by Linda Ellen
The first letter seemed to come to an abrupt end. She wondered why, as she would have enjoyed reading whatever he wished to write, because she was starving for connection with him. It seemed like he’d been gone for so long. She quickly sliced open the next one and continued to read. Not having given a thought to who and what the other recruits might be, she found it quite captivating as he told her about some of the other officer candidates, like the ex-trapeze artist. The censors had blacked out the next line, however, and she wondered with whom Gary had pulled a stint of KP. Then a few lines down, they again blacked out something, this time the name of a Hollywood actor who is an upperclassman, and he had shaved his mustache. She looked away and pondered thoughtfully on his possible identity—and Gary had walked the parade grounds with him!
Thankfully, the censors had left it in about Clark Gable, and that gave her a chuckle as she imagined someone calling Mr. Gable a Hollywood “softie”. Again, Gary ended sort of suddenly, and she quickly began reading the last one, enjoying his easy, friendly writing style. It was almost as if he were sitting with her just talking, as they had done so much when they were together, and she found that reading his letters was truly a balm for her need to touch base with him. In the third letter, he told her of his plans and aspirations, his determination to become the best air corps pilot in Uncle Sam’s army, his resolve to get through basic training with as few demerits and as far up at the top of his class as he possibly could achieve, and his eagerness to eventually learn to fly the B-17’s.
Smiling as she read those lines, she could almost hear his voice and see his enthusiasm, and it washed over her as well. Oh, how she wished she could see him in the cockpit of one of those big birds they had nicknamed the “Flying Fortress.” Perhaps there might be a way for him to fly one to Bowman Field for a short visit…
She let out a sigh as she read his closing lines admonishing her to take care of herself, tell everyone hello, and let him know of anything exciting happening back home in the ’Ville.
Then with a grin, she rolled over and removed paper and pen from the nightstand drawer, arranged herself comfortably against the headboard, and began her next letter.
Dear Gary…
CHAPTER 13
April 1943
Miami Beach Training Facility
It was Saturday, the end of another long week of Gary’s basic training.
Finally off duty after a full day of close-order drills, calisthenics on the beach in the blistering sun, tough classes in advanced mathematics and complicated battle strategies, exercises on how to project his voice when yelling orders, and lectures on how to be an effective officer in the United States Army, he was more than ready for some relaxation.
Having indulged in a nice long, hot shower and dressed in the lightest of his uniforms, he was just walking out of the hotel with his roommates on their way to see a movie.
“Fellas, we’ve gotta decide,” he chuckled as he shook his head at their good-natured dickering.
“I still say I wanna see The Outlaw,” roommate Paul Bloch playfully whined. “Man, that Jane Russell’s got legs that just won’t quit. And the woman’s got bizooms out the wazoo,” he held his hands out in front of his chest as if he were gripping grapefruits. “Gets my juices flowin’ just to listen to her talk, with that low, sexy voice of hers.”
“That’s true, but the instructor in our class on troop strategies said Guadalcanal Diary is an excellent film and a good visual resource,” Gary insisted.
“Study, study, study. Man, you gotta learn to live a little,” Paul griped, albeit teasingly.
Gary flashed him a grin. “We can live later, pal. We’re here to learn. Oh hey, hold on. I want to check the Post Exchange, see if there’s anything for me.”
“Like a love letter, eh buddy?” Paul teased, giving Gary a faux punch in the arm.
“Like anything, you wing nut.”
“Like maybe something from a certain young lady named Julie?” queried dark-haired, short and stocky George Russo, the ex-symphony conductor.
Gary cocked an eyebrow at the man. He hadn’t mentioned Julie’s name to anyone that he remembered… “How’d you know about her?”
“Oh, a little bird may have told me,” he shrugged, his black, beady eyes twinkling with mischief. “Or perhaps it was when I was assigned a stint in the exchange sorting mail as a result of several demerits and I happened to see not one but three letters go out from you to this young lady.”
