move another step. ‘Take your mother’s hat box,’ Smit said to his older daughter, who rolled her eyes at the request but took her mother’s box without verbal complaint.

  Following the seamen carrying our suitcases, we threaded our way between the vehicles that crowded the decks. Sometimes the space between them was so narrow we had to turn sideways to get through. At last we reached some open deck space at the first floor of the superstructure, the small part of the ship devoted to people instead of cargo. I knew from my reading about Liberty ships that it contained the wheelhouse, bridge and the captain’s cabin. Below deck would be the galley, mess hall and officers’ wardroom, berths for the officers, and whatever berths were available for casual passengers – the motley assortment of civilians hitching a ride. Deep below the superstructure was an enormous three-cylinder engine and boiler; its exhaust stack rose right through the superstructure and towered over it.

  Liberty ships could be configured in many ways, so there was no telling what we would find when we went below. A seaman opened a metal door and gestured us through. ‘The chief steward is waiting for you below,’ he said. We went down a metal staircase with a polished wooden handrail into a short passageway that was as cold as the air on deck. I was surprised by the space. Instead of the gray metal I’d expected, the walls and doors gleamed with warm oak. Brass lighting fixtures cast a welcoming glow. The brass handles on the doors and a brass finial on the end of the stair rail looked as if they’d just been polished.

  Sure enough, the chief steward, a stocky, bald man, greeted us with the traditional ‘Welcome aboard!’ We gathered around him, packed in tight in the small space. ‘I’m the chief steward of this vessel,’ he said. ‘My name is Ray Pearce, but you should address me as Chief Pearce or just Chief. Let me go over a few things before I show you to your berths.’

  You could sense us all slump. We were exhausted and wanted to get to our bunks.

  ‘I meant it when I welcomed you to this vessel,’ Chief Pearce said, ‘but we are at war and you are civilians who know nothing about the operation of this ship. Our job is to get our cargo to Liverpool, not to watch over you. You’re not allowed in certain areas of this ship, with no exception. We have five holds loaded with seven thousand eight hundred tons of “C” rations, “D” rations, boxes of thirty-caliber ammunition, crates of seventy-five-millimeter gun shells and hundred-and-five-millimeter Howitzer shells. You have no business being down there. The ’tween deck, which is the space between the ceilings of the holds and the main deck, is also off limits.’

  I could hear my fellow passengers gasp. With all those munitions in the holds, if we took a torpedo hit, we wouldn’t have much chance of survival, that’s for sure. Pearce didn’t acknowledge our reaction.

  ‘The Amelia Earhart is powered by a hundred-and-forty-ton vertical triple expansion steam engine,’ he continued. ‘It has countless moving metal parts. The boiler is incredibly hot. Stay out of the engine room. It’s dangerous.

  ‘During the day you may gather in the wardroom when it’s not being used for meals. You are welcome to walk and smoke on the main deck. Be careful, though. The deck is packed with vehicles. There are cables, chocks, blocks and cleats just waiting to trip you up. And stay away from the gun emplacements. Don’t fall overboard because we won’t stop even for a minute to search for you. Oh’ – and here he gestured toward the staircase – ‘this is the only graduated staircase in the place. It was built a while back for a very important passenger who couldn’t manage ladders. Otherwise, you’ll need to use ladders to get from level to level. Use both hands and be careful. When you’re walking down the ship’s passageways, keep a hand on a bulwark at all times to help keep your balance. A bulwark is a wall to you.’

  Chief Pearce paused for a breath before he continued. ‘Your room steward is Grace Bell. She’ll look after your berths and run baths and other such personal things for the ladies. Men, you are on your own for your personal needs. There’s a lavatory at one end of the hall and a bathroom at the other. You’ll be assigned a bath time by Steward Bell. In your room you’ll find a life preserver and a bucket. The bucket is for your use until you get your sea legs.’

  The chief jangled a handful of keys. ‘I’m going to show you to your berths,’ he said. ‘You’ll want to unpack and rest, I’m sure. Dinner is at six o’clock. You’ll need to go down the ladder at the end of this passageway; there’s a passageway parallel to this one, and the mess is through the door at the end of the hall. You’ll see seamen going in. Go through the mess line with them, but civilian passengers eat in the officers’ wardroom. You can sit anywhere except the master’s table. You’ll see where to go.’ The chief picked a set of keys out of his handful. ‘Mr and Mrs Smit, this room here connects to the one next door. These are yours and your daughters’ rooms.’ Smit took the keys as if they were the Holy Grail. He unlocked the door and he and his family almost fell inside.

  The chief didn’t waste time allocating our rooms and giving out the rest of our keys. I foun
d myself fitting my key into an oak door between the two other women, Blanche and Olive. The two men, Gil and Ronan, were across the hall from us, next to the Smits.

  I actually didn’t need my key, because inside my berth I found Grace Bell tucking in the sheets of my bunk. She was singing ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ softly to herself.

  ‘You have a lovely voice,’ I said to her.

  She turned around. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she said. ‘I do love to sing.’

  Grace had changed into a heavy wool dress, knit coat, wool stockings and her saddle shoes, but she was just as pretty as when I met her in the waiting room. Even dressed as she was, she had a slim figure, a lovely smile, a fashionable hairdo and nice makeup. Most men would call her a knockout.

  My berth was tiny. Between the two of us and my suitcase, we could barely move.

  ‘Welcome, Mrs Pearlie,’ she said. ‘Let me put your towels under your sink and I’ll be done and leave you to rest. Let me show you where your life jacket and bucket are. And just so you’re prepared, there will be a lifeboat drill sooner rather than later.’