The Dance

Newbury, England August 1944

The 501st Parachute Infantry regimental band launched into a decent rendition of Glenn Miller's "American Patrol." Paratroopers and English girls surged onto the dance floor. A homely English lass afflicted with buckteeth and a bad complexion had two paratroopers rush to her and simultaneously ask for a dance.

Taking it all in, Second Lieutenant Samuel Henry smiled as he watched the men of the 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment enjoy the night. They were taking full advantage of the fact that most of the other troops — all the infantry and armored divisions involved in D-Day — had received a one-way ticket back to Normandy. That meant that the 101st and Eighty-Second Airborne Divisions, now back on British turf, had no competition. Whoever had arranged the dance deserved a medal for boosting morale with the ultimate morale booster: young, available females.

For the moment, these GIs, recently returned from Normandy, ceased complaining about England's confusing money, dank weather, and warm beer. Indeed, the combat-jump veterans possessed a particular appreciation entirely foreign to any stateside dance hall packed with young men — be it a high school prom or a Greek fraternity shindig. Those sporting the Combat Infantryman Badge appreciated life. Mere life. A beating heart. Intact limbs. Undisrupted organs. Another breath.

The dancers moved under billowing canopies of white silk parachutes suspended from the ceiling and backlit with hanging lamps. On the wall behind the band hung an eight-foot emblem of the 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment — an Indian head in full war bonnet under a parachute canopy. The Indian brandished a lightning bolt like a spear over the regimental battle cry: "Geronimo." A butcher-paper banner declared, "Congratulations on Your Distinguished Unit Citation." Each band member performed from behind a plywood cutout of the 101st's Screaming Eagle patch.

A curly-topped, Italian-featured private brushed past Sam. Sam's smile vanished. He took a deep breath and exhaled hard, glad he'd caught himself as his lips had formed the words from his brain. Hey, Pinball, good to see you! He closed his eyes, only to see Private Vincenzo "Pinball" Vigiano buried beneath Norman soil. A stitching of bullet holes across his broad chest. Forever nineteen. Sam opened his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek, letting the pain prevent further horrendous flashbacks of the Boscage country surrounding Carentan.

A giggling English girl — appearing closer to fifteen than twenty years old — traced her finger around the Screaming Eagle shoulder patch on a teenaged sergeant with his arms latched to her waist. "Got an extra patch I'll give you for your kid brother, lil' darlin'," the sergeant said.

Returning to the moment, Sam grinned. He could hardly fault a trooper for taking advantage of the good press the British papers had heaped on the 101st's Normandy exploits. Since arriving back in England, he'd even witnessed English girls ditch Eighth Air Force pilots to hang on the arms of enlisted men — if those arms bore that Screaming Eagle patch.

Yet the knot remained in Sam's stomach. He glanced again toward the entrance. Still no sign of the one English girl Sam cared about. Maybe it's for the best. He rotated his left shoulder. Dancing might just aggravate my wounds.

Nevertheless, Sam kept a lookout on the elevated hall entrance as he worked his way around the writhing mass on the dance floor and grabbed another donut from a Red Cross donut dolly.

A corporal all but shouted to the nearest donut dolly, "Well, I declare, but if you ain't the most beautiful girl in the room. You must be from Georgia." It was the fifth time Sam had heard a variation of the line in the past fifteen minutes.

Sam took a bite of his sugar donut and struggled against the shifting tide of class A dark olive-drab uniforms. He needed to establish a better OP on the hall entrance. Passing the punch bowl, he noted a vigilant MP detachment guarding the pineapple punch from spiking.

"American Patrol" played on. The upbeat tempo reminded him of Maggie's temperament. Maybe her headmaster had gone back on his word. That pig-eyed jerk's still making Maggie suffer for going AWOL to visit me in the hospital.

He spotted Private Joseph Silva with a new dance partner — this one a redhead. He was holding her much closer than the music called for. Sam grinned. Silva seemed to be the only GI in the room not sitting out any dances.

The song ended, and a new one began. Despite a botched piano opening, Sam recognized "My Guy's Come Back," a new hit by Joe Loss. Fifteen minutes earlier, the band had covered Artie Shaw's "It Had to Be You." These particular songs redoubled his vigil on the entrance. He longed to move with Maggie across the dance floor and softly whisper the lyrics into her ear.