“Three, huh? Even my wife doesn’t rate three in one day. She must be something special,” commented the tall, blond and handsome, gray-eyed ex-mayor Harrison Breton.
“Hey, Whiz Kid—you been holdin’ out on us. Maybe we should change your name to Casanova,” Paul couldn’t resist another zing.
“Aw, stuff it, Bloch,” Gary flung back, although without malice. He knew his contemporaries were only needling him for fun. Truthfully, if he found out Paul was writing to a girl back home, he’d probably do the same thing.
Just then, Sergeant Bigelow and his mealy-mouthed corporal aid walked by and the three officer candidates stopped at attention, snapped perfect salutes, and held them, waiting for the returns. Bigelow didn’t immediately return them, however, but stopped in his tracks with his hands on his hips.
Gary held his breath. Although they were officially off duty until Monday morning, they all knew that Bigelow could and sometimes would, if he were so inclined, give them a hard time anyway. The deep voiced, tough-as-nails officer looked like he just might as he eyeballed the three candidates from their polished black shoes to their cocked-just-so garrison caps and they knew he was itching to find a reason, however tiny, to gig them with a demerit.
Squinting at Gary, he got right up in his face and growled, “Candidate Tucker? You give yourself a close shave just now?”
Gary had, indeed, shaved again because his beard grew quickly and he knew that his customary “five-o’clock shadow” could get him in trouble.
“Yes, sir!” he answered, still at attention and holding his perfect salute.
“Well, looks like you cut your lip there, Mr. Whiz Kid. One demerit for damaging government property,” he sneered, snapping off a salute and continuing on his way. His aid got out his notebook and marked it down, favoring Gary with an “I’m sorry” shrug.
The three waited until the sergeant was out of earshot and then Paul murmured, “Man, if I didn’t know better—and if the Sarge didn’t bite my gluteus maximus every chance he got—I’d say Bigelow has it in for you, pal.”
Gary let out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, I know.” Another demerit. That makes thirteen. Unlucky thirteen. “I wish he’d get off my case.” The other two added their two cents, with a few salty expressions tossed in for effect.
Finally, Paul lifted his shoulders in a can’t-do-anything-about-it shrug. “Well, come on, buddy. Let’s go see if Julie Baby wrote you back.”
They marched him over to the Post Exchange and flung him up to the counter like George Bailey’s boyhood pals in It’s a Wonderful Life. “Hey friend, you got anything back there for Candidate Gareth B. Tucker, Jr.?” Paul asked the fellow candidate on duty.
“Hang on,” he replied, disappearing into the sorting room. He returned a minute later with a telegram and three letters—one especially thick. “Here you go,” he said with a small smile as he handed them over to Gary.
Gary took the pile and immediately perused the handwriting on the thick envelope; instinctively knowing it was from Julie. A silly grin he couldn’t suppress took over his face.
The other three laughed and slapped him on the back.
“Me thinks our Casanova will not be going to the picture show with us,” Harrison chuckled.
“Ah, amore,” George crooned, tossing a kiss with his fingers like an Italian chef who just finished making his signature dish.
Truthfully, all Gary wanted to do was double-time it back up to the room and read Julie’s letter in private, but he’d been teased enough as it
was, so he merely grinned and shoved all of the items into his shirt pocket and buttoned the flap, quipping, “Nah, I’ll read it later. Come on, let’s get to the movies.”
The four officer candidates sauntered out of the building together, taking up their argument again over what movie to see, with Destination Tokyo, and a Bogie film, Action in the North Atlantic, thrown into the debates.
Gary finally won out and they headed toward the Colony Theater and his choice of Guadalcanal Diary.
