Her Blue-Eyed Lieutenant (Soldiers 0f Swing Book 3)

by Linda Ellen

  However, before any of them had had time to even look at the missives, they’d been informed of the impromptu training on the beach.

  Hoofing the three flights upstairs, Gary called dibs on the shower, stripped out of his sticky, smelly uniform, and gladly slipped under the spray of warm water. Normally, he would stay in there until one of his roommates hollered it was their turn, but now he shampooed, soaped, and rinsed and was out in three minutes flat. He left the water running for the next man, who happened to be Bloch, standing next to the tub, nude, and waiting his turn.

  “Next,” Gary mumbled as he vigorously toweled his hair, swiftly dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist and scooped up his dirty clothes, which he would wash later, before padding over to his bunk and flopping down. He looked forward to becoming an upperclassman—they could take their laundry to the camp Laundromat.

  Eying the packet that lay on his blanket, he felt like a kid at Christmastime.

  With a goofy grin, he untied the string that held the items together, and inspected his treasures—a letter each from Steve and Gene, several telegrams from his dad, and three letters from Julie.

  She wrote just like she promised…without waiting to get one from me first!

  Telling himself he would give time to the others later, he examined her lovely cursive handwriting, and the postmarks on each one as he tore into the oldest of the envelopes.

  Forcing himself not to speed through it, he read her first paragraph, smiling at her choice of words and trying to picture where she might have been writing it. Did she go off by herself somewhere at work to pen it? Or was she sitting at the table at the Harriman’s…or maybe sitting on her bed… He shook his head from that thought and continued reading.

  The line about hoping to find out something juicy between his dad and Steve’s mom made him chuckle softly, remembering how chummy those two had been acting that last day before everyone saw him off. How would he feel if Mrs. Wheeler and his dad became an item? He looked up from the page and stared out the window as he pondered. Truthfully, he didn’t seem to have an opinion. The thought that came was that it would be good, for both of them, since he knew that they each lived alone and were probably lonely.

  The paragraph about Steve and Mary June not showing their faces the whole week made him let out a bark of laughter and a mumbled, “Attaboy, Steve. Hope you locked the door and barred it with a chair, and kept the wolves at bay.”

  He smiled fondly and nodded agreement as he read her words about the miracle of the separated-at-birth triplets finding each other after twenty-five years of not knowing of one another’s existence. Then his eyes widened a bit at her teasing chastisement that his enlistment was the reason Tucker Manufacturing was losing production workers.

  But his favorite paragraph was the one where she told him she was proud of him…and that she predicted he would do so well in the air corps they would make a movie of his exploits. “Tucker’s Heroes,” he whispered, snorting softly. “Gregory Peck, huh? Not too shabby,” he added as he shook his head and grinned at her silliness.

  She had closed with the encouragement that she was praying for him and with a spreading smile, his eyes twinkled as he rearranged the pages and started at the beginning, reading the entire missive again.

  At that moment, he had no way of knowing he would find her letters a lifeline during trying times, and would read them over and over until the pages were tattered.

  Sunday Afternoon,

  Miami Beach Training Center.

  It had been a tough week.

  The recruits had been pushed hard, some to their breaking point. One thin, bespectacled man, who had been a pharmaceutical assistant in civilian life, suffered a mental breakdown as his drill sergeant was riding him extra hard and voluntarily washed out. It was a demoralizing day for everyone. Gary wondered if he would reach his own breaking point, but he burrowed down deeper within his soul and fortified his determination to persevere. His objective? Fly bombers.

  Throughout the week, he had been subjected to endless classes, rifle shooting, gas mask training, and many other rigors, including an abundance of time on the obstacle course in the pouring rain.

  Four times a week, the squadrons participated jointly in what was known as “Retreat.” This was an exercise where they would march up and down the parade grounds (aka the Miami Beach Municipal Golf Course) in hopefully perfect formations, trying to win a ribbon for excellence. It was harder than you would think—one man off time or out of line would lose the ribbon for the entire squadron. One aspect of Retreat was a thirty-minute span of time when the recruits were required to stand at attention—perfectly still, no movement whatsoever, except you could move your toes to keep your feet from falling asleep. If an ant crawled on your face, you couldn’t swipe it away. If sweat dripped off your nose in the blistering Florida sun, so be it. No one moved—and the sergeants could spot a wiggler from a thousand feet away.

