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Part 2 of 3

by Laurie S.

Synopsis
Young singer-dancer Mike O’Connor becomes Marion Summers, the star of a WWII USO style show entertaining American troops in the China-India-Burma Theater. Young Marion faces challenges as an entertainer - including a strip-tease - while pretending to be a woman in an all-male environment. Marion feels isolated because of her beauty and her unusual secret.

8

The next morning, bright and early, Pamela and I put on our wigs and bathrobes for a short walk over to the makeshift showers. Drums filled with clean well water were set up on a high wooden perch. Canvas screens surrounded the temporary showers to ensure privacy. It was all part of the traveling show's usual arrangement.

After Pamela and I showered, we walked back to our tent and put on panties, brassieres and light comfortable dresses. We fixed our makeup. When I looked at the mirror, I realized that with just a wig and lipstick, I looked like a remarkably pretty girl. Or was I just getting accustomed to my alter ego's appearance?

Breakfast consisted of dehydrated eggs and potatoes plus coffee. I skipped the battery acid—canned grapefruit juice.

Pamela took me around to visit the other members of our troupe. She introduced me to our super duper dancers: Len, Vito, Paul, Sheldon, Tony, and Sal. Then over at the musicians table I shook hands with Jack, the band leader, Richard, Gordon, Randy, Ray, and Morgan. Next, at the other table, we chatted briefly with Hal, our emcee, Vic, the singer, and Herb, the ventriloquist. The five stage hands—Darren, Bob, Kelly, Sammy, and Drew—introduced themselves. Since I wasn't able to remember everyone's name, I resolved to write their names into my diary so I wouldn't forget.

As soon as everyone packed up, and the dishes, cutlery, and cooking utensils were washed, The Follies Berserk traveling show moved on. Somehow the dishwashing duty was our responsibility that day, but it rotated.

I sat in a covered Jeep, in the back seat, with Pamela. Phil Dempster and Tom Preston sat in the front. They were Military Police assigned to escort Pamela, and now, me. We talked at length. She was a warm-hearted person—a really wonderful human being. I could tell that Tom and Phil admired her greatly. In fact, the two soldiers said the whole traveling company held her in high regard. Pamela, ever the modest, humble lady, shook it off as polite courtesy. What else can gentlemen say in the presence of a lady?

But I could see it in their eyes. They had genuine affection for her. I started to wonder if either of the gentlemen had ever made a pass at her? Or did they ever have sex with her?

I put aside those thoughts because I didn't like the implications for me.

After about three hours on a bumpy, dusty rural road, we stopped at a small clearing in the rainforest. A small herd of elephants crossed in front of us. We waited patiently as one of the Indian riders, atop a small canopy on the back of an enormous pachyderm, urged them forward. Republicans, they're everywhere. It was like a scene right out of a Bing Crosby-Bob Hope Road movie.

I wondered if I'd ever get a chance to ride an elephant.

Then they were gone, swallowed up by the jungle—a road pie the only evidence of their passing.

An hour later, we stopped once more. This time it was a U.S. army outpost. The crew got out immediately and set up the kitchen quickly. It was time to eat. After a hearty meal of stew, influenced greatly by India's love for curry, we set up the tents and stage.

To approve an evening show, the military brass had to be sure there was minimal threat of a Japanese attack. A large concentration of soldiers made an inviting target for a bomber attack. The speed of our set-up and dismantling was the reason an enemy reconnaissance plane was unlikely to catch us.

That afternoon I began working with Pamela. It was to be my only time to rehearse with her. She would return to Calcutta the next day.

When a phonograph was set up, I put on Harlem Nocturne. I showed Pamela the dance routine I had choreographed during my voyage to India. Some of the musicians and dancers strolled by and stopped to have a peek.

From what I had been told, Harlem Nocturne was in the band's repertoire. I wondered if the records that were given to me on the Hoyt were selected with foresight.

Pamela liked the dance. She showed me a few of her favorite teasing moves, some of which I had seen in her previous night's performance. If I incorporated those gestures, it would add more sex appeal and je ne sais quoi to my dance.

Then Tom and Phil stepped up. She showed me how the two gentlemen moved the Peacock fans to cover her breasts and crotch as she removed her bra and G-string.

I practiced with Phil and Tom. They were both agreeable to performing the feather-fan cover up for me. The key was the timing of the music. The live band had to hit a certain musical cue.

"Play it safe," Pamela advised me. "Wait to see Tom and Phil move their fans before you remove the bra and G-string. Otherwise, you'll have a lot of explaining to do. Be aware that the feathers create a little air resistance, so they won't cover you up instantaneously."

Later, in the privacy of our tent, Pamela showed me her muff wig—a patch of wiry looking red hair that hid her cock and balls. She delicately bobby pinned the muff wig to her pubic hair. It worked like a charm.

I asked if Pamela had any old wigs she wouldn't need anymore; it turned out the first time Pamela tried drag she appeared as a blonde. She had settled on red because it was her natural color. I knew immediately what I'd do if she gave me her old blonde wig.

Pamela was an innovator. To create the stripper's bra, she took the straps off a normal bra, sewed the back together, and put a snap enclosure at the front. Using a strait edge razor, she had carved two large falsies from sponges. Necessity was the mother of transformation.

Pamela said she'd leave all of her costumes for me. We were of a similar height and weight. The Army had given her all the women's paraphernalia. She wouldn't need the costumes anymore. I was extremely grateful.

9

Tonight, I'll be the headline act.

When Hal introduced "the beautiful blonde bombshell Marion Summers," the band launched into Harlem Nocturne. The sax blew hot as I floated across the stage, emphasizing my hip gyrations in time to the percussion. As I smiled to the women-hungry, sex-starved soldiers, it struck me that three and a half weeks ago I never dreamed of performing as a female impersonator, never mind as a sexy strip-tease artist.

I shoved all doubts to the back of my mind.

I fed off the reactions of the soldiers. All my years of dance training took over. My motions were all fluid and natural—even in high heels. I strutted across the stage. Whenever my hips gyrated, the drummer hit the cymbal. I flipped the feather boa over my shoulder. Gracefully and slowly I put my right hand up to my mouth. I tugged on the black velvet glove with my teeth. As I pulled my arm down slowly, the glove dangled from my mouth. I smiled as I flicked it right onto the face of a surprised horn player, Ray, in front of me. I turned as I laughed devilishly. When I pulled the other glove off, I played with it for a few moments, caressing it between my teeth and hand, as if it was a love appendage being stimulated to orgasm.

The raunchy crowd hooted and hollered at my naughty antics.

As Harlem Nocturne ended, the band launched into My Heart Belongs to Daddy.

I began singing,
"While tearing off a game of golf
I may make a play for the caddy
But when I do, I don't follow through
'Cause my heart belongs to Daddy."

Pamela's special red sequined dress was made to be torn apart, piece by piece. As I turned away from the audience, I snatched away the back of the gown, revealing bare skin all the way down to my thin waistline. There was no bra strap. I moved my right shoulder up, then my left—the front of my dress slipped off. But I crossed my arms in front to prevent the fabric from dropping to the floor. Was that a bra beneath the fabric—or was it completely bare?

"If I invite a boy some night
To dine on my fine Finnan haddie
I just adore, his asking for more
But my heart belongs to Daddy."

I teased the audience for a few moments, then I did a shimmy and shake. The top front portion of the sequined dress fell away. There were a few oohs and ahs, but my ta-tas were still covered. What was holding the bra cups in place? Glue? Tape? It was a precarious arrangement. At least, that's what the crowd believed.

"Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy
So I simply couldn't be bad
Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy
Da, Da, Da, Da, Da, Da, Da, Da, DAAAAD."

I gyrated my hips a few more times as my bare stomach undulated sensuously. I strutted back and forth across the stage to show off my long legs. The long slit up the skirt showed hints of my beautiful thighs. When I snatched away the skirt, the crowd gasped, but quickly realized the silk stockings and panties were still in place.

"So I want to warn you laddie
Though I know that you're perfectly swell
That my heart belongs to Daddy
Cause my Daddy, he treats it so well."

After kicking off my high heels, they both landed in the band pit narrowly missing the musicians, I played with the silk stockings, caressing my right leg from my knee to my crotch. Undoing the attachment, I slid the silk covering down my smooth thigh, giving a little shimmy to help it past the knee all the way to my toes. I moved the stocking between my legs, one hand in front, the other behind my rear end. I teased the delicate fabric back and forth as if I were cleaning my private parts with a long towel. The audience went nuts. Then I thrust my lower torso forward and back, emulating the motions of love making. My lithe stomach undulated suggestively.

The crowd went wild.

"While tearing off a game of golf
I may make a play for the caddy
But when I do, I don't follow through
Cause my heart belongs to Daddy."

I removed the other silk stocking quickly, without much fanfare. Then I walked over to the nearest row of soldiers in front of me. I wrapped the silk stocking around a soldier's neck, moved the stocking back and forth, and then I pulled his head forward. He reached to kiss me. I turned my cheek just in time to avoid being kissed on the mouth. I laughed. I held up my forefinger and waved it back and forth as if to say, "Naughty, naughty."

"If I invite a boy some night
To cook up some hot enchilada
Though Spanish rice is all very nice
My heart belongs to Daddy."

Then I stepped toward the band pit where the band leader, Jack, handed me my high heels. I thanked both Ray and Jack with polite kisses on their cheeks.

"Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy
So I simply couldn't be bad
Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy
Da, Da, Da, Da, Da, Da, Da, Da, DAAAAD."

When I turned my back to the audience, I looked at them from between my legs. For a moment, I thought my wig was going to fall off. I held onto my hair for a moment and smiled broadly. With my other hand, I started to pull down my panties very slowly. Then I stood upright, faced the audience, shook my hips, and the panties fell to the floor, exposing an improvised G-string, with an AAF (Army Air Forces) patch covering my privates.

"So I want to warn you laddie
Though I know that you're perfectly swell
That my heart belongs to Daddy
Cause my Daddy, he treats it so well."

I was left with only my bra cups, a G-string, and a big smile.

My two gentlemen helpers jumped up from the band pit with their Peacock fans—the ones with dozens of watchful eyes.

As the drum roll built to a dramatic climax, I stood poised on my tiptoes ready to tear away my G-string and bra.

A clash of cymbals and the Peacock fans covered me as I thrust my arms up high, holding the bra and G-string for all to see.

I smiled as I breathed a sigh of relief. Success! Isn't it the male Peacock that's the more dazzling of the species?

Thunderous applause washed over me from the enthusiastic crowd.

Behind the Peacock fan, I still had padded bra cups on. I glued them in place. I only removed a fabric covering. A blonde muff wig was bobby-pinned below.

The band resumed playing the chorus for My Heart Belongs to Daddy.

I turned around slowly, allowing Tom and Phil to maintain the Peacock fan cover up. I wiggled my bare bum as I walked toward a gap in the curtain at the back of the stage. The cheeky display elicited howls of delight. Behind the curtain, I quickly reattached the bra fabric and G-string. It was glue that held the sponge bra pad on, but a type that remained steadfast even in the high heat and humidity of India's climate. When the emcee Hal called everyone back for their final bows, I was delighted to find that I received the most applause by far. All of my hard work paid off. In fact, the noise even topped the previous night's volume.

I looked over to the wings. Pamela screamed her approval at the top of her lungs.

I felt great elation.

***

The next day when I said goodbye to Pamela, tears welled up in my eyes.

She was loved by everyone. I vowed to carry on with the type of class and generosity of spirit she displayed.

When we hugged, I wondered what the future held for her—and then it dawned on me. Her masquerade was so successful I almost forgot that Pamela was a man. I had stopped thinking of her as a female impersonator. She was a woman to me.

I wondered if I'd ever see her again.

After we exchanged kisses on the cheek, I whispered into her ear. "Pamela honey, if I ever want to look you up after the war is over, how will I be able to find you?"

She whispered back, "My real name is Frank Stewart. I'm from a small town in New York called Watkins-Glen. Look me up if you can, please."

"We're almost neighbors." I revealed my own name and my hometown of nearby Bedford Falls, New York. One never knows where the paths of fate will take you.

If I can, I vowed to myself, I will find her after the war. She's such a warm loving human being.

As I looked around at the rest of the company, they all said tearful goodbyes. She gave goodbye kisses to each and every one of them. I wondered how they'd react if they only knew the truth.

10

Army chow tasted terrible.

Submitted for disapproval, on today's menu were SOS and Spam. SOS stood for chipped beef in gravy on toast. However, if one took a closer look at the black spots in the bread, those were gnats caught up in the kneading of the locally supplied bread. Not bad—it added a distinctive nutty flavor to the bread.

Speaking of bugs, to avoid being swarmed, I learned to avoid eating bananas. Mosquitoes were drawn to the scent. To counter malaria, Atabrine tablets were on every mess-hall table. Taken over a long period, they gave a person's skin a jaundiced, yellow tint and freckles turned a weird green.

I never had curry before my time in India. Actually I quite enjoyed it during my stint in the CBI Theater. Putting curry on top of rice made a decent meal.

On the other hand, if I never had "bully beef" again, I wouldn't miss it. Just smelling the Australian mutton made soldiers throw up.

Whenever the cooks could get a hold of local vegetables, enlisted men appreciated it. Canned junk or reconstituted powder from a box couldn't compete with fresh food.

While sitting with our entertainment company in another nameless military camp, I was enjoying supper with Tom and Phil. A soldier came up to our table.

"Hi there, gorgeous," the handsome young soldier began, "I'd like to ask you to join me for dinner. I've prepared a delicious feast: steak, rice, corn, a salad, bread rolls, butter, and a brownie fudge dessert. Plus I have the finest, high-grade hooch in all of India. It's all back at my basha. What do ya say?"

Tom stood up. "The lady is enjoying her dinner already. She isn't interested. So please go back to your tent or hut and enjoy the food."

"Why don't you let the lady speak for herself?" The soldier looked at me sweetly.

I held out my hand. "You see this diamond ring, I'm already spoken for. Tom is my fiancé." I looked at Tom for a moment.

He puffed up his chest and crossed his arms like a Neanderthal man preparing to drag woman back to cave.

My gaze shifted to the young soldier. "Having dinner with you would be improper."

The soldier thought it over for a moment. He could see the MP lettering prominently displayed on the helmets and khaki shirts of both Tom and Phil. Was it worth time in the brig? Thankfully, the soldier took the hint. He walked away disappointed.

"Thank you, Tom."

"You're welcome."

I looked down at my plate of SOS, thinking of how many gnats must've given their lives in the making of the bread. "Steak, potatoes, corn, a salad, buns, butter, brownies and whiskey, huh?"

"Get over it," Tom said. "You know why you can't go with him."

The fear of discovery. "Yes."

At times I felt like a prisoner of my disguise. The soldiers approached me with one thing on their mind. I was propositioned more times than a hooker in a port of call when the Seventh Fleet docked.