It was a serious film, and the two Universal Newsreels shown beforehand detailed the exploits of the RAF, and the rescue of U.S. Army fliers. The second one kept the audience riveted to their seats as they watched two huge U.S. Navy flying boats pluck the sunburned, starved, and blistered survivors of a B-17 ditching—an unnamed general and fourteen crew members—from the shark-infested waters of the Coral Sea. Narrator Ed Herlihy’s deep, familiar voice informed viewers that a chocolate bar, a can of sardines, and a seagull were all the men had to eat while lost at sea for six long days.
Gary and his roommates, as well as all of the other officer candidates in the audience, knew it was a very strong possibility that some day that could be any of them out there, stranded and alone, their very lives dependent on the rescue efforts of their fellow servicemen. It was a sobering realization, and brought the reality of the war front and center as they watched the black and white news footage in the comfort of an air-conditioned Miami Beach theater.
However, the likelihood of getting shot down and injured, killed, lost at sea, or captured behind enemy lines did not deter any of these patriotic men from their goal of joining the war effort by becoming B-17 pilots. If anything, after those newsreels, and the movie itself—depicting how a ragtag group of Marines sent to fight in the South Pacific struggled to stay alive as they planned a major offensive against stealthy Japanese snipers—each man left the theater filled with renewed determination and pride. They were about to become a part of something vitally important—namely, to help win the war in Europe and the Pacific so that there could be peace again and everyone could finally go home.
When Gary and the others reached their room afterwards, each one remained thoughtful and quiet, as they got ready for lights out. Holding back from ripping into Julie’s envelope, Gary lay there staring at the moonlight and shadows on the ceiling as he waited for his roommates to fall asleep. Then he grabbed her letter and padded silently to the bathroom where he shut the door, turned on the light, and stretched out in the tub with a bunched-up towel behind his head.
Dear Gary, he read, and just her lovely handwriting already had a smile on his face.
I just received all three of your letters and talk about the Cheshire cat—you should have seen me grinning. I loved all of the details you told me about the crazy rules, what it’s like for you day to day, and about some of your fellow candidates. The censors blacked out a few things, so I guess I’ll have to ask you what those were the next time I see you, haha.
Gary paused at that and wondered what those details were.
Well, tonight I attended my first USO dance and boy are my feet complaining (or as my dad would say, my dogs are barking, wink). I had a nice time, though. Gene and Viv went with me, matter of fact they drove me there, and helped break me into the routine. Oh—speaking of Viv—congratulations are in order for her and your—our—brother. Viv’s expecting! They are both so excited.
Gary grinned at that, thinking, “What took you so long, bro? You’ve been married since October.” When he looked back down a the page, he almost burst out laughing and just barely clamped his lips together in time, as Julie’s next line was, When Steve and Mary June found out, Steve’s invariable remark went something like, “What took you so long, pal?”
Getting back to the dance, I only had one close call, but Gene rescued me. A lieutenant—an air corps flier who came over from Bowman, seemed to think I was the girl of his dreams, but thankfully after Gene danced me away, Lieutenant Stonecipher decided not to pursue. I hate to admit it, but he kind of gave me the heebie jeebies.
Gary’s brows drew together as he read those lines and he felt an unreasoning jealousy and a strong surge of protectiveness rise up inside him at the thought of some jerk accosting Julie when she was only trying to do her part to entertain the troops. Man, if I ever met that guy…I’d tear him apart limb from limb… He took in a deep breath and shook his head, giving a small chuckle at the virulence of his own thoughts.
Things have been pretty mundane otherwise. Oh, except that yesterday was rather exciting. What a day! Starting with I was touted as a hero at the plant, thank you very much. But really, I was just in the right place at the right time and saved your father from getting hit by a truck.
Gary gasped as he read those words and his heart leapt in alarm, but he rushed on to read, Don’t panic, he’s fine. It was a blustery morning and as we were both approaching the door of the plant from opposite directions, his hat blew off and he chased it into the street—right in front of a great big tire recycling truck. But I yelled and he stopped, and all he suffered was a bruised hand. He assured me that he would take better observance of his surroundings from now on. Then later the same day, a thunderstorm whipped up and lightning struck a transformer and all of the plant’s electric went out. We got a few hours off with pay because of that.
