“BOY, YOU'RE GONNA BUST MY ears with that noise!”
Perched on a stool in the lobby of the Marshall Hotel, Ozzie Taylor stopped practicing his oboe and looked up to find Noble Sissle standing over him. He straightened his back and wetted his lips again, eager to demonstrate his improvement on the instrument for the only black composer who could rival Big Jim in prominence. After cutting loose with a series of riffs from Shuffle Along that would make a legless man dance, he asked, “Watcha think, Mr. Sissle?”
Sissle’s face twisted as if he’d just bitten into a sour lemon. “I think the hotel management could find a better way of chasing off the rats.”
“Big Jim says I’m coming along.”
“He must be losing his hearing.”
“Aw, now come on, Mr. Sissle. I ain’t that bad.”
Sissle kept glancing up at the staircase that led to the main suite. “How’s he feeling?”
Ozzie debated how much he should reveal about Big Jim’s weakened condition. “Oh, you know him, Mister Noble. Same ol’ Boss.”
Sissle glared right through him, clearly not buying the dumb act.
Ozzie figured Sissle’s arrival from Indianapolis could mean only one thing: Big Jim was secretly planning another extravaganza at Carnegie Hall. Last year, the Boss and his Clef Club boys had made history by being the first jazz band to play in that hallowed venue. Even more shocking, Big Jim had insisted there be no segregated seating. Gussied up in tuxes and tails, the Who’s Who of Harlem had come downtown that night to sit aside the Vanderbilts and Astors and soak up the new sound that was taking the country by storm. The band’s performance had been a rousing success, so much so that even the white newspapers had given Big Jim rave reviews. In fact, Ozzie could think of only one downside to the whole evening: He hadn’t been included in the band, hadn’t even been allowed entry to attend. But now, with another big date in the works, he was more determined than ever to convince the boss to let him premiere the first oboe in the annals of Clef Club lore.
Sissle was still waiting for his answer. “I asked how the man was feeling.”
Ozzie didn’t rightly know what to say. Big Jim and Sissle were close friends, but he’d been ordered not to talk about how the Boss got tired more quickly and was always agitated and nervous. Big Jim had lost thirty pounds since Sissle had last seen him, and when the Boss took off his glasses nowadays, his eyes would bug from their sockets like they were being squeezed.
“I know what’s going on.”
Ozzie nodded a concession that he’d never been good at keeping a secret. “He don’t laugh much anymore. You come to cheer him up, Mister Noble?”
Sissle twirled his hand at his pocket, a composer’s nervous tic. “I’m not sure why I am here, to tell you the truth. I got an order from the armory—”
The din of activity in the lobby suddenly silenced, and Ozzie saw the Clef Club musicians who were playing cards jump to their feet in respect. A uniformed Army officer, a mustachioed white man with an aristocratic air about him, came walking down the wide corridor.
“Colonel Hayward!” Sissle said the name loud enough to remind everyone in the lobby that a celebrated guest had just arrived. “If I had known you issued the summons, I would have been here sooner.”
The colonel grasped Sissle’s extended hand. “I heard you left them begging for more at the Casino last Saturday night. You keep making a name for yourself, I may have to promote you to corporal to keep you from going AWOL.”
“We gave them a show, all right.”
Ozzie stared up at Sissle in confusion. “Promotion?”
Seeing the officer eye the boy suspiciously, Sissle made the introduction. “Ozzie Taylor, meet Colonel William Hayward, commander of the Fifteenth Infantry Regiment of the New York National Guard.”
Stunned, Ozzie asked Sissle, “You joined up?”
The colonel, grinning, spilled the beans for his old friend from Indiana. “That’s right, son. I convinced the Hoosier maestro here to bring his rat-a-tat-tat sounds to my machine-gun company.”
“But we ain’t in the war.”
The colonel’s eyes darted around the lobby, suggesting he wasn’t eager to explain that buzzing fly in the ointment. The officer reached for the banister and began climbing the stairs with Sissle.
Ozzie followed the two men up the steps, until Sissle turned on him and asked, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Big Jim said I’m supposed to announce all visitors.”
Sissle shook his head in disbelief. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“No, sir!” Ozzie shot up the stairway past Sissle and hurried to Big Jim’s door. He knocked and bellowed, “Boss, you gotta couple of soldiers here to see you!”
Big Jim threw open the door and sized up his two guests with a wide grin. “Soldiers? All I see are a second-rate baton twirler and an Irish pol masquerading in Army khakis.”
The men traded laughs and good-natured insults as they entered the suite.