  Twice during the week, they had a recruit faint dead away during the required thirty minutes. Collapsed on the ground, out cold. Nobody moved to help him—that would have resulted in demerits. There were ambulance attendants to take care of fainters.

  It happened to one poor sap directly in front of Gary, and he had to shut his eyes and keep repeating to himself, Don’t move, the meat wagon’ll get him, he’ll be all right, don’t move.

  Squadron 8 didn’t win any ribbons on those days.

  But now, it was Sunday. Blessed Sunday. His one day off.

  After attending church, Gary had most of the day to do what he wanted. However, he had received one more demerit for a bit of dust on his shoes during inspection of the room, which put him up to seven and he was commanded to walk the parade ground for a solid hour carrying his rifle. His roommates had chosen to catch a ride across the bridge into downtown Miami; jokingly stating they wanted to see what mischief they could get into. They’d tried their best to get him to agree to meet up with them after his demerit walk, but that wasn’t for Gary.

  He returned to the room and stripped down to his underwear, opened a window for some fresh ocean breeze, and settled onto his bunk for an afternoon of letter writing—and maybe some studying.

  Getting out his packet, he looked the items over again. Gareth Sr.’s earlier messages had basically said, Hope all is well with you son. Miss you. Write when you can. Love, Dad. Gary had sent his father a telegram in reply.

  The two letters he’d received from his brothers would be easy to answer, as they were mainly shooting the breeze, and letting Gary know they were thinking about him and pulling for him. It felt so great to have these two identical brothers that just “got” him. They understood his thoughts because for the most part, they shared the same thoughts about duty, honor, and love of country. At least, Steve does now, since Gene had been working on him, Gary thought with a chuckle.

  Dashing off replies to his brothers, he made it a point to do a bit of bragging and let them know that their warnings about having to do a lot of physical stuff standing nude in a straight line, or the great communal row of johns that they had said had all the privacy of the land between Lubbock and Amarillo, didn’t apply to officer candidates. He then teased that he would tell them why next time he saw them in person—regarding, of course, the fact that he was quartered in a wonderful Miami Beach hotel.

  Then he settled in to answer Julie’s letters. In those pages he intended to spend more time and tell her details about his experiences and the amazing place in which he was undergoing his training. Well, as many facts as could get past the censors that he knew would scour each letter.

  16 March 1943

  Dear Julie,

  First off, thanks so much for your three letters! Man, oh, man, they were a welcome sight. You’d have laughed if you could have seen me, grinning like a Cheshire cat when they gave me the packet.

  Yes, it made me feel good to hear from home. Funny, but Louisville does seem like home. Maybe it’s because Gene and Steve are there, but Housto
n doesn’t seem like home anymore. Maybe I’m becoming a Kentucky boy. There’s that grin again.

  He stopped for a moment, chuckling softly and hoping she would get a kick out of his silliness as he had hers. Turning his head to gaze out the window while he collected his thoughts, he watched a seagull fly toward the water. When it was out of sight, he looked back down at the paper and began writing again.

  Officer training school has been everything I thought it would be, and many things I hadn’t imagined. You said you wanted to know what my days are like, so I’ll tell you what I can.

  First off, everything is spelled out in a book called Student Orders, which we have to follow to the letter, or the punishment is demerits. Fifty demerits and we’re washed out. And Great Caesar’s Ghost, they give demerits for any little infraction. Have I gotten any? I know you’re dying to ask, so yeah, I have—seven so far. The most recent was for a bit of dust on my dress shoes. I won’t tell you what I got the other demerits for (military secrets, wink wink).

  On a roll, Gary touched his tongue to his top lip much like he used to do as a boy and continued to write, picturing Julie’s beautiful face as she read, and hopefully the twinkle in her eyes as she giggled at his comedy.