Letting his head drop back, Gary’s heart was still pounding over her words about his dad running into the street chasing after his hat. He knew, without a doubt, it was the fedora he had given his dad for Christmas two years before, as it was the only hat he’d worn since then. But…this didn’t seem like him at all; his dad was always on his game, always aware of everything going on around him. A funny kind of foreboding shivered through Gary, and he was grateful that Julie had been, as she had written, in the right place at the right time.
Looking back down to her letter, he went on reading as she told him about the movie she had been to see with new friends from work, the atmosphere in the “Harriman Boarding House,” and the wonderful day she had spent back at her parents’ home with her family…and what a glaring difference there was between the two households. He smiled fondly when she confided that she hoped and had been praying to try and help the Harrimans’ relationship. She just hadn’t figured out how to go about it yet.
“What an angel you are, Julie,” he whispered to her written words. At that moment, he missed her even more than he had before, and wished he were there to take her in his arms and tell her how wonderful, beautiful, sweet and kind she was—all of the things he should have said to her in person, but had chickened out.
Should he tell her any of that in his letters? Or should he just keep them friendly, like pals? It was hard to know what she was feeling just from reading her written words on the page, and she hadn’t said anything to him before he had left, that she felt anything about him other than friendship.
Oh, but he wanted to be so much more than friends with her—but the timing was off!
With a sigh, he read the rest of her letter and then put the last page behind the rest and started reading from the top again. It was marvelous to get a letter from her like this, he thought. Almost like a visit—a visit he cherished more than he even realized.
After that, the weeks trudged on—literally.
Gary kept his nose to the grindstone; consistently working, marching, and studying. He learned hand-to-hand combat, judo and knife fighting, along with survival skills—as well as how to properly wash dishes, sweep, mop, and peel potatoes. About the latter, Bigelow hammered into their heads that performing KP built character and made them feel like they were a part of something larger. “No job is too small or too large when defending your country,” he was fond of repeating. He made them literally stick their hands out for the mess sergeant to come down the row to inspect them—fronts to backs. If they weren’t spic and span perfect? Gigged.
And then there was another aspect of his training—how to care for and basically love his M1
Rifle.
As he told Julie in one of his letters, he was repeatedly, “Running with my rifle, screaming like a banshee, and sticking the bayonet into the outline of a faceless ‘enemy’ drawn on a wooden board nailed to two posts stuck in the ground.”
At first, he had felt ridiculous doing that—as did all of the candidates. But with Bigelow standing right there, yelling at him to, “Kill him! Stick him, stab him, jab him, slaughter him! Or you’ll be the one slaughtered! He’s the enemy! Kill him before he kills you! Hate him! Want him dead!”
After so many times, Gary had, like the rest of his squadron, begun to think of the faceless wooden target the same as if it were a Nazi soldier or a Jap pilot—or at times, maybe even Sgt. Bigelow. On the day he finally manufactured enough fury and slammed the outline with his bayonet while screaming in rage at the inanimate dummy, Bigelow had awarded him with a crooked sneer and drawled, “Congratulations, Tucker. You might just make it as a soldier in this man’s army after all.”
Gary didn’t understand Sgt. Bigelow’s seemingly personal dislike of him. He did everything the man ordered them to do—with no complaining or even a cross look on his face. In spite of his efforts, however, Bigelow managed to give him five more demerits for ridiculous things like his boots being one inch apart on the closet floor (instead of touching), for sneezing when he was standing at attention for morning inspection, for the crease on his uniform trousers being one inch too short, and one morning, for his eyes being bloodshot. The reason for that was Gary had stayed up late studying in the bathroom for finals the next day. They were important tests, as they would determine his standing in the class as he transitioned from being an underclassman to an upperclassman.