Ozzie slithered in behind Sissle, hoping Big Jim wouldn’t notice—
“Taylor!”
Ozzie froze at Big Jim’s shout, his sortie to the corner intercepted.
“You played that oboe yet for Sissle?”
“Played?” Sissle protested. “I thought the boy was shooting off a twenty-one gun salute for the Colonel here. I’d rather face German artillery than have to suffer through that agony again.”
Big Jim stomped his foot on the floorboards, giving vent to his mirth. “Maybe ol’ Taylor here could be our secret weapon, Colonel. Five minutes of him screeching that oboe in the trenches and the enemy would come out waving the white flags.”
“I ain’t that bad, Big Jim,” Ozzie said. “You said yourself I was getting better.”
“You keep at it,” Europe told him with a roll of his yellow-washed eyes. “The preachers say even Judas has a shot of getting into heaven. You might put five notes together yet. In the meantime, make yourself useful and offer the gentlemen here some refreshments.”
Ozzie backpedaled to the decanter on the credenza and poured the Boss his usual libation, lemonade with a half-jigger of vodka, even though he knew Big Jim had been cutting down on the liquor because of his health. He took orders from Sissle and the colonel and brought them a couple of warmed apple ciders.
While sipping his beverage, the colonel watched Big Jim closely. “How are you holding up, Lt. Europe?”
Big Jim tried to stifle a cough, but the swallow got the better of him, and he hacked away until he finally caught his breath. “Fit as a bear, sir. You don’t need to worry about me. When the boat sails, I’ll be on it.”
Ozzie turned so fast that he nearly dropped the tray—the Boss had joined the Guard, too?
“You sure, Jim?” Sissle bored in on his friend. “There been some rumors.”
Big Jim shot to his feet and came towering over Sissle. “That’s just slander being spread by Joplin and his vultures trying to cut in on my business! I haven’t missed a concert date in two years.” He turned to the colonel, determined to change the subject. “How’s recruitment going?”
The colonel drew a weary breath as he turned to the window. “That’s why I’m here. We’re not making the numbers that I promised the governor. If we fail to get a good response, the entire country will say that … ” He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of discussion.
“Will say what?” Sissle demanded.
The colonel turned and looked at both men pointedly. “That the Negroes aren’t pulling their weight on the war preparations.”
Sissle turned indignant. “We aren’t pulling our weight? You promised us uniforms! But we’ve been marching in the parks for six months in our topcoats. No guns. No ammunition. No place inside to drill.”
“I’ve got a lease now on the second floor of the Lafayette Theatre,” the colonel muttered, as if hoping the details of the location might slide past them.
“That dump on Hundred Thirty-Second Street?” Sissle asked.
“It’s all we can afford,” the colonel insisted.
Sissle, incredulous, looked to Big Jim for support in his protest. “What’d you get me into with this carny show? We’re going to become the laughingstock of Harlem.”
Big Jim paced the suite in troubled thought, every so often gulping down a consumptive spasm of phlegm. Finally, he stopped and turned to remind the colonel, “Sissle and I agreed to join your regiment to raise the pride of our people. Some of those men I brought to you had grandfathers who fought with the Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts in the Civil War. Now we’re being treated like second-class soldiers again.”
“I can’t deny it,” the colonel said. “I’ve pleaded with the brass in Albany for new uniforms and rifles, but, frankly, they don’t think you men will fight.”
Sissle headed for the door. “I won’t serve the rest of my enlistment tromping around Morningside Heights in dress shoes and carrying a broom.”
“What choice do we have?” Big Jim asked Sissle. “We signed a contract with the government. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”
The colonel cleared his throat. “There is one thing that might spur recruitment and bring us the attention we need.”
Europe and Sissle waited for the revelation, but the colonel glanced at Ozzie, worried that what he was about to say might travel beyond the room.
“The boy won’t talk,” Big Jim assured the officer.
The colonel rubbed his hand over his mouth to blunt the impact. “A band.”
Sissle and Big Jim leaned forward, not certain if they had heard correctly.
“A regimental band,” the colonel confirmed. “Led by the great James Reese Europe.”
Big Jim’s eyes rounded in revolt. “No, sir! I joined up to fight like every other soldier. I am in a machine-gun company. That’s what we all agreed to.”
“If you led a regimental band down Amsterdam Avenue with the best of your musicians, it would be worth a hundred machine-gun companies,” the colonel said. “Recruits from all over the city would start pouring in by the hundreds to march off to war with the great Reese Europe. And I’m confident we’d get the funds for new uniforms and weapons. Every country in the world would come to know about Harlem. People would sit up and notice us.” He stepped closer to Big Jim to drive home his point. “Then those old crows in Albany wouldn’t have the guts to ignore us.”
