Its fall of 1943. Youre in New York city and in the morning youll board a ship headed for England. The navy has done what it can to minimize the threat of U-boats attacking the convoy youll be part of bit that doesnt help your nerves much. Youve got ten hours in the city and guys from your platoon are making the rounds. You are dragged into a dance hall or club which is thick with the smell of cigarettes and liquor. The dance floor is crowded with people dancing and shouting over the noise to one another. The guys that dragged you here are peeling off to find a dame or a broad. Youre left alone. A guy of twenty from Montana, scared about the war and nervous about not fitting in here in the big city. Out of the corner of your eye you see her. A slight of a girl with just a touch too much makeup on. Her auburn hair pulled back into a tail and held there with a black ribbon. You watch her for a bit, too nervous to talk to her but too afraid not to. You see here look back when she catches your looks at here. Its too late now. Go tall to here. After a few minutes of introductions and small talk about hometowns, you stammer out the invite to dance. The music has been loud and rollicking until you enter the dance floor. And then the sound of Glenn Miller fills the hall. She looks at you as your hand wraps tentatively around to her back and her cool hand nervously trembles in your. For the next few minutes she is pressed up against you and her hair is just under your nose. Her cheek is nestled against your neck and the feel of her cheek, the smell of her hair and the way her body squishes against yours is all just a moment of magic. It will be the memory that will keep you warm in the foxhole next December in Bastogne. And it will be the memory that will stay with you until you get home to Montana and find another girl and develop new memories. Thank you, Mr. Miller.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Dec 2014 11:46:46 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015