No, I wasn't engaged to Tom. He wasn't really my fiancé. It was just that Tom and Phil were a little tired of using physical force to discourage persistent suitors. The "diamond" ring was cheap costume jewelry, worth maybe one dollar. In a cost-benefit analysis of defensive weapons, it constituted the biggest bang for the buck in all of the U.S. armed forces.

Once in awhile, if a persistent Stage Door Johnny didn't get the hint, Tom and I took the pretense a little further. We'd hold hands or he'd put a protective arm around my shoulder. It told everyone, "She's mine."

However, that didn't always work either. Occasionally, when a drunken soldier put his paws on me, Phil and Tom had to defend me. A lady's virtue needed to be maintained. Unfortunately the drunken aggressive soldier often had a group of supportive drunken buddies with him.

Fireworks could result.

Tom and Phil went above and beyond my expectations.

Also, once in a blue moon, Tom would remind me that I was doing something unladylike. Mostly it was the words I chose. I cussed sometimes. Four letter words were taboo. Or I would say so and so's a "swell guy". Tom would tell me "nice gentleman" was preferable. Or, if my skirt was hiked up too high, Tom would point it out. Also, it was impolite to do these things in public: pick my nose, fix my makeup, brush my hair, scratch, spark, blow my nose, or belch.

I liked Tom. He had a sense of humor and he was an honorable man. Likewise Phil was a good person. I felt blessed to be entrusted to their care.

There was one thing wrong, however. In spite of their friendship, it was depressing to know neither of them could ever love me.

Although I adored performing for the enthusiastic crowds of fighting men, deep down in my soul, I felt lonely.

11

At Camp Kanchrapara, on the edge of a rainforest, we performed our next show. There were about 250 men who had crawled out of the mud to see us.

Vic Carson had eyed my talents for awhile. Prior to the show, when he suggested doing a duet together, I pounced on the opportunity.

We sang a very patriotic song, God Bless America. We took turns singing the verses.

Vic began singing,
"God Bless America,
Land that I love."

Then I sang,
"Stand beside her, and guide her
Through the night with a light from above."

Vic sang,
"From the mountains, to the prairies,
To the oceans, white with foam,"

Together we sang,
"God bless America, my home sweet home."

God Bless America stirred up patriotic fervor. It brought tears to the eyes of many of the homesick men. It reminded me that I loved my country so much.

I enjoyed singing for an appreciative audience. After we did our bows, Vic gave me a warm hug and a buss on the cheek.

Our emcee Hal Patterson wanted me to trade barbs with him as we did the first night we met onstage.

Hal liked the spontaneity. He liked living dangerously. So we tried it again. It got some laughs. Each night we added a little more. Somehow it got dirtier and dirtier. I developed a strong affection for Hal.

Even the ventriloquist, Herb Langley, tried to draw me into his act. One evening, Herb's dummy, Junior, offered a comment about my singing performance. "What a wonderful voice! Marion sure has a healthy set of lungs, doesn't she?" The dummy made a double handed gesture indicating my big twin bazookas. "She's so voluptuous." Junior's eyes lit up.

"I think I'm in love with her," Herb added, "but she doesn't even know I exist." Herb's loud blue, green and white striped pants, argyle tie, and checkerboard jacket with a pink flower in his lapel made sure everybody knew he existed. "It's so sad. Instead of interacting with a beautiful girl, I pretend to talk to a wooden dummy."

"Some people say your whole act is wooden," Junior countered.

"Maybe I need a new gimmick to add a spark of life to the act?"

"Perhaps you should try humor."

The crowd snickered.

"A spark could just as easily send you up in flames."

I sauntered back onto the stage as casually as possible. After a lightning quick costume change, I was wearing a low-cut blue velvet evening gown that clung to my curves like perfume on skin.

Herb wondered why the crowd was cheering wildly as I strolled toward the center of the stage.

"Herb, I thought you were a gentleman."

"Marion, my apologies, but you take my breath away."

"Really?" I kissed Herb full on the lips slowly, seductively, passionately. "How do you feel now?"

There were hoots and hollers and catcalls from the envious audience. They wanted to be included.

"Wow. I'm in paradise." Herb gazed at me as if star struck, next he sneaked a peek at my cleavage, then looked at his dummy, Junior. "You know, I could easily be persuaded to dump Junior in favor of a sexy female partner."

"You wouldn't dare!" Junior screamed.

I caressed Junior's wooden face. "Don't worry, Junior. I won't agree to it. Think about it for a moment. Herb wants me to sit on his knee so he can put his hand up my behind."

The audience laughed.

I continued. "Besides, I think I'd feel uncomfortable sitting on his knob…by knee."

The crowd erupted.

I added, "I'm no dummy." I regarded Herb, as if for the first time, with evident sadness. "Why Herb, I'm so disappointed in you. A pretty girl kisses you, and you're willing to end your partnership with Junior?"

"Ah, yes." Herb looked at me with pleading eyes. "He's just a brainless puppet after all."

"How can you say that about Junior? He's sitting right here."

Junior piped up. "Yeah, I have feelings too."

"You do not." Herb pulled his arm out of Junior's wooden body. "See." The empty shell of the puppet fell over.

"That's what usually happens after sex," I said turning to the crowd. "Men go limp."

The audience hooted and hollered.

Then I grabbed hold of Junior and put my hand inside the puppet.

Junior said, "Ooh, that feels good. Herb's hand always sends a chill up my spine. Your hand warms the cockles…of my cockles."

The rowdy soldiers cheered.

I held Junior close to me and gazed into his eyes. "You know, when I was a child, Junior, I adored Pinocchio. I have this schoolgirl crush on puppets."

"Good," Junior said. "But I can do more for you than Pinocchio. His nose grows whereas…"

"I get the point."

The crowd roared and stomped their feet.

"What can a puppet offer that I can't?" Herb interjected.

I looked defiantly at Herb. "He'll do everything I want him to do. He'll do anything to please me." I kissed Junior full on the lips.

The soldiers laughed.

"Watch out, or you'll catch slivers," Herb said.

"She will not," Junior claimed. "My lips have a triple layer of shellac."

I licked my lips as if the shellac was tasty. "Mmm, tastes like apple."

"Marion," Herb said, "I hate to dash your hopes, but Junior hasn't got all his male parts?"

There were snickers and derisive catcalls.

"You mean you castrated him? Herb, how could you?"

"No, I didn't castrate him." Herb pulled down Junior's pants.

"I've heard that some guys play with small pool cues and balls, but this is ridiculous." I fingered Junior's smooth crotch.

"Oooh, that tickles," Junior said.

"Marion, puppets don't have sex organs."

"Why not?"

"Yeah," Junior said, "why not?"

"Because," Herb replied impatiently, "sex between a person and a puppet is … like masturbation."

"Herb, don't you ever masturbate?" I asked.

"Please don't ask such embarrassing questions."

I wagged a finger at Herb. "A former boy scout compared it to preparation. He said 'Masturbation is like keeping a pistol well-oiled, cocked, and ready to fire.'"

The crowd laughed.

"That must have been one eager boy scout troop," Junior said. "Creating fire by rubbing sticks together—no problem."

Herb asked, "Do you know why Japanese soldiers have buck teeth and need to wear glasses?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

Herb pulled back his lower jaw, extended his front choppers forward and stared cross-eyed at his crotch while he furiously pumped his right hand up and down on a gigantic imaginary cock.

The crowd went bananas.

"Herb, don't be crass. Please show some class."