  Being careful how he worded it, he told her the building he was in had three floors and an elevator, but if he stepped foot in there, he’d be busted, and how everyone had to double-time it up and down like the place was on fire. Pausing for a moment, he pictured how the drawers in the bureau must be open in a staggered fashion for inspection, socks rolled, underwear folded, and all of their personal items—like cigarettes, hair tonic, brush, and various sundry items—had to be arranged according to The Book, but decided that was too much information and she’d probably be bored reading it.

  Should he tell her that their clothes had to be arranged in a certain order in the closet, every coat, jacket, trousers and shirts, all facing the same way—and every button on every shirt buttoned all the way to the neck—and that Bigelow joked that he was training them to be good husbands someday?

  He shook his head, lips pursed in thought.

  How about that Sergeant Bigelow inspects their bathroom and not one drop of water is allowed in the bowl after 10 AM, and that all shiny surfaces have to be highly polished? Or that every item in the medicine cabinet has to be arranged according to Student Order? Or that this morning, Paul Bloch, their “orderly” for this week, got gigged with a demerit for not extending the shower curtain fully when he spruced the bathroom!

  Nah.

  He continued on…

  If an officer candidate gets seven demerits, he must walk an hour, non-stop back and forth on the parade grounds, carrying his rifle. I did this today, just before I came back to the room to write to you. I admit, at first I was ticked that the drill sergeant gigged me for a little bit of dust on my dress shoes, but after all, he had let me slide for my garrison cap being a whopping quarter inch crooked, so I talked myself out of being mad. I asked myself, how tough is this school compared to real fighting? I wasn’t going to sleep in a foxhole tonight. I wasn’t going to eat c-rations out of a can in my pack. I wasn’t going to get my rear end shot off. I had an answer for myself—stop squawking, Mister. Keep walking. So, I did.

  He paused after that and read over what he’d written, adding a small word in one sentence. Pleased with it so far and hoping Julie would read it with pleasure, he went on.

  Ok, so back to what a regular day is like for me here. Let’s see. After we’ve been blasted out of bed before dawn by the drill sergeant’s whistle (which we all wish he’d choke on) and we’ve dressed faster than a speeding bullet, we police our room, and then go on a lovely early morning jaunt before breakfast. Picture 120 men marching together in perfect precision (they call it close order drill), singing Sarge’s favorite song, “Dinah, Won’t You Blow Your Horn.” I’m always tempted to substitute, “whistle” for horn, but he’d probably hear and gig me. Haha.

  After that, we have four 45-minute classes between breakfast and lunch.

  He paused again, wondering if he should say there were thirty-three courses, eight military and the rest academic, and the officer candidates were expected to ace all of them. He snorted softly as he remembered his instructors calling it a “concentrated educational course”—that’s like calling a dirigible a “balloon”. The subjects he and the others needed to memorize and learn in such a short time were staggering—Air and Combat Intelligence, Administration, Identification of Aircraft (he’d had no idea there were so MANY types of aircraft!), Mess Management, Supply, Military Law, and twenty-seven more “exciting” subjects like Camouflage Discipline.

  Nah, the censors would probably go crazy with their black pen if he wrote all that. He settled for…

  They tell us that at West Point, many of the subjects we must ace in a few short weeks would take a whole year of study, but we’re at war now, so everything is accelerated to the nth degree. And boy, do we study. You see guys studying their books everywhere, even in the tub! Our standing in each subject is relative to the rest of the class. One hundred from the top is what we all aim for, as the bottom 100 guys get washed out. As our instructor likes to say, consider each of our classmates as Einstein and we’ve got to be smarter. Shew. No pressure there. Nah.

  Each day we either run a mile and a half—notice I said RUN, not jog—or charge through the obstacle course, climbing, crawling, jumping. Rain or shine. Did I mention it rains quite a bit here in Florida? No? Well, it does. Seems Mother Nature always knows when it’s time for us to run. Haha. I’ve lost eight pounds so far and two inches off my waist—but as the drill sergeants like to say, if we’re doing everything right, we’ll find the lost inches on our chests.