An English girl stepped onto the bandstand and sang "When the Lights Go On Again All Over the World." Her soprano voice hit the chorus, and the knot in Sam's stomach tightened. He doubted he could follow the song's advice and delay the time for wedding rings until after the war. What's keeping Maggie? He ran his fingers back through his fine brown hair. The evening was shot. Time to abandon any sense of personal celebration.

A peroxide blonde sidled up to him and batted her eyelashes. "Care for a dance, Lef'tenant?"

"Uh ... I'm sorry, miss, but I'm wait —"

A hand landed jovially on his almost-healed bayonet wound, high between his neck and left shoulder. A jolt of pain shot up his neck. "Loosen up, Henry," a shrill male voice said. "Still pining away for that leggy schoolteacher?"

Sam pivoted into a cloud of Chesterfield smoke and squinted, but not enough to block out Pettigrew's condescending grin.

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her." Pettigrew turned to the peroxide blonde. "Wouldn't you rather dance with a captain, sweetie?" He hooked the girl's arm and tugged her onto the dance floor.

Sam wafted his hand in front of his face to disperse the smoke. The band struck up "In the Mood." Yeah, I'm in the mood. In the mood to knock that stupid grin right off that flat face of yours. The least deserving get promoted. The bravest get buried. Sam might've found a small measure of solace in Pettigrew's promotion, had it only included a transfer. Yet Able Company remained saddled with the martinet. Yet a shavetail I am, and a shavetail I shall remain ... as long as Pettigrew has any say in the matter.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught bright, non-GI colors flash in the entrance. He craned his neck and refocused on his objective. His pulse rate rocketed. Three English girls stood there. A surge of paratroopers engulfed them — just as Sam visually confirmed that none of them were Maggie. Maybe it's for the best. She lacks a history of tolerance for aggressive GIs. Or crowds of GIs. Or much of anything GI, for that matter.

Sam's stomach churned on Red Cross donuts. He suppressed a belch and folded a stick of Wrigley's Spearmint gum into his mouth. Taking in the room, he noted a distinct segregation. Newly arrived replacements huddled on the periphery, assuming a submissive demeanor, while the Normandy veterans danced or congregated in boisterous clusters. Sergeant Theodore Springwater represented the glaring exception. Four teenaged replacements surrounded the tall Crow warrior with unabashed admiration and rapt attention on their faces.

Near Springwater, Sam spotted his newly arrived assistant platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Alexander Garst, standing alone. Garst was slim and of average height, with a cleft chin and intelligent face. He seemed older than the other replacements, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five.

Sam turned from the entrance and wove his way to him. "They get you all settled in, Garst?"

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant Henry," Garst said, stone-faced.

"You can cut the military formalities with me." He stuck out his hand. "Call me Sam."

Garst grinned and shook hands. "Alex."

"Where do you call home, Alex?"

Garst's grin expanded. "Prettiest beef-and-grain farm in all Warren County, Indiana."

"That anywhere near Indianapolis?"

"More like just a mile over the border from Danville, Illinois." Garst pulled out a burlwood pipe and loaded it with vanilla-scented tobacco. "It's an honor to serve."

At the mention of Danville, Illinois, and the scent of the pipe tobacco, Sam ceased hearing a word Garst said. He wanted to bolt out of the hall. Hardly an hour passed without Lieutenant Lloyd Sterling crossing his mind. The pipe tobacco ... Danville, Illinois. Sam didn't appreciate Garst's inadvertent reminders.

Sam had tracked down a parachute engineer who had fought under Sterling's gutsy little ad hoc command near Angoville-au-Plein. The corporal swore he saw a shower of German stick grenades kill Sterling at dawn on June 6. Yet without Graves Registration positively identifying a body, Lieutenant Lloyd Sterling's name languished on the MIA list.

There's a million other places you could've been from, Garst. Hundreds of other habits. Please — don't tell me you've got a degree in history too.

Garst chatted on. "Captain Young says you played ball in Los Angeles."

Sam exhaled. Can't transfer him. Sam had already irritated the S-1 personnel officer by inventing some excuse for transferring one replacement out of First Platoon. The replacement's only sins were being blond and named Lapinski. Way too close to Lazeski. Sam couldn't bear another constant reminder of his Normandy debacle.

Springwater stepped up, grinning. "You might want to go over there, Lieutenant Henry." He nodded over Sam's shoulder.

Sam pivoted. At first he saw only a desperate swirling mass of displaced youth extracting pleasure from every possible moment amidst the vagaries of war.

Then he caught sight of Private Silva and Private Collins confronting a new lieutenant. Sam frowned. A short brunette broke off from the group, a GI on each arm. Chloe! Sam's pulse quickened. Finally Collins moved his massive frame aside, revealing Maggie.