"Ah so," Herb said in a gruff voice, bobbing his head, while still displaying protruding front teeth. "Would lovely American gurl like share Suntory Whisky with Hirohito-san?" Herb bowed.

"No, I'm sorry. I will not fraternize with the enemy."

"I surrenda."

"Japanese soldiers are so weak," Junior said. "Show some spunk."

"Hirohito-san consume lotsa ginseng—shoot lotsa spunk." A stream of water shot from the pink flower in his lapel.

The crowd lapped it up.

"Hirohito-san, I cannot accept. I have a new boyfriend." I caressed Junior lovingly.

Herby Hito dropped his front teeth and fake accent. "No matter what I do, I can't win."

"I think Herb pines for you," Junior said to me. "He's jealous."

"Yeah," Herb admitted. "I finally find a beautiful girl and I lose out to a wooden puppet. How is it I always get the short end of the shtick."

I hugged the cunning ventriloquist. "Herb, you're a peach." I caressed his whiskered cheek. "Nice fuzz."

As I blew kisses to the crowd, I waved goodbye, and I stepped backward curtseying, exiting stage left.

What once had been a 45 minute show was now a 75-minute show. We could have made it longer, but the logistics of travel made it difficult to lengthen the show much more.

12

We moved from army camp to air force camp to any type of military camp every day. As the days passed, there seemed to be fewer and fewer Japanese attacks happening in the Assam region. Also, I was adjusting to life as a woman.

Once in awhile we went into Calcutta for a few days of rest and relaxation. Yet, I never felt the need to shed the female clothing. I really enjoyed being a girl. The gentlemen treated me like royalty. I guess being beautiful had its advantages. I never lacked for male attention.

Tom and Phil were my close friends. I relied on them, and they on me.

In Calcutta, on Chowringhee Street, I had time to shop for new costumes…and every day wear. It was a delight to interact with the Indian people in the local bazaars. For the first time, I was introduced to the concept of bargaining. Nothing had a set price. The charges fluctuated greatly. Since India was a British colony, some businesses catered to English speaking clientele. Although I was successful in whittling down the costs of silk stockings, panties, brassieres, dresses, makeup, and costume jewelry, I never really knew if I was getting the best price possible. To save rupees, I found walking away was an effective tactic. Often the vendor would try to sweeten the deal.

Tom was pretty good at dealing with the hawkers. He had picked up some of the local Bengali and Hindi patter. He told me that if the merchant was bearded and wore a turban, it was most likely he spoke Bengali. Otherwise Tom would greet the vendor in the Hindi language.

Tom was always polite and treated everyone with respect. He never got angry when he bargained with a salesperson. The Indians felt insulted when that happened. It was nothing personal. It was business.

We sampled some of the food and drink too. We tried some tasty samosas, Tandoori chicken, quail, and dosas, which were crepes. Coconut milk was plentiful and it had a mild sweet taste.

We came across beggars pleading for Baksheesh, the name for alms or annas. It was not uncommon to see blind people, disabled men, young children and women holding virtually naked babies all crying out for money.

Apparently the British had a law that required everyone to wear some clothing. Some of the poor begging women would put a shoestring on their baby to comply with the law.

The first few times, I couldn't bear to pass the beggars without giving a few annas. It was a particularly bad time because a famine brought widespread misery and death to Calcutta. I was in the wrong army. I should've carried a tambourine. Then I noticed that there seemed to be a magically transferred message from beggar to beggar. They seemed to know I was a willing donor. It was like I became a marked lady. They sought me out. Or was it my blonde hair and beauty that marked me?

Phil spotted a half-blind woman beggar who wore a flap of cloth over her bad eye. For two annas, she offered to lift the flap to display her empty eye socket.

Eventually, I realized that I couldn't save all the poor beggars of Calcutta. I steeled my resolve. I wouldn't give anymore. Still there was a nagging sense of guilt.

Not all of the people were dressed in tattered clothing. Some of the wealthier ladies had colorful saris. It reminded me that India had a stratified society. The caste system assigned each person a station in life.

Phil attempted to bargain with some of the vendors for silver jewelry. He had his eye on a bracelet and then a necklace he wanted for his girlfriend Carol back home in Chicago.

In the bustling streets, the hawkers put animals up for sale, such as love birds and parrots. Although I was repulsed by the thought of having a lizard as a pet, a monkey, on the other hand, seemed cute and somewhat appealing. A monkey could do tricks; it was active and quick. It climbed on anything it could latch onto. It would steal the food out of your hand and even smoke a cigarette if you taught it to do so.

Wherever I went, however, I seemed to attract more than my fair share of attention. Was it my blonde hair? My beauty? Some kids yelled, "Hubba hubba." Oh, if they only knew the truth.

We were followed by shoeshine boys who called my friends "Joe." They dabbed some polish on the shoes if you stopped for a moment and then followed you for miles insisting you pay them for their services.

In one of the bazaars, Phil looked for cigarettes. Unsuccessful, he became intrigued by a hawker smoking a water pipe called a hookdah. In sign language Phil indicated he'd like to try the hookdah. With a hand gesture, the vendor invited him to sit down.

Phil tried to make himself comfortable in a cross-legged position and inserted the tube into his mouth. As he inhaled, he closed his eyes and tried to appreciate the aroma. After several puffs, Phil opened his eyes. He seemed undecided about the taste or scent.

"What's it like?" Tom asked.

"It's kind of strong." Phil looked at Tom for a moment. "Do you think you can ask him what kind of tobacco is in it? I hear Turkish tobacco is strong?" Phil inhaled some more of the smoke.

"Hubba hubba," yelled some young boys. I didn't even look at them.

Tom conversed with the hookdah vendor in halting Bengali. I heard Turkish mentioned, but the merchant shook his head. He said some words I couldn't understand.

Tom seemed to ask for clarification. Then he turned to Phil and said. "I'm not sure you're going to like what I have to tell you."

"What?" Phil asked as he inhaled some more smoke from the pipe.

"It's not Turkish tobacco. I think he said it's dried water buffalo dung."

Phil opened his mouth and almost gagged as he tried to expel the smoke. He looked at Tom for a moment and relaxed a little. "You're kidding me, right?"

Tom looked Phil in the eye. "No, I'm pretty sure he said water buffalo dung."

Phil tried to force out every trace of smoke from his lungs. He coughed and spat and coughed again. His face turned red and tears came to his eyes.

"Relax, Phil," I said with a comforting hand on his shoulder, "at least it's not human shit."

Phil slapped my hand away.

Tom and I laughed.

Phil shook his head. "Now that was an unladylike comment."

"Yes," Tom agreed, "but it was funny."

I looked at Phil. "Who do you think you are? Mr. Emily Post?"

"I just can't believe they smoke shit." Phil coughed some more.

Sightseeing was something many servicemen didn't think they had time for. But, since we were in Calcutta, we wanted to see what there was to see. Who knew if we'd ever be back again?

Over the course of two days, we visited the Kalighat Temple, the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta, the Nimtalla Burning Ghats, Nakhoda Mosque, the Temple of the Monkey God, the Ochterlony Monument, and the Maidan, a large park.

I found it ironic that the best known tourist site was the Black Hole of Calcutta. The story was that back in 1756, Fort William, a British stronghold, fell to troops of the Nawab of Bengal, Siraj ud-Daulah. The prisoners were held in a guard room overnight. The conditions were so crowded that many of the prisoners died from suffocation, crushing and heat exposure. A survivor, John Zephaniah Holwell, claimed 123 out of 146 prisoners died. Holwell's claim may have been exaggerated to sway public opinion against the Nawab. Some historians doubted that the incident ever happened.

