A blues singer follows. Without the
loudspeakers she can hardly be heard, for her voice, although sweet, has no volume.
She forces her voice for volume and loses her sweetness, but she is pretty and
young and earnest.
A girl accordion-player comes next. She asks
for suggestions. This is to be group singing and the requests are for old
songs—“Harvest Moon,” “Home on the Range,” “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” The
men bellow the words in all pitches. There is no war song for this war. Nothing
has come along yet. The show continues—a pantomimist who acts out the physical
examination of an inductee and does it so accurately that his audience howls.
A magician in traditional tail coat manipulates colored silks.
In all the acts the illusion does not quite
come off. The audience helps all it can because it wants the show to be good.
And out of the little acts, which are not quite convincing, and the big
audience which wants literally to be convinced, something whole and good comes,
so that when it is over there has been a show.
One of the men in the unit has been afraid. He
has not slept since the ship sailed. He is afraid of the ocean and of
submarines. He has lain in his bunk, listening for the blast that will kill
him. He is probably very brave. He does his act when he is terrified. It is
foolish to say he should not be afraid. He is afraid, and that is something he
cannot control, but he does his act, and that is something he can control.
Up on the deck in the blackness the colored
troops are sprawled. They sit quietly. A great bass voice sings softly a bar of
the hymn “When the Saints Go Marching In.” A voice says, “Sing it, brother!”
The bass takes it again and a few other voices
join him. By the time the hymn has reached the fourth bar an organ of voices is
behind it. The voices take on a beat, feeling one another out. The chords begin
to form. There is nothing visible. The booming voices come out of the darkness.
The men sing sprawled out, lying on their backs. The song becomes huge with
authority. This is a war song. This could be the war song. Not the
sentimental wash about lights coming on again or bluebirds.
The black deck rolls with sound. One chorus
ends and another starts, “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Four times and on
the fifth the voices fade away to a little hum and the deck is silent again.
The ship rolls and metal protests against metal. The ship is silent again. Only
the shudder of the engine and the whisk of water and the whine of the wind in
the wire rigging break the silence.