“I’m a classical composer,” Big Jim reminded the officer. “Marching bands are too brassy and loud. Putting Sissle and me in one of those John Philip Sousa outfits would be like forcing the Kansas City Monarchs to play ball in some Sunday beer league.”
“We all have to make sacrifices in time of war,” the colonel said.
Sissle huffed. “Yes, but some folks sacrifice less than others.”
“What are you implying, Private?” the colonel demanded, ruffled.
Sissle stood his ground. “There’s something else you haven’t told us about this band idea, isn’t there?”
The colonel shifted away to deflect their demanding glares. Finally, he admitted to Europe, “Jim, you’d have to give up your officer’s rank. The War Department doesn’t allow a band leader to wear stripes.”
Ozzie watched with bated breath as Big Jim limped over to the window and studied the bustle of automobiles gliding up Broadway. He’d seen the Boss have to swallow many slights from white folk, but this—giving up his commission—was intolerable.
After several moments of internal debate, Big Jim said without turning, “I’ll do it, but on the following conditions.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“You get me the funds I need to make this the best regimental band of its kind in the world. My musicians won’t enlist for Regular Army pay. I won’t have my name attached to a musical group that is not the class of the world.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed at that brazen challenge. “Or maybe we can just wait until they are all drafted.”
Big Jim refused to back down from that veiled threat. “If Harlem men are drafted, they’ll be fingering guns, not instruments. I’ll make damn sure of that.”
The colonel swallowed hard, his bluff countered. “What else?”
“I want forty-eight instruments in the band.”
“There’s never been a United States Army band with more than twenty-eight,” the colonel said. “That’s regulation.”
Big Jim remained uncompromising. “Then you’ll just have to go around the regulation.”
The colonel debated the stiff conditions. Finally, he nodded his agreement, smiling with grudging admiration for Big Jim’s moxie. He shook the hands of the two musicians and turned for the door to leave.
“I’ve got a condition, too,” Sissle added.
Having nearly escaped, the colonel closed his eyes in anticipation. “Yes?”
“Before we leave for France,” Sissle said, winking at Europe, “we march down Fifth Avenue.”
The colonel looked as if he thought the demand was a joke. “You sure you don’t want to tromp through the White House, too?”
“We’ll save that for our victorious return,” Big Jim said.
Seeing that they were serious, the colonel saluted the men, and departed.
Ozzie hurried to the door. “I’ll make sure he finds his way out.”
“Yeah, you do that, Taylor,” Big Jim said. “Just don’t play that oboe for him.”
Ozzie raced from the room and hurried down the stairs. He weaved through the lobby and caught up with the officer on the steps outside. “Colonel!”
The officer turned. “If Lt. Europe sent you with another demand—”
“No, it ain’t that, sir. … I want to join your regiment.”
The officer held a bemused look. “How old are you, son?”
“Eighteen.”
“You don’t look more than fifteen.”
“That’s what they all say. But I can prove it.”
“If Lt. Europe gives the okay, then he can muster you in.”
Ozzie had to think fast, knowing that Big Jim was not about to let him go across the world to fight. “I’d like to surprise the Boss. Tell you the truth, Colonel, he’s been holding off his best musicians from your regiment. He’s afraid they’re going to bust up their hands during the combat.”
The officer slowed his retreat. “You don’t say.”
“Yes sir, I’m one of his prized players, his only oboe tooter. If I were to go up to ask him for permission to enlist, he’d just try to protect me. I bring in top dollar for him around town.”
“You must be a real find.”
“Not to be unhumble or nothing, but oboe players like me are pretty darn rare. I’d be a real gem in your marching band. And to tell you the truth, I kinda take care of Big Jim.”
“His orderly.”
Ozzie grinned. “Yeah, I’m kinda like his civilian orderly. He just wouldn’t be able to get along if we were separated. He don’t like to admit it, but that’s the way it is.”
The colonel glanced up at the window in the composer’s suite. He broke a wily smile suggesting that he had found a way to get back at Big Jim for driving such a hard bargain. “I appreciate your passion to serve your country, young man. Tell you what. You show up at the recruiting station this afternoon, and we’ll get you signed up. It’ll make a nice surprise for Lt. Europe.”
Ozzie snapped off an eager salute.
The colonel walked away, but then turned back. “Oh, and Private Taylor.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Make sure you pack that oboe when we go overseas. I want you to play it for Lt. Europe every night in France. It’ll help him get to sleep. And that’s an order.”