Although Calcutta had no night clubs, in the evening, we went dancing at the Winter Garden in the Grand Hotel.

I had a new dress that I purchased at one of the English department stores. It was a hot pink number, low cut in both the back and the front—a daring design that revealed a scandalous amount of flesh. Plus I had new matching high heels.

And, did I mention, a new wig? This one was upswept. It would allow me to show off my new silver earrings.

Normally I didn't use perfume. In fact, Evening in Paris, a heavenly scent given to me by an admirer, was the only one I possessed. But for a special night, I couldn't resist. How many times does a gal get to go out and paint the town while a war is going on?

The Winter Garden represented a scene right out of Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream. An elegant ballroom, its high ceilings were graced with French crystal chandeliers. The brown bark-covered pillars, leading up to the vaulted ceilings, stood like mahogany tree trunks. The arches looked like branches. There were decorative green leaves on the ceilings, creating the impression of an enchanted forest.

All the guests, dressed to the nines, looked beautiful or handsome. The women wore fashionable evening gowns, in pastel shades, with exquisite jewelry and adorable hairdos. All of the gentlemen wore suits, white shirts and ties, although being India, many of the suits were summer weight and light in color, a concession to the heat. Coming from Bedford Falls, I had never seen such a classy-looking crowd.

While an orchestra played the big band hits of "The King of Swing" Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, Harry James, and Duke Ellington, the young beautiful couples kicked up their heels on the dance floor.

At first, Tom and Phil liked what they saw. They immediately went to the bar as they scouted out the place for prospects. Phil asked for American whiskey, but it wasn't available, so he ordered Scotch. Tom went for the same, and I tried an Orange and Vodka, strong on the orange juice, hold the vodka. But as Tom and Phil scouted around for young ladies, they were disappointed to find that all of the fashionably dressed young ladies had escorts.

I could sense their unease. We found a table close to the bar.

The fine orchestra played a few more songs. The tunes must have been British because I didn't recognize them. When the orchestra launched into a song called Bless 'Em All, the whole British contingent joined in. It became a rousing sing along. Immediately it was followed by It's a Long Way to Tipperary, another war time anthem.

At our table, there was silence. Nobody seemed capable of starting a conversation. We watched the other well-dressed ladies and gentlemen have a good time.

I felt sad. I was all dressed up, raring to go, and I sat there being ignored…a social leper.

As Hoagy Carmichael's Stardust began, not wanting to appear like a nitwit misfit, Tom finally scrounged up the courage. "Marion, may I have this dance?"

"Tom, I'd be delighted."

To outward appearances, the blonde at his table was too pretty to be a wallflower for the whole night.

Tom's left hand joined with my right. I had to switch my orientation and follow the gentleman's lead. Tom's right hand touched my bare back and it seemed like he experienced an electric shock. He quickly raised his hand to the shoulder blade, but he still seemed uncomfortable. Tom looked at me as if to say "Sorry."

We began the fox-trot. I followed Tom's lead. Back, back, side, close. Back, back, side, close. It was the basic step. Slow, slow… quick, quick. Slow, slow…quick, quick. Slow, slow…quick, quick. Then we did the fox-trot promenade. Forward, forward, side together. We moved harmoniously.

Whenever I've danced with a girl, I've found that sometimes physical bodies could fit together perfectly. Or there was something that wasn't quite right: differences in height, body shape, scents, eye levels, grip and body padding—some people feel bony. Tom and I fit together perfectly. Our contours seemed to match. In my three-inch heels, Tom was about three inches taller. I could feel his muscular physique beneath his pin-stripe dark suit.

"Isn't the band grand?" Tom paused. "That sounded corny. Let me try again. Isn't the orchestra wonderful?"

"Tom, relax. Stop thinking, just dance."

The orchestra singer crooned Cheek to Cheek…the Fred Astaire tune from the movie Top Hat.

"Heaven... I'm in heaven,
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.
And I seem to find the happiness I seek,
When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek."

Tom drew me toward him. At first I rested my head on his shoulder. Then, reacting to the suggestion of the song, we danced cheek to cheek. That was mostly my doing.

I playfully mussed up his hair, the way I did onstage when I performed the fan dance.

He smiled.

I'm in heaven.

Tom spun me around the dance floor. We got a lot of admiring looks from the other dancers and the people sitting at the tables. Tom surprised me with his elegant free-flowing style. His height and natural grace made him an ideal partner. The look of admiration in my eyes was genuine. Tom's wonderful, simply wonderful.

The orchestra singer continued with the pleasing melody.
"Heaven...I'm in heaven,
And the cares that hung around me through the week,
Seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak,
When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek."

When the song ended, we stayed out on the dance floor. Tangerine, by the Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra, was next. I was really enjoying myself. The music and setting and my partner were perfect.

As we danced close to our table, I saw Phil get up.

He tapped Tom on the shoulder. "Mind if I cut in?"

"No, not at all."

I looked appreciatively at Tom as he gave way to his friend. "Thank you, Tom."

At first, I could see that Phil was nervous about dancing with me. I would let him set the boundaries if he was uncomfortable.

If we were to dance cheek to cheek, it would have to be his move.

After a false step or two, we moved together in rhythm. It turned out Phil was skilled on his toes too. We fox-trotted effortlessly in a wide circuit around the perimeter of the dance floor.

"Phil, I didn't know you could hoof it."

"I grew up with two brothers and two sisters. I learned to dance while waiting for the bathroom."

I laughed. "Bob Hope, right?"

"He said it, but I lived it. Are you surprised I can dance?"

"We've been together for several months, but I've never seen you dance before."

"When Tom and I interviewed for the duty of protecting Pamela, we were selected in part because of our fighting skills—and dance moves."

"The next time we're on stage, I should get you two to do more than just hold up Peacock fans."

Phil was non-committal. He wouldn't say yes or no.

Although Phil was an excellent dancer, the experience felt almost clinical to me. He didn't hold me close. It was like there was an invisible barrier between us.

To Phil, apparently dancing with me was like dancing with his sister. He did all the steps correctly, but it was also evident he wouldn't get carried away with his passions. He seemed a little uncomfortable knowing what he knew about the beautiful blonde bombshell Marion Summers.

As Phil and I took a brief rest back at our table, I had a taste of my orange juice. Then Tom asked me to dance once more.

When the pace of the music picked up, Tom showed me he could Jitterbug. It was my favorite song, Glenn Miller's In the Mood. We tripped the light fantastic. Exuberance ruled. We couldn't have been more in synchronization.

I took turns dancing with Tom and Phil the rest of the evening—with the exception of one British soldier who asked me to dance. It turned out he saw me perform at one of the air bases. He was very complimentary. He said he would've asked me to dance earlier, but his date wouldn't have liked it, so one dance would have to suffice for him.

Tom, Phil, and I were hoping to have a good time meeting others, but there simply weren't any single American girls around. And all the English girls had escorts.

When we retired to our hotel rooms at night's end, I couldn't get Tom out of my head. He was so wonderful tonight, dancing cheek to cheek. We had some special moments. Plus, the man could dance up a storm. If Phil hadn't been around, I couldn't help but wondering, would Tom have kissed me goodnight?

What's happening to me? Why am I dreaming about a guy, even if it's such a great person like Tom.

Why didn't I take more notice of girls in the Winter Garden? I focused almost exclusively on the men. Four months ago, that wouldn't have happened. Am I changing my sexual orientation?

