| Just a little plot bunny birthed by a comment from Alice A. Blame her.<G> Mel. Relaxing and Recreating Just stepping through the door was like a cool breeze. He slid the heavy helmet from his head and ran a hand through sweat-slick hair, brushing it out of his eyes. He really needed a haircut. Maybe he’d find a barber while he was here. A shave would be nice, too. He paused in the doorway a moment to let his eyes adjust to the light. The music wafting up the stairs from the room below made his shoulders drop as his muscles unconsciously unknotted. Taking a deep breath, the corners of his mouth crooking up as the sounds of merriment grew stronger with each step down the worn stone stairs, he shivered a bit at the sudden drop in temperature. It felt nice to get out of the oppressive heat above. Even nicer to hear the loud, rollicking noise of joy. The joy of liberation and hope. He could sure use a big dose of hope. Stepping into the room, his lips turned up in a genuine smile of appreciation when a pretty young French girl swirled by, spinning away from her dancing partner. The room was filled with cigarette smoke and the jumping jive of Harry James. It was like entering an alien world after the last month or two. Twisting sideways to avoid the dancers, he weaved his way to the corner and an empty table. He hung his helmet on the corner of the rickety straight-back wooden chair along with his bag, unbuckled his web belt and dropped it on the table. With a sigh of relief, he eased into the chair and wiggled his tired feet inside his boots. The table wobbled a bit, but he didn’t notice things like that anymore. It didn’t matter. The music went from Harry James to Glenn Miller and a GI from the next table jumped up and cut in to dance with the waitress as she walked by. With a breathless giggle she submitted to the pull and effortlessly followed the GI’s lead. Watching the two couples dance took him back to a more peaceful time. Before the horrors of war had made those days seem decades ago. Slouching down in his seat, relishing the chance to just sit and observe, he let his eyes rove until he caught sight of someone at the bar. Nodding his head at the non-verbal question, he waited patiently for his drink. He’d learned the hard way how to wait. It was just a moment or two, though, before he was nursing a glass of French wine. He wanted to savor every drop of it. He wondered how long it would be before the vineyards were able to produce wine on the same scale as pre-war. By the time he started sipping his third glass, he was feeling much more relaxed and openly laughed at his fellow GIs as they chatted up the girls in the bar. It was all in good fun. A pretty dark-haired woman in a blue floral dress and ragged apron changed records when the last song ended. She settled the new record onto the turntable, slipped the needle into the groove and Abe Lyman’s “You’re In the Army Now” began to play. With a chuckle, he raised his glass in a mock toast. “You ain’t kiddin’ brother.” He’d be glad when this was all over and he could be a civilian again. Though he’d learned some skills he’d take home with him. When he finished up his third glass of wine, Tuxedo Junction started to play. With a rare mischievous twinkle in his eyes, he pushed his chair back and stood and walked over to the girl in the blue dress. She smiled and laughed as he pulled her onto the impromptu dance floor. An answering laughed bubbled up from his chest and he let it free, feeling as almost as young as he was before he left home. When someone switched records and the music started to play again, he smiled. He hadn’t danced the Charleston since he left home. It was his mother’s favorite, and he could clearly remember laughing with her as she taught him. They’d pushed the furniture back in the living room to give them more space. His small, sock-clad feet had slipped on the waxed wooden floor as he tried to mimic his mother’s movements. When his father came home, he’d looked on in bemusement at his wife and son laughing fit to burst. Memories guiding him, he laughed and danced with the pretty girl who’d called herself Claire. By the time the song ended, they were both breathless. She joined him at his wobbly table for a drink as they both caught their breath. She spoke halting English, but it was enough to talk of better times. Happier times. Glenn Miller’s band started up again with a beautiful voice singing sweet and low, “There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover tomorrow, just you wait and see.” He tugged Claire up and over to the dance floor. As he held her close and swayed to the music, he couldn’t help but hope so. He truly hoped he’d live to see an end to the war. As his worn boots scuffed across the stone floor, he admitted his odds weren’t all that great. Closing his eyes, he pushed those melancholy thoughts out of his mind. There would be time for that kind of thinking later. Now, in this moment, he was dancing with a pretty girl in a village in France. For now, that was enough. He danced for hours. Fast, slow, it didn’t matter. Other GIs trickled in so that the small basement tavern ended up resembling a dance hall in the good old US of A. He drank his wine, cut a rug with Claire and ended up in a good-natured dance contest with a couple of guys from Chicago. But all good things must come to an end and he soon found himself taking one last swallow of wine and setting his glass on the wobbly table. He reluctantly buckled his belt once more, slung his bag over his shoulder and picked up his helmet. He smiled a farewell to Claire as he walked back to the steps. He drug his feet back upstairs to the real world. Back to the war. He had people there, waiting for him. Depending on him. The evening was muggy as he stepped back out into the street. With a sigh, he settled his helmet once again on his head and headed up the hill where he’d be able to catch a ride back to his squad. He shrugged the strap of his medical ruck into a more comfortable place on his shoulder and smiled at what Kirby would think if he’d seen their medic dancing the Charleston in a basement tavern. Good ol’ Doc. Quiet and dependable. Well, let ‘em think so. END Feedback |