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I always meant to come
back here.
As time goes by, I never
forgot that dance. It was a planned mixer for the young
officers at Camp Robinson to meet and socialize with the
local sorority in North Little Rock, Arkansas.
Now I hardly recognize
it.
In my day, we lived in
wooden single-story barracks that were more like tiny
cottages, all lined up in perfect rows. World War II was in
full swing back then, and I had enlisted in the military
with all of my buddies from school. I enjoyed my days
there. The training was rough, but the camaraderie was
good, and I was very proud to be serving the country I was
raised to love and believe in. I was fresh out of high
school and I already felt like a man.
Times were simpler back
then. I know it’s an old man’s folly to say that, but it’s
the God’s honest truth. We weren’t faced with so many
options back then. We were expected to get out of school,
get married, and work to support our families.
Simple.
So when I attended the
Sweetheart’s Dance in 1944, I wasn’t looking for a fling. I
was looking for forever.
But that was a long time
ago. I lowered myself onto a shady bench, leaning heavily
on my cane. Hard to believe I once danced the jitterbug
with such gusto. Time is a bitch. She steals away your
youth before you notice it’s missing, and once it’s gone you
can’t ever get it back.
I met her here on
Valentine’s Day in 1944. The mess hall where they held the
dance is long gone, replaced by a new prefabricated metal
building. At least they put a plaque out front to remember
the intrepid old mess hall building that fed over 25,000
young American men while we trained in the art of war.
When I close my eyes, I
can see the landscape as it was, clear crisp colors without
the haze of cataracts clouding my view. She was wearing a
yellow dress with a yellow rose clipped in her hair.
My old mouth still curls
up into a smile at the thought of her. My first true love.
Our eyes met across the
smoke filled room and my heart skipped a beat. My God she
was an angel. I mustered my courage, puffed out my chest,
and walked over to take her hand.
“Good evening, Miss.
I’m Private Walker.”
Her hand felt so perfect
inside of mine. Her cheeks flushed with color and I was
sure I’d never seen anything so beautiful in all my life.
“Pleased to meet you,
Private Walker. I’m Betty Joe Crawford.”
“Could I have this
dance, Betty Joe?”
She nodded and we
stepped onto the dance floor.
A cool breeze brushed
over me on the bench, and with my eyes still closed, I was
certain I could smell the rose in her hair and the faint
scent of her Shalimar perfume. In my mind, I could hear the
band and I saw Betty Joe’s eyes light up when they started
Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.
Man that girl could cut
a rug.
We danced the night
away. Laughing as we hopped around to Shoo Shoo Baby, and
gasping when we finished the jitterbug. What a night! We
ended the perfect evening slow dancing cheek to cheek to
Bing Crosby’s latest hit, I’ll Be Seeing You.
I wasn’t ready for the
night to end.
“Can I see you again,
Betty Joe?”
Her cheeks flushed again
as she looked up at me. “I don’t even know your first name,
Private Walker.”
“Billy. Billy Walker.
I’m from California.”
Her smile made my knees
wobble, and her dark brown eyes sparkled up at me. “I would
love to see you again, William Walker.”
That was the first time
anyone had ever called me William.
I wanted to kiss her in
the worst way, but there were chaperones ushering everyone
out, and I didn’t want to embarrass Betty Joe. Instead we
planned to meet at the malt shop the very next evening.
We had a date every
night for the next six weeks before I was transferred
overseas. I ended up in the battle of Cassino in Italy. As
part of the artillery, we shelled the Nazis for days through
heavy thunderstorms. A few of my friends ended up with
pneumonia, and Gary Shore never recovered.
On the bench, I coughed,
my ancient lungs rasped and burned, but I didn’t open my
eyes. I wasn’t ready to leave the past just yet. The ache
in my chest smoldered, but I pushed it away and focused on
my days in Italy in 1944.
Better days.
I wrote to Betty Joe
every night. I told her about the battle, and later I wrote
to her about watching Mt. Vesuvius erupt. I’d never seen
anything like it. I wrote a letter about the rain and the
snow, and even shared my review of Irving Berlin’s new show
“This is the Army.” He brought it all the way over to Italy
for us. Most importantly I wrote about how much I missed
her, and loved her. I couldn’t wait to get back home.
But one day I received a
letter that wasn’t in her handwriting.
No, I didn’t want to
remember this. I struggled to open my eyes, but I
couldn’t. My heart fluttered. I couldn’t catch my breath.
I coughed, and for a moment I saw the metal building, but my
eyes drifted closed again.
Lost in my memories, I
was opening the letter from Mr. and Mrs. Crawford. Their
dearest Betty Joe was dying of tuberculosis. She asked them
to write this letter to let me know I would always have her
undying love.
Back on the bench, I
felt a hot tear spill down my cheek, but I was too weak to
lift my hand to wipe it away.
“William? William, is
that you?”
It was so dark. I
couldn’t see a thing, but I knew that voice. I hadn’t heard
it in over sixty years, but without a doubt, I knew it was
Betty Joe. I tried to answer her, but my body wouldn’t
respond. I couldn’t make a sound. My lungs burned.
Part of me panicked,
while another part of me welcomed the inevitable. In the
distance a familiar melody caressed my ears. Our song. One
last breath heaved from my tired lungs, and then my eyes
fluttered open and I could see again. No haze of cataracts,
no glasses, and there, not a hundred feet from me was Betty
Joe. She was smiling at me in her yellow dress with a rose
in her hair, and somewhere Bing was singing our song.
I looked back over my
shoulder and saw a time worn old body I hardly recognized
slumped over on the bench with a bittersweet smile on his
lips and a tear still shining on his cheek.
“William?”
Turning back toward her
voice, I realized my arthritis that had pained my knees for
the past twenty years was gone. I was free.
“I’ve missed you,
William.”
“I’m sorry it took me so
long to get back.”
She smiled and touched
my cheek. “You were always worth waiting for.”
I took Betty Joe into my
arms and kissed her while Bing crooned:
I'll be seeing you in
every lovely summer's day
In everything that's
light and gay
I'll always think of you
that way
I'll find you in the
mornin' sun
And when the night is
new
I'll be looking at the
moon
But I'll be seeing you
I was finally home. |
