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Jet · 04-07-2010, 09:57 PM

The night was warm with just a hint of north breeze now and then.
The dance had ended at midnight and most sailors and soldiers had found their way to hotels and bunks on this three-day liberty.

I met her at the USO canteen, with its crowd of soldiers and working girls who had volunteered their evenings and their company of doughnuts and hot coffee for as long as they would last. Each girl, with her lined hosiery and upsweep, and 2-inch hemline, which had been cut short for the wool needed ocean's away, made herself available to soldiers to boost their morale and their hopes of returning home.

The canteen had grown hot on this night with loud swing music and fast jitterbugs and thoughts of war long forgotton under lilting trumpets and hot saxes and fast drums. It was swing and a time when all of America danced to a different tune.

Midnight struck some time ago and she invited me to her apartment to shave and to bunk on her sofa. It was all on the up and up—a sailor and a single girl both fighting for the same thing, in the name of the war effort, which we thought was the right thing. She was beautiful. I didn't want to touch her for fear of losing her, and yet I wanted to touch her all through the night.

She offered me Johnny Walker Red and a light for filterless smokes and a place to rest on her sofa. I saw that there were things out of line; a door hinge needed fixing, paint had chipped on the kitchen wall, things needed patching and straightening. And I wanted to stay and take care of everything for her, but it wasn't to be.

I could have pursued her and promised her a million things that a million guys would have offered, but I liked her. I was beholden to her generosity and her care that I may or may not ever come back. That alone, meant everything.

The Johnny Walker Red loosened my memories of all that I had loved and all that I could lose in a single detonated charge somewhere in the Pacific. I asked her to dance closer to me, and to a beautiful trumpet that made me forget.

There wasn't time for explanations, or excuses or promises. What mattered in this moment was the feel of her and possibly the last time I would ever see her.

The lights dimmed, the trumpet played and we danced to the unknown on a summer night in 1942...

04-07-2010, 09:57 PM	#48
Jet Timed Out - TOS Drama How Do You Identify?: .. Join Date: Nov 2009 Location: .. Posts: 3,471 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 292 Thanked 2,647 Times in 1,293 Posts Rep Power: 0	The night was warm with just a hint of north breeze now and then. The dance had ended at midnight and most sailors and soldiers had found their way to hotels and bunks on this three-day liberty. I met her at the USO canteen, with its crowd of soldiers and working girls who had volunteered their evenings and their company of doughnuts and hot coffee for as long as they would last. Each girl, with her lined hosiery and upsweep, and 2-inch hemline, which had been cut short for the wool needed ocean's away, made herself available to soldiers to boost their morale and their hopes of returning home. The canteen had grown hot on this night with loud swing music and fast jitterbugs and thoughts of war long forgotton under lilting trumpets and hot saxes and fast drums. It was swing and a time when all of America danced to a different tune. Midnight struck some time ago and she invited me to her apartment to shave and to bunk on her sofa. It was all on the up and up—a sailor and a single girl both fighting for the same thing, in the name of the war effort, which we thought was the right thing. She was beautiful. I didn't want to touch her for fear of losing her, and yet I wanted to touch her all through the night. She offered me Johnny Walker Red and a light for filterless smokes and a place to rest on her sofa. I saw that there were things out of line; a door hinge needed fixing, paint had chipped on the kitchen wall, things needed patching and straightening. And I wanted to stay and take care of everything for her, but it wasn't to be. I could have pursued her and promised her a million things that a million guys would have offered, but I liked her. I was beholden to her generosity and her care that I may or may not ever come back. That alone, meant everything. The Johnny Walker Red loosened my memories of all that I had loved and all that I could lose in a single detonated charge somewhere in the Pacific. I asked her to dance closer to me, and to a beautiful trumpet that made me forget. There wasn't time for explanations, or excuses or promises. What mattered in this moment was the feel of her and possibly the last time I would ever see her. The lights dimmed, the trumpet played and we danced to the unknown on a summer night in 1942...