The Disclosure

A wolf whistle pierced the night air.

"Don't take them gorgeous gams in there!" a Yank called out, hidden by the roadside verge shadows. "You gals are breaking my heart."

A different Yank accent chased them. "Turn back before it's too late. You'll be sorry, sisters. Them 501st jokers ain't got nothing for you but a case of the clap."

Refusing to gratify the catcallers with a visible reaction, Maggie took Chloe's arm and strolled around the corner.

The only thing Maggie felt sorry about was their Whitchurch-to-Newbury bus experiencing mechanical difficulties, robbing her of more than a precious hour with Sam.

Strains of big band music grew from a warehouse-like building ahead. They passed a quartet of brawny military policemen standing vigil over the door and stepped into a foyer. Maggie presented her invitation to a gum-smacking sergeant. He took his time looking Maggie and then Chloe over without glancing at the invitation. At last, smirking, he waved them in.

Maggie's pulse quickened. She hadn't attended a dance since just prior to Ian's departure to North Africa — two and a half tortuous years earlier. She recalled talking him into it. Ian hardly cared for dancing, even in the more reserved English manner. The big band beat spilling out promised an evening far from that reserved manner.

Maggie checked her handbag at the cloakroom and, leaving Chloe behind, paused at the top of the steps, scanning the periphery for Sam. She didn't see him, so she descended into the cigarette-smoke-shrouded tempest of colorful dresses and olive-drab and khaki uniforms. It seemed that every Yank without a girl — and some with — turned to gawk at her. Before she reached the bottom step, three privates, two sergeants, and a second lieutenant formed an arc in front of her. She avoided making eye contact and scanned over their heads in search of Sam.

"Would you give me the honor of the next dance, miss? I declare, I ain't seen such beautiful blonde hair since I got on the train back in Fort Worth," the lieutenant drawled out over the big band swing adaptation of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata."

Chloe caught up, and instantly the privates and NCOs, perhaps deferring to the lieutenant who was addressing Maggie, drifted to Chloe. Social event or not, it seemed military pecking order trumped male prowess. Maggie stepped down the last step and looked the lieutenant straight in the forehead. "Pardon me, Lef'ten —"

A hulking soldier materialized at the lieutenant's right side. Maggie recognized Private Collins immediately. "This here lady ain't available." Collins nodded toward her. "Good evenin', Miss Maggie."

"And a good evening to you, Private Collins."

The lieutenant scowled and opened his mouth in protest.

But another man, a swarthy soldier, leaned down to speak into the lieutenant's left ear. "Most definitely taken."

The lieutenant scowled. "I think the lady can speak for herself, Private."

"Oh, that she can, sir. And trust me — you don't want to be on the receiving end when you offend her." Silva gave a slight bow to Maggie. "A pleasure to see you again, Miss Elliott."

"Likewise, I'm sure, Private Silva."

"Pardon me," the lieutenant said, "but the lady and I were having a conversation, Private."

"Don't go and get her all rankled, sir," Collins said. "Last Geronimo that did that done got a pitchfork run clean through him."

Maggie covered her mouth to suppress a giggle.

"Like I said, let the lady speak for herself," the new lieutenant said, seemingly misinterpreting her mirth. "She came in without a male escort."

Collins looked toward Maggie. "Pardon me, Miss Maggie, but may I?" He reached for her left hand and held it before the lieutenant's face. "See that there ring? Fashioned from the very pitchfork she ran through that lieutenant."

"I've half a mind to report —"

"Pardon me, sir, but —" Collins reached toward the lieutenant's chest and fingered his parachute jump wings. "Have you got somethin' on them jump wings, sir?"

The lieutenant looked down at his bright silver jump wings, befuddled, and pushed Collins's hand away. "There's nothing on my jump wings."

"And how right you are, sir," Silva said. "And here someone went and put this little bronze star on our jump wings." He touched the star indicating a combat jump. "But you weren't with us in time for Normandy, now were you? "

"Who's your commanding officer, Private?"

"That would be Lieutenant Henry, sir," Collins said. "He's also got one of them there little bronze stars on his jump wings, plus a big bronze star and a silver one on his chest, to boot. Pinned there by Colonel Johnson himself."

"Don't forget the three Purple Hearts, hillbilly," Silva said.

The reminder erased Maggie's smile.

"Dang near took on the whole Seventeenth SS single-handedly. I reckon we was a good twenty miles misdropped."