A Day At The Beach: June 6, 1944

A Day At The Beach: June 6, 1944 by Ken Hite

PFC Gene Burke The pass in his pocket authorized PFC Eugene Burke to enjoy forty-eight hours of freedom anywhere within ten miles of Oxford. As the deuce-and-a-half truck rolled into London, he had only expended two hours of his precious time, but was fifty miles beyond the proscribed geography. The driver pulled up in the fashionable neighborhood of Mayfair, home to foreign embassies, various relatives of the royal family, but more importantly, wealthy bankers. “Here ya go, Gene. Thanks for the booze. And save one of your leftover women for me, will ya?” Burke climbed down from the cab and waved to the driver as he pulled away. He began walking down the gently curving street of elegant Georgian town houses built during the reign of George III. History was not on his mind, however, as he approached the house on the corner. He passed two British female naval officers coming the other way. He flashed a snappy salute and a flirtatious smile. The brunette gave him the stiff upper lip and, staring straight ahead, returned the salute. The blonde smiled back, and gave him the once-over. It wasn’t the first time. He was 6’2” and 190 pounds of solid muscle, but what always got them were the eyes and the smile. The eyes were Irish blue, sharply contrasting with his jet-black hair, proof positive that his ancestors were, indeed, Black Irishmen—survivors of the Spanish Armada, who had been washed ashore in Galway. The smile just was. Perhaps, it was the result of knowing that your father was the ninth richest man in the United States, and on top of that you could personally beat the hell out of just about anyone who gave you trouble. Confidence, no, assuredness, that’s where it came from. In any event, it worked like a charm drawing women to him like moths to a flame. He reached number 58 and knocked. An elderly butler opened the door, recognizing Gene immediately. “Good evening, Mr. Burke. Sir Frank and his guests are in the living room.” “Nice to see you again, Edward.” The sound of cocktail party chatter increased as he turned right and entered the room filled with uniformed men and women. A British admiral and his conversational partner, an American general, almost dropped their drinks when they saw an American enlisted man standing before them. The General turned and addressed him sternly. “Son, should you be here?” Further embarrassment was avoided when the host, a rather charming silver-haired Englishman dressed in a Savile Row suit, arrived on the scene in the nick of time. “General, may I introduce you to the most influential enlisted man in the U.S. Army, Private Gene Burke, also, I might add, the First Vice President of Fidelity Bank and Trust.” The general looked totally confused. “Son, how in hell did you become the First Vice President of Sir Frank’s bank?” “Well, sir, I believe the fact that my father owns the bank was instrumental in my promotion.” The General was now totally confused. “Then, why aren’t you an officer? I assume you went to college.” “Oh, yes sir, Harvard, Class of ‘41. Frankly, I didn’t want the responsibility of other men’s lives on my conscience, so I enlisted. General, my sole ambition is to be in a fighting unit, so I can personally castrate that lunatic housepainter in Berlin.” The General smiled. “What unit are you in?” “Well, there’s a problem there, sir. I’m currently assigned to the 140th Field Service Unit. If you could assist me in obtaining a transfer to the Rangers or the 1st Infantry Division, I’d be eternally grateful.” “140th Field Service? What sort of a oufit is that?” “We are a laundry unit, General, and I’ll do damned near anything to get out of it.” The British admiral almost spit out his drink. “You Yanks are the most profligate people. An entire unit devoted to doing laundry? Good God, how will we ever win this war?” The General didn’t appreciate the Britisher’s criticism, even though he tended to sympathize with the underlying premise. “Well, that’s idiotic. I’ll see that you get your transfer immediately.” “Thank you, General. If you’ll excuse me.” He wandered off, glancing back as Sir Frank took the General aside to explain the facts of life. Damn! Well, Frank had his marching orders from the boss. He could imagine his father’s words. “My son is, like most young men, stupidly convinced that unless he places himself in a position where he’s likely to get killed, he’s not a man. Your job, Frank, is to keep him out of combat—by any and all means.” Gene wandered about the party, understanding that he was now the subject of much curiosity—the millionaire American private. A few minutes later, Frank finally cornered him in the library. “Gene, for God’s sake, you can’t put me in that position again. I run around after you at these affairs like a dog owner with his pooper-scooper, explaining to every American general that the President of the United States has assured the chairman of our bank that his son will not become cannon fodder. Now behave yourself and do something civil—like ravishing virgins or robbing trains.” “Frank, I’m sorry to have embarrassed you. I promise it won’t happen again.” He smiled. “At least, not until the next time.” The two grinned at each other. Sir Frank Headley was the London manager of Fidelity Bank and Trust, 80% of which was owned by Gene’s father. Frank, whose family’s bank had been acquired by Fidelity some years prior to the war, owned the remaining 20%. In addition to managing the firm’s European operations, Frank was responsible for dispensing Gene’s trust fund allowance, which made Gene far better paid than General Eisenhower. Gene spotted a beautiful brunette in a Royal Air Force uniform chatting with a middle-aged British naval officer. “Frank, who is that? And is she taken?” “Ah, good choice, lad. That gorgeous creature is Miss Cynthia Bowes-Smith, formerly London’s most sought-after debutante and currently, I believe, Sergeant Bowes-Smith, radio operator. The gentleman with her is her father, a customer of long standing and