• 14 •

BEULAH AND FLEURETTE hadn’t, of course, stayed inside while Constance made her rounds. They were both a little restless and struck out for the edge of the campground. Back in New York, Beulah could stroll the city’s wide and crowded avenues when her room felt too cramped. But here, there was nothing to do but to circumnavigate their miniature city of tents. On all sides they were hemmed in: by the fence, the gate, the woods beyond. Outdoor living, in an open field beneath an expansive sky, should’ve felt spacious, but to Beulah, a bustling city was far less cramped. She could disappear in a city.

It occurred to her that wartime duty in France might mean living in the countryside, in such makeshift conditions as they now endured. She’d entertained vague thoughts of an assignment in Paris, perhaps in a little office, but it was far more likely that she’d be in a tent, with girls like these — if any of them went at all.

“Did you know, before you arrived,” Beulah asked, “that you wouldn’t necessarily be sent to France at the end of the course?”

“Necessarily? I wouldn’t have left the house if I thought they were sending me to France. You do know they’re at war over there, don’t you?” Fleurette took Beulah’s cigarette and touched it to her lips: it was all she dared to do. It was obvious that she didn’t know how to smoke but didn’t want to let on.

“Well, I intend to go.” Beulah took the cigarette back and gave it a good hard draw. She loved the dry bitter hit of smoke in the back of her throat: it was an old friend, a steady companion that had seen her through some terrible times. “That’s the reason I’m here. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

It had taken her all day to work up to this question, although she asked it casually. All her hopes had been pinned on France: she imagined herself on board that ship, she pictured a bustling port and someone — a French version of Constance, perhaps — awaiting her disembarkation with a bundle of papers that contained her orders, and after that . . . well, she wasn’t sure what might happen after that. She was quite certain about getting away. She was absolutely in love with the idea of disappearing into a country where nobody had ever heard the name Beulah Binford. But how she might serve, where she might work, how she would even put a roof over her head — she hadn’t considered any of that. She’d assumed the camp organizers would take care of practical matters.

“I haven’t met anyone who actually intends to go,” said Fleurette, “except Sarah, and I suppose Margaret. Norma would go if they’d let her.”

“I don’t know how they’d stop Norma,” Beulah said. Should she ingratiate herself to Norma, in the hopes that they might travel as a pair, and make their way through France together? She couldn’t imagine how anyone fell into Norma’s good graces — it appeared that one had to be born there, and even then, there were no assurances.

They were perched along the fence, just up a slight hill, so that they could look down on the tents and the lanterns flickering in and out of view.

“There goes your sister,” Beulah said, pointing at the unmistakable figure of Constance marching toward Tizzy Spotwood’s tent. “Do you suppose they’re about to lose their Victrola?”

“And their tins of crackers, and the chocolates,” Fleurette said. “If she takes their kimonos, I’m sneaking one into my trunk.”

“I don’t suppose you got away with much, if you had those two watching over you. Or did they spoil you?”

Fleurette made another attempt with the cigarette. She managed to take in a little smoke and hide the cough demurely behind the back of her hand. “I do as I please.”

From the other side of camp, the figures of Hack and Clarence approached. They always took their first patrol together, right after curfew. Every night they made the same clockwise loop. It was not a coincidence that Beulah and Fleurette were perched at that particular spot. The soldiers had no choice but to pass them on their route.

“What do you make of these two?” Beulah asked.

Fleurette shrugged. “They’re nice boys. It’s a shame to send them off to war.”

“They’ll come back heroes,” Beulah said. “They’ll be men.”

“Won’t they be men if they stay here?”

One of them was whistling as he approached: it was a marching tune, one Beulah couldn’t name. They all sounded alike: the same bouncy beat, the endless repetition of the chorus. It served to keep men moving, she supposed. The two of them stepped in perfect time as they drew near.

“You girls are out after curfew,” Hack called when they were still a good thirty or forty paces away.

“My sister’s the new matron,” Fleurette said. “She knows where we are.”

“I’ll bet you a dollar she doesn’t.” Clarence grinned at them in the dark. He didn’t look like he had any intention of telling Constance about them. Clarence was one of those round-faced boys who hadn’t quite grown into manhood. His eyes were quick to betray uncertainty or confusion, but he would learn to mask that if he went to France. Hack already had: he was taller and leaner, the type who won at any sort of sport and had a wall of trophies at home to prove it. He would be good at soldiering because he’d always been good at things.

“How’d you get stuck out here in Chevy Chase?” Beulah asked. “Where’s the rest of your unit — not out guarding another camp for girls, are they?”

“You saw General Murray at orientation,” Hack said. “He’s in Washington right now, and we’re assigned to him. After this little tour of duty, we’ll be back at Fort Monmouth.”

“In New Jersey?” Fleurette asked. “Don’t tell me you’re with the Signal Corps.”

“How do you know about it?” Clarence said.

Fleurette put a hand over her forehead as if she could hardly bear to think about it. “My sister can’t stop talking about the Signal Corps. She wants the Army to take up pigeons.”

“I heard about that,” Clarence said. “We went around and looked at her cart. Who built that for her?”

“Nobody does a thing for Norma. She built it herself.”

He whistled. “That’s a fine piece of work. But we can’t take birds into battle. They’ll drop dead of fright if they hear the artillery. You wouldn’t believe the noise those French 75s can make.”

“Oh, but she’s already fired a rifle at hers and they did just fine. She’s tried every test imaginable. You can’t rattle those birds any more than you can rattle Norma.”

It was touching, Beulah thought, the way Fleurette defended her sister, even though they bickered ceaselessly with one another. She and Claudia were like that once.

Hack and Clarence had already lost interest in the pigeons. They leaned against the fence, watching from a distance as Constance made her rounds and the camp settled down for the night.

“What do you girls get up to when you’re not learning how to march in a straight line?” Hack asked.

“I’m on the stage,” Fleurette said — a little too eagerly, in Beulah’s opinion.

“Oh yeah? Clarence here plays the piano. You two should work up a duet.”

“I would, if we had a piano,” Fleurette said. “I’ve written off to my old vaudeville troupe and invited them to put on a show for us.”

“It’s not an Army camp without a show,” Clarence said. “Why don’t you sing a little something? I’ll hum along.”

Fleurette would have, but just then Beulah saw Constance making her way up the hill to the barn. They’d be spotted in a few minutes.

“We’d best get on back,” Beulah said. She hopped off the fence and offered her hand to Fleurette, who was shorter and had a harder time managing the rails.

“All right, girlie,” Hack said. “Mind your curfew.”

Girlie. Beulah froze, then spun around on one heel and peered at him through the dark.

“Girlie?”

“Pardon me,” he said. “Miss —”

“Collins,” she said. “Roxanna Collins. You may call me Miss Collins.” Only one man ever called her girlie.

“Yes, ma’am. Good night, Miss Collins. Good night, Miss Kopp.”