13

When we returned to the road, I felt reinvigorated and so did the rest of our troupe. In Panagarh, located about 85 miles northwest of Calcutta, I sat down with our singer-dancers at lunch time. Apparently they had been to cinemas during their leave in Calcutta. The first night they watched the Abbott and Costello movie Buck Privates and, on the second night, it was The Wizard of Oz. They had ideas for an expanding their role in our production. Furthermore, they had purchased props, costumes, wigs, and shoes.

If I could play Dorothy, they wanted to do some of the song and dance scenes from the Wizard of Oz.

While I liked their concept, I was stretched pretty thin already. I convinced them to do just one of the songs from the Wizard of Oz, the beloved movie with great music and lyrics by the team of E.Y. Harburg and Harold Arlen.

I could relate to our group of singer-dancers because that's what I had been on Broadway. Their ideas, taken from Buck Privates, were hilarious. They wouldn't need my help at all.

In the afternoon I rehearsed a Wizard of Oz number with Salvatore Nacarato. We had to learn the song lyrics, work out some dance steps, and be in synchronization with the band and the stage crew.

The rest of the singer-dancers worked on the routine from Buck Privates.

Through a lot of hard work, we were more or less ready by the time the evening performance rolled around.

After the Hooray for Hollywood introduction, Hal Patterson and I took the stage. We did our usual comedy routine which lasted about eight minutes. When I departed from the stage, Hal carried on for a few minutes more, praising the personnel of the 30th Station Hospital and the airport personnel he had met, thanking them for their warm hospitality. The people of Panagarh had welcomed everyone with open arms.

Hal chatted about differences between India and America. He contrasted tornadoes and monsoons, Kansas and Kanksa, and the obvious difference between pets such as a Cairn Terrier and a Rhesus macaque.

Backstage Tom helped me with a quick costume change. After putting on a cream colored petticoat, big silver ankle bracelets, and a dab of red lipstick on my forehead to create a bindi, I just needed a few seconds more for the outer garment and sandals.

On Hal's cue, the band launched into Follow the Yellow Brick Road. Wearing a beautiful blue silk sari, entering from stage left, I skipped along singing "We're off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz…" I almost tripped as my sandal caught on the loose folds of the sari.

Is the crowd laughing at my Indian costume or my stumble?

At the same time, a small platform was rolled onto the stage from the opposite side. Sal, dressed in a hay stuffed uniform of an air force general, was propped up as a scarecrow among some gigantic corn stalks.

I stopped at the center of the stage and looked at my pet macaque, a monkey doll whose cute head peeked out of the hand basket that I carried. I looked around. Wonder and indecision was etched in my expression. "Totoji, which way do we go?"

"Either way is nice."

"Who said that?" I asked.

"I did."

I looked in amazement at the scarecrow figure. "But scarecrows can't talk."

"Neither can monkeys or dolls."

There were a few snickers from the audience.

"You said either way is nice, but which path takes me to the Emerald City? I need to find the Wizard of Oz."

"Actually I'm not really sure which road to take," the scarecrow said as he shrugged his shoulders, "because I'm stuck here on this pole. I'm only telling you what I've heard from passersby."

"Perhaps I could help you get down from the pole."

"That would be nice."

I stepped behind the scarecrow and pretended to fiddle with an attachment on his back. "Why, your uniform is nailed to the pole." I pulled and pushed at the imaginary spike. "There, you're free."

Sal collapsed to the floor.

The crowd laughed.

As I helped Sal to his feet, Sal pretended to slip. Then I helped him up once more and held him until he was more or less steady on his rubbery legs.

"Thank you, I'm not used to a lack of support." Loose straw fell from his arms, waist, and legs.

"Will you be strong enough?"

"I should be. I'm a general after all." Sal slipped to the floor once again—doing the splits.

Applause mixed with catcalls emanated from the audience.

"No backbone, huh?"

The audience laughed.

As the general stood up once again, more loose straw fell from every orifice. "Backbone isn't my problem. I'm not a lion."

"Assuming you're not lyin', then what is your problem?" Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

"I can't make up my mind."

"Why not?"

The scarecrow threw up his arms in frustration. "I don't have a brain."

Whistles and hoots greeted the general's admission.

I stepped forward and addressed the audience. "That hasn't stopped other brainless people from speaking."

The soldiers laughed.

"Well, do you think this wizard you're seeking can help me?" the scarecrow asked as he stuffed some of the stray straw under his general's hat.

"Yes, maybe he can," I said while I gazed hopefully at the audience. "I'm hoping the Wizard will show me how I can get home."

"Where's home?"

"Kansas."

"Well, Panagarh is within a district called Kanksa. Are Kansas and Kanksa similar?"

"You are correct," I said. "You really don't have a brain."

The crowd laughed uproariously.

The scarecrow began singing.
"I could wile away the hours
Conferrin' with the flowers
Consultin' with the rain
And my head I'd be scratchin'
While my thoughts were busy hatchin'
If I only had a brain."

The general took off his hat for a moment, as if checking it for his missing brain.

"I'd unravel any riddle
For any individ'le
In trouble or in pain."

As the scarecrow danced a little jig, I accompanied him and began singing.
"With the thoughts you'd be thinkin'
You could be another Lincoln
If you only had a brain."

The scarecrow continued as more straw flew with every dance step.
"Oh, I would tell you why
The ocean's near the shore
I could think of things I never thunk before
And then I'd sit and think some more."

I tried to stuff straw back into the scarecrow's uniform as he danced and sang.

"I would not be just a nuffin'
My head all full of stuffin'
My heart all full of pain
I would dance and be merry
Life would be a ding-a-derry
If I only had a brain."

The crowd applauded Sal's performance.

I turned to the audience. "I hope there aren't any generals out there that we've offended."

A voice in the crowd called out, "Don't worry, I'm not your commanding officer."

I responded. "Thank you, private, but you're nobody's commanding officer."

The crowd laughed.

I linked arms with the general and then we started skipping toward stage right as we sang, "We're off to see the Wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz…"

The audience applauded appreciatively.

Hal Patterson returned to the stage to tell some rude, toilet humor jokes. Then our emcee introduced Vic Carson. As usual, Vic sang I'll be Seeing You and Danny Boy. He was in great form—the days in Calcutta had recharged his batteries.

The crowd clapped politely. But when three young dancers wearing wigs and Women's Army Corps uniforms appeared, the audience went wild.

It was the "Andrews Sisters" scene right out of Buck Privates.

A male dancer, Paul, dressed in a soldier's uniform, sang, "Tarzan and Jane were swingin' on a vine."

The gals sang, "Candyman, candyman."

Paul continued, "Sippin' from a bottle of vodka double wine."

"Sweet sugar candyman." The gals swung their arms from side to side, reversed the position of their feet, and carried on singing.

"I met him out for dinner on a Friday night
He really got me working up an appetite
He had tattoos up and down his arm
There's nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm."

The soldiers in the crowd laughed at the Andrews Sisters' deep voices, their hairy legs, and arms.

"He's a one stop shop, makes my panties drop
He's a sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman
A sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman, ooh, yeah."

Len, the lead Andrews Sister, shook her hips vigorously, and then her over-sized panties dropped to the floor. As the crowd went crazy, she picked up the underwear and flung it into the second row. A mad scramble ensued. A young corporal emerged from the chaotic tussle and waved his prize about, celebrating his victory. Amazingly the airman held the silk garment up to his face, and sniffed its heady aroma. Then he coughed and coughed as if he had just inhaled poisonous mustard gas.