  We march everywhere, shoot rifles, machine guns, and the BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle), throw pineapples (aka hand grenades), and dig foxholes. We also had to learn how to crawl under barbwire only eighteen inches high, and I sure dug up a lot of dirt and sand with my belt buckle. Did I mention it rains? And I’ve got to scrub my uniforms spotless? Yeah. I realize now I was raised a spoiled rich boy—I never washed a piece of clothing in my life. Now, I could run a laundry back home if Father shut the factory down, haha.

  He stopped again, thinking that his letter was already pretty long, so he brought that one to an end with a promise to write again soon and a quick salutation, and then started her another one. After answering her comments in her second letter about how cold it was there in Louisville, the movie she had gone to see with a friend, and other happenings in her life, he started in with a few interesting things he thought might interest her regarding the Miami school.

  You asked if we get Saturday’s off and the answer is no. At least, not while we are underclassmen. Sunday is our only day off.

  So, I wanted to tell you about some of the other guys taking the training here. I guess at first I thought they would all be civilian recruits, like me, but some of the guys were already in the army, as non-commissioned officers of various ranks who had been recommended to enter officer’s candidate school to become an officer of the higher echelon. The first day, those guys had to stand there at attention as soon as we all piled off the transport truck while a drill sergeant literally ripped their stripes from their sleeves. Man that had to be a punch in the gut, since they had no doubt given blood, sweat, and tears for those hash marks.

  He stopped to ruminate on which of the recruits to mention. Staring out the window, it occurred to him that among his fellow civilians, a lot of varied experiences were represented. Like the guy who was the national intercollegiate high jump champion. Or Albert E. Meadows, the world champion pole-vaulter who won the Olympic title in 1936—in Berlin! One of his roommates, George Richards, was a symphony conductor and another was the mayor of Glen Cove, Long Island. Now, both just lowly underclassmen like the rest.

  Picking out a few he thought she would enjoy hearing about, he set to putting words to paper again…

  There are among my fellow c
ivilian recruits a lot of “strange fellows”. One, for instance, is an ex-trapeze artist from the Ringling Brothers’ Circus. There is a former Austrian attorney who spent quite a bit of time in a Nazi concentration camp. How he escaped seems to be a military secret, but he’s an American citizen now, and a darn nice guy. He and I pulled a stint of KP together. Last week I met a guy who had been a gunner with the Royal Air Force.

  A guy quartered across the hall from me is a Broadway playwright—at least he was before he chucked his pen for a rifle. Actor Gilbert Rowland is here with us, but he’s an upperclassman, been here longer than me. They made him shave his mustache…he looks quite different without it, haha. He must have gotten gigged with seven demerits, too, because he and I walked the parade grounds at the same time this morning.

  He paused again as his mind went over his fellow classmates, wondering who he should mention. It occurred to him that the censors might black out the part about Richard Bauer, the Austrian guy, even though he didn’t mention his name, but he shrugged. If they do, oh well. There were those two ex-noncoms who received the Purple Heart; one got his at Pearl Harbor, but he figured he’d leave them out. Another face popped in his mind and he grinned, quickly putting pen to paper again.

  Oh yeah, actor Robert Preston is at the school, too. I’ve only seen him once; he’s quartered on the other side from me. Man, his movie fans wouldn’t recognize him now.

  There’s a man who was a member of the Flying Tigers in Burma—I’ve been wanting to ask him a few questions about the planes he flew. And another guy was a catcher for the Detroit Tigers. I’ve heard the two tigers room together. Wink. (Sorry, a little military humor there).

  Another had been a lieutenant in the French army in World War I and survived the Battle of Dunkirk. He speaks with a thick accent, so he keeps to himself pretty much. There is an all-American football player and member of the Green Bay Packers, and another who was a baritone in the Philadelphia Opera Company. They share a room and you should see them side by side, they look like Mutt and Jeff, haha.