Winter in June by Kathryn Miller Haines Page B

kettles to boil and for the mixers to finish churning, they threw dice and played cards.
    Most of the people working in the mess were black, Mexican, or Italian. From what Dotty and Spanky said they’d gotten their jobs not because of their skill in the kitchen but because of the color of their skin or what they’d done before the war. “That’s where they put the men with records,” said Spanky, his voice making it clear this information was on the QT. The men had lean, hard bodies that reminded me of the tough guys who worked for Tony B. In fact, I could swear I saw the bulge of a revolver peeking out from one of their waistbands.
    â€œDotty,” said one fellow, whose gut professed that the food he prepared met with his own approval. A cigar dangled from his mouth, leaving a trail of ashes on the kitchen floor. I wondered how much of the cigar was going to end up in the potatoes that night. “Who’re your friends?”
    â€œThese are the USO girls I was telling you about. Spanky and I are giving them the VIP tour. Ladies, this is Deacon.”
    He made a great show of wiping his mitts on his apron before offering one of his hands to us.
    â€œThat’s an unusual name,” I said.
    â€œIt ain’t a name—it’s my job. I’m a man of the church.”
    â€œIs the food really so bad that it requires divine intervention?”
    He laughed and turned off the vat of potatoes.
    â€œWhat’s for dinner?” asked Jayne.
    â€œSOS.”
    She cocked her head to the right. “We’re having an emergency signal for dinner?”
    â€œIt stands for stuff on a shingle,” he announced. Only he didn’t say “stuff.” As the profanity left his mouth, his black face took on a red cast. “Pardon my French, ma’am. Chipped beef on toast, potatoes, and green beans. Don’t you worry though; if you’re VIPs, you’re not eating anything that passed through this kitchen. What’s your name?”
    â€œJayne Hamilton,” she said.
    â€œHey, fellows!” he called out. “Come meet Jayne Hamilton and her friends!”
    In a portion of the kitchen unseen to us, but which must’ve housed the sinks, a tremendous clatter warned that some catastrophe had just taken place. Deacon left us to bump gums with the gamblers while he went to investigate the source of the sound. The card players had colorful nicknames like Lefty, Gris, and King that I was dying to learn the history behind. As with everyone we’d met, the men were gracious and welcoming despite the fact that I was pretty certain none of them had a cement floor or an ersatz sink in their tent.
    Deacon returned with a grim look on his face. “Gris, you got a problem back there.”
    â€œAgain?” Gris dropped his cards facedown. “I swear it’s sabotage.”
    â€œSabotage or not, you better mop up that floor. If the SP catches a whiff, you’re cooked for good.”
    Gris started toward the back of the kitchen.
    â€œHey, wait up,” said Spanky. “I’ll give you a hand.” He crawled under the pass-through and together they disappeared into the back.
    Spanky, a cardboard box in hand, returned just as we were getting ready to leave. The contents rattled all the way back to our tent.
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    After the tour, we got our first week’s performance schedule. Or, rather, Gilda did. She gave it a cursory look before hanging it on oneof the spare nails in the tent. “The bad news is we start tomorrow. The good news is our first show isn’t until ten.”
    We all approached the schedule and tried to figure out what the typed abbreviations meant. I thought they might be locations, but since no key was provided to help us decipher them, we decided the information wasn’t important. What was crucial was the number of shows we’d be doing: three a day.
    â€œWhat the deuce?” I said. “What is this—boot