"He took me to the Spider Club on Hollywood and Vine
We drank champagne and we danced all night
We shook the paparazzi for a big surprise
The gossip tonight will be tomorrow's headline."

The men in the crowd yelled out offensive suggestions to the "Andrews Sisters."

"He's a one stop shop, makes my cherry pop
He's a sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman
A sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman."

When the song ended, the audience cheered enthusiastically. As the "sisters" took their bows, two male dancers rushed onstage toting cardboard boxes. Then the "Andrews Sisters" reached into the boxes and tossed lollipops into the crowd. The panty and candy giveaway fuelled the enthusiasm of the delighted crowd.

***

After the show, while our crew began dismantling the stage, I posed with any of the base personnel who wanted to take photos. There were about fifty people lined up in the dark waiting their turn.

"Did you enjoy the show?" I asked the first of many.

The air force maintenance man, dressed in dungarees, said, "I loved it. You were great."

We smiled for the photo, the camera flashed, the bulb popped out, and then we moved onto the next guy.

"Hello, what's your name?" I asked.

"Wally Barnes." Then the cheeky serviceman asked, "Miss Summers, are you really a girl? Or are you like one of the 'Andrews Sisters,' a guy in drag?"

Tom interposed. He grabbed the smart aleck by the shirt collar and lifted him off the ground. "Marion Summers is a real lady in every sense of the word. She's my fiancée. If you can't be nice, then I suggest you leave right now before I get really angry." Tom tossed the airman backward onto the ground.

As the jughead picked himself up from the ground, he thought about taking a swing at Tom.

Phil stepped forward. Two against one wasn't a favorable situation. The airman gave Tom a dirty look, but wisely walked away.

Was Tom a little overzealous? Perhaps I'd have to speak to him about staying in control of his emotions.

But it was the first time anybody had questioned my apparent sex. I should've realized that the moment the three Trooper Dooper Dancers assumed the role of the Andrews Sisters, it would raise the possibility that I might be a female impersonator too.

"Where are you from?" I asked the next man in the air force uniform.

"Boise Idaho," he said with a smile.

"Maybe I'll get there someday," I said as I put my arm around his waist.

"How could that clown ever have thought you were a guy?" He squeezed me tight as he sneaked a peek at my cleavage.

The blinding camera flash caused me to blink, and then the spent bulb was ejected. I saw blue after flashes in the darkness.

"Thank you," the airman said as he pinched my posterior.

I smiled. What else could I do?

As another serviceman stepped forward, my thoughts strayed back to the earlier incident. If Tom hadn't intervened, how would I have answered the airman's query? Miss Summers, are you really a girl? I didn't like the idea of lying at any time. Men didn't like being fooled or being made fools of. On the other hand, Major Harrison had ordered me to pretend I was a real girl—it was a role I enjoyed immensely.

My duty was clear—I'd have to follow orders. I'm a girl.

14

We were supposed to be in the air right now flying over the Hump, the majestic Himalaya Mountains between India and China, but due to engine problems, a maintenance crew was repairing an engine on the Curtiss C-46 "Dumbo" transport plane.

The crew had nicknamed their plane "Lucky Lindy." It wasn't exactly four leaf clovers and rabbits' feet for us.

The engine gets fixed when it gets fixed.

I was sick of waiting around. We woke up early, hurried to get ready to depart, things went wrong, then we waited. And waited. Then waited some more.

Most of our troupe passed the time in the mess hall of Dinjan, one of the Air Transport Command Airfields.

There were various ways of dealing with delays.

Some of the guys read. I had already read James Hilton's Lost Horizon five times and Rudyard Kipling's Kim three times. I needed to pick up some new books the next time I was in Calcutta.

Others played cards. I was tired of gin rummy and euchre.

I knew each guy's tendencies when they played. There were little hints in their facial expressions. The better players were able to hide their excitement if they had a good hand and masked their disappointment if they held a no hoper. But, other than that, I knew very little about these guys. Playing cards was just a way of interacting without interacting.

I needed to pee, but there were no ladies' rooms. Going to the washroom required that I seek help. I had to bother either Phil or Tom. However, Phil was in a card game. So I approached Tom. He went over to the washroom, checked to see if anybody was in it, and then told me the coast was clear. While I went in, Tom made sure no one else entered.

I went to the toilet stall, then I cleaned off the seat with tissue paper. I just needed to pee, but I didn't want to take the chance that somebody might catch me standing up at the urine trough. I hiked up my skirt really high, lowered my panties, sat down, whizzed, listened to the stream of pee on poop, wiped the tip dry with tissue, and raised my panties.

In the washroom mirror, I checked my appearance. The wig was beautiful. I did a few finger combing touches. My white nurse's uniform looked prim and proper. That's right—a nurse's uniform, complete with comfortable white court shoes. When we traveled, we found that the uniform attracted far less attention. I didn't have to constantly explain my presence to every soldier who spotted me. I'm the showgirl in The Follies Berserk. As I left the washroom, I thanked Tom for his assistance.

For some reason, I didn't know why exactly, I was feeling down. Maybe it was the hectic pace—ten performances in the last week. All those trips to distant airfields could be a bit daunting, especially since we were about to climb over the highest mountain chain in the world, I preferred having my feet on the ground.

Anyhow, I felt trapped in the smoky mess hall. I stepped outside to get some fresh air.

The airfield was fairly quiet, without any planes landing or taxiing on the runway. Even the sensitive wind sock was becalmed. The surrounding jungle added to the serenity.

I marveled at my situation. Here I was on the other side of the world, thousands of miles from home in a completely foreign land. I had never traveled so much before. Every day we traveled to another outpost. We were gypsies in the entertainment brotherhood—and I do mean brotherhood. I was the only gal among the 23 member traveling road show. Every day was an adventure.

The door of the mess hall opened. It was Tom.

At six feet two inches and 200 pounds of muscle, he was an imposing figure. He had to be. Tom was the bodyguard.

"Stepping out for some fresh air?" I asked.

"Yes, that and I'm getting a little restless."

"I know what you mean."

"If I have to hear Phil scream 'Gin' one more time I'll go insane."

I nodded in agreement. Phil was a little intense. "Say Tom, I feel like going for a walk. Care to accompany me?"

"Certainly, Marion. That's my duty. And I can use the exercise."

"Thank you, Sahib." I called him that because of his facility with the local dialects.

We started walking to a well-worn pathway from the airfield through the rainforest to the Brahmaputra River. Being the Cool Weather season, it was a pleasant afternoon. It didn't take long to cross the tarmac and reach the jungle.

"Do you know where this path leads?" Tom asked.

"To the river. Don't all paths in these Indian valleys lead to a river?"

"I suppose."

Long ago I had come to the realization that one of the biggest problems in fighting the war was simply getting around. India's vast distances, varied topography, and poor transportation system created logistical headaches.

As we entered the jungle, I was aware that there might be some wild animals around. The most dangerous of all was the tiger. Although I had seen some caged tigers, the big powerful cats existed only as phantoms in the wild, so I hoped we were safe.

"Do you think it's safe here?" Tom asked.

"You've got a gun. You'll protect me."

"But who's going to protect me?"

I smiled at him.

As we walked along the path, we took in the sights, sounds and smells of the lush rainforest. Occasionally we brushed up against some branches and fronds.

"It's beautiful here."

"India is so different from home," Tom said.

"Some of the soldiers can't stand being in India."

"I think their view would be different if they came for a short vacation."

I nodded. "It's like the time I won a contest on the radio. First prize was an all expense paid weekend in Buffalo, New York. Second prize was two weeks in Buffalo, all expenses paid." Sorry Buffalo. "After you've been to nearby Niagara Falls, what else is there to do?"

Tom looked down at the well worn pathway. He grabbed me by the hand and led me around a huge smelly pile of animal feces. "Likely an elephant's," Tom said, "judging by its size."

"Thank you, although I really wasn't going to step in it."

"Just in case."

I noticed Tom hadn't let go of my hand yet. I smiled at him. We had held hands before, for instance when we were trying to discourage the Stage Door Johnnies from making passes at me. We even danced together in Calcutta at the Grand Hotel, but those situations were different. Phil was always there too.

"Tom, I really do appreciate how you look after me."

"It's my pleasure." Tom grinned. "After all, there isn't a soldier in all of India who wouldn't want to trade places with me."

He knows how to make a gal feel good. "You'd rather not go into combat?"

"If I have to fight, sure I'll fight, but I was drafted. I'm not one of those gung ho types who volunteered to see action. The only time I shot a rifle prior to the war was when I tried to win a prize at the County Fair in one of those midway shooting galleries."

I did the same kinds of things in Bedford Falls. "There's no place like home."

"Yeah, as Judy Garland said in the Wizard of Oz."

"When you write a letter home, what do you say?"

"Mostly I tell my parents how much I miss America. It's not that India is such a terrible place, it's the war. It's the fact that we can't make plans. Our lives are on hold. Although we haven't been in any real danger yet, there's always the possibility of an attack. Well, you know that."

I nodded as I thought back to my first day in Calcutta and the dive bomber. "What do you miss specifically about home?"

"A million things—I miss my parents, my sister, my brother, our pet dog, friends. I miss the city of Memphis and the Smoky Mountains. I miss doing all the things I used to take for granted—whether it's playing baseball in the summer, football in the fall, or going out dancing on a Saturday night. I miss listening to the radio, mom's pecan pie, Sunday church services, Jack Daniel's Whiskey. I miss everything."

"I know," I said with a sad smile.

"Every soldier here in India misses American girls. You know what I mean because you see it every time you perform."

"Yes. It's very obvious."

"None of the enlisted men are dating women; no one is getting married. We're not likely to court Indian girls. The British gals are interested in their own boys. Our love lives are suspended."

"Or worse, the soldiers get a 'Dear John' letter."

"Yes, poor Phil." Tom looked down at the ground for a moment. "That's another reason I wanted to get away from Phil. He's been really down since Carol dumped him."

"You can't blame him. How would you react if you got a 'Dear John'?"

"Well, I don't have a gal back home so it's not going to happen." With an impish smile, Tom said, "Besides, if I did, she'd be jealous as hell about me walking in the woods with you."

I laughed. Is Tom going to make a pass at me? "You know how to make a gal feel special."

"If I was lucky in love…" Tom stopped suddenly. He put his forefinger up to his mouth, indicating I should be quiet.

We listened for a few moments. There were some noises in the bush. Tom drew out his pistol. He pointed it in the direction of the noise.

Suddenly a young deer jumped onto the path in front of us. It galloped away from us.

Tom lowered his gun.

Danger averted?

We waited a few more moments to see if there were any other animals. There were only the diminishing sounds of the deer's hooves clambering down the path, headed to the river.

"My heart jumped," I said as I held a hand up to my chest.

"I was ready to pull the trigger."

"I'm glad you didn't. The deer are harmless."

Tom holstered his gun. "Somebody told me they have barking deer in India."

"Barking deer?"

"That's right. They bark like dogs."

"That sounds bizarre—although given how so many things are different here, I guess it's possible. I just wish the deer had barked at us instead of scaring us half to death."

Up in the sky there was the sound of a plane descending toward the airfield. I looked up to check its silhouette. It was a transport. It was one of ours. We could relax.

"So, where were we," Tom asked, "before we were interrupted?"

"We were talking about our lives being on hold and 'Dear John' letters."

"Oh, right."

"When the war is over, what will you do?" I asked.

"I'll go back to Tennessee and try to make up for the lost time. I'll resume my university studies. I'll become a high school teacher. Hopefully I'll find a girl, date for awhile, settle down, and get married. I'll buy a home, we'll have five children, and live happily ever after."

"The American dream."

"Yes."

"So what are your plans?" Tom asked as he put his hand in mine and we continued our leisurely walk.

"The Broadway stage I hope. I finally got into a show—and then came my draft notice."

"Your experiences here will help?"

"Certainly, I'm singing, I'm doing some comedy bits, I'm dancing. It's all good for my career."

"Whatever inspired you to get into show business?"

"I've always wanted to perform since I was little. I guess when I was about four, my parents took me to see A Christmas Carol at our church. You know the Charles Dickens story about the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. I loved it. The church members were the performers. Then, afterwards everybody in the audience joined in singing Silent Night, Good King Wenceslas, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and so many more. I was hooked."

"How did you get into dancing?"

"One of my mother's girlfriends is a dance teacher. I studied all kinds of dancing: square dancing, ballroom dancing, tap, ballet, and popular dances like the Charleston and the Jitterbug. I love it all."

"It's evident when you perform that you enjoy what you're doing. Your face lights up, your energy radiates outward to the whole crowd, and the soldiers love you."

"Thanks, Tom."

I sensed a break in the jungle canopy ahead—a clearing perhaps? A few more steps and I could see that it was a wide river. Suddenly we were bathed in sunlight. It had to be the Brahmaputra.

We heard voices fairly close by. They were talking in English. Tom released my hand.

Ahead I saw Vic and Hal standing by the banks of the river. I guess a walk in the woods is a popular idea this afternoon.

We said hello to them.

Hal had a cigarette lighter in his hand. He knelt down and applied the flame to a slimy black leech on his leg. The leech sizzled for a second or two, detached itself from the skin and fell to the muddy river bank ground as half leech-half disintegrating ash.

I looked at my legs. They were itchy because five leeches had attached themselves to my skin just above the level of my court shoes. It must've happened as my legs rubbed up against some of the low-lying jungle brush.

Hal offered me the cigarette lighter. I quickly performed the surgery.

I suddenly felt faint at the sight of my own blood.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Thank you to Angela Rasch for all her help in preparing the story. How I Helped Win the War—In Skirts underwent many rewrites. Angela gave her time generously.

Here is a list of the story's featured songs with Youtube addresses:

Harlem Nocturne: A scene from Mike Hammer with Stacy Keach and Delta Burke
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m069Vc7KMU

Marilyn Monroe – My Heart Belongs to Daddy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3QKK47bK_WA&feature=related

God Bless America – from the movie The Deer Hunter
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9LwGt9d1-lU

Bless 'Em All
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYS31NKveVE

A Long Way to Tipperary
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYC-U7aa3sw&feature=related

Stardust – Hoagy Carmichael – version by Nat King Cole
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFyKAUBkdOs&feature=PlayList&...

Cheek to Cheek – Fred Astaire
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYHZh-xnqhE

Tangerine – Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q-JDUnZv1N0

Follow the Yellow Brick Road
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INpR7GRzFNc&feature=fvw

If I Only had a Brain
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wOKK8mAkiUI&feature=fvw

Candyman – The Andrews Sisters
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=439uSYegXJ4&feature=PlayList&...

Some additional Andrews Sisters clips from the film Buck Privates:

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy – Andrews Sisters
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wiVkdVPGoY

Andrews Sisters – Buck Privates
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5H7F2Zsxl0&feature=PlayList&...

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