presently a paper pusher at the Admiralty. The father is rather boring. From the gossip I’ve heard, the daughter is not. Would you care for an introduction?” “By all means.” Frank guided Gene through the maze of guests, nodding and smiling, until they were standing before the subject of interest. “Arthur and Cynthia Bowes-Smith, may I introduce you to Private Eugene Burke, presently responsible for insuring that all American Army personnel in the UK are cleaned and pressed to perfection.” Gene smiled. “Frank, you are a consummate bastard.” He shook hands with the father, who appeared bewildered, and then the daughter, who appraised him with a sly grin. Frank, aware that he owed Gene a favor after the despicable introduction, grasped Arthur firmly by the elbow. “If you two young people would excuse us, Arthur and I have some business we must discuss.” He led him away. She was even more attractive up close than from across the room. Lustrous, dark brown shoulder-length hair framed a delicate face punctuated by two of the most perfect brown eyes he had ever seen. “Please excuse the repartee with Frank. We’re dear friends, and he can’t resist an opportunity to skewer me, particularly in the presence of a beautiful young woman.” She lowered her eyes briefly, acknowledging the compliment. “I gather from the gossip sweeping the room that you are not quite what your uniform and lowly rank might suggest.” “Frank invites me as a curiosity piece to spice his parties. Since Winston and Herr Hitler refused his invitations, he felt I might be able to enliven the proceedings. And how, may I ask, did London’s most sought after debutante get stuck at one of Frank’s soirees?” The butler reappeared and asked for their drink orders. She asked for Glenlivet neat and the butler turned to leave. “Excuse me, but what about the Private?” “Oh, but Miss, I know what Mr. Burke drinks.” He turned and left, returning a minute later with two Glenlivets neat. They clinked glasses and in unison toasted. “Cheers.” She eyed him, a flirtatious smirk on her mouth. “You are a mysterious fellow. Ninth richest man in America, Harvard 1941, charming, and disgustingly good looking. A private in charge of laundry? I think the world’s turned upside down.” He hummed a few bars from the 18th century tune that had been played by Cornwallis’ flutists during their surrender to George Washington in Yorktown, Virginia, more than one hundred fifty years earlier. She laughed, displaying beautiful regular white teeth. She sipped her drink and studied him closely. “You know what I think, Mr. Private First Class Gene Burke?” He studied her over the rim of the glass. “No, Cynthia, I don’t.” “I think you’re trying to seduce me.” She paused and sipped from the glass, examining him. “And I know for a fact that I’m trying to seduce you. And since we have now placed all our cards on the table, why don’t we get out of here and go to my flat. The alternative is to waste our all too precious time playing a discreet game of footsie under the dinner table for the next several hours.” He raised his glass in salute. “Why don’t we make our apologies and I’ll meet you out front. I’ll try and get a cab.” While Cynthia offered some sort of excuse to her father, Gene took Frank aside and announced that he had been suddenly called away, and apologized for creating empty spaces at the dinner table. “There is a good side to this, Gene. Now, there’ll be more food to go around. Keep in touch and, for God’s sake, try and stay out of trouble.” Gene met her on the sidewalk, but there were no taxis, so they walked through the blackout-darkened streets to her flat a mile away. They didn’t speak for the first few blocks, walking together almost shyly now that they were committed. Eventually, she spoke, not turning her head but softly explaining. “Gene, I want you to know that I’m not some Piccadilly whore. But tonight, I very much need someone to hold me and you seem like the ideal candidate. Heaven knows, you’re attractive, but you’re also attractive because I don’t really know you. If I did—if I’d grown up with you, attended your cricket matches at Cambridge or Oxford, danced with you at the coming out cotillions, we wouldn’t be going to my flat right now, I promise. “I’ve loved four boys in my life, four boys I’d known since childhood, and they’re all gone—each killed in this abominable war. I can’t deal with that kind of pain again. But you’re none of those things, Gene. You’re a Yank—so it’s much easier to keep things uncomplicated, and as they say in the song, just roll me over in the clover. She stopped and faced him, the smirk fighting with a sadder expression. “So would you please say something, before I start blubbering and make a total fool of myself.” He took her face in his hands gently letting his lips brush hers. They parted, and he held her hands. “Right now, the only thing on my mind is that you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and I ache to make love to you. I’m a right rotten bastard as you Limeys would say, and I’m running out of patience. So where in the hell is your flat?” She laughed and pulled his face to hers, kissing him passionately. “We’re here.” She pointed to the doorway to their right, grabbed his hand, and unlocked the door, leading him in. She closed the door and turned on the lights while he reconnoitered the flat: living room tastefully decorated in a modern motif, dining room also modern, kitchen and a bedroom dominated by a queen-size four poster bed. “Gene, would you like a drink? Oh, damn! It’s almost empty.” “Not to worry, Milady. Every American laundryman is equipped for just this sort of emergency.” He opened the small overnight bag he had carried and extracted a quart of whiskey. “Well, since you are so marvelously prepared, why don’t you make us each one whilst I freshen up. He poured the drinks, removed his jacket and tie, and carried the glasses into the bedroom, sitting on the bed. Cynthia emerged from the bathroom, put a record on the Victrola, and eventually discovered him when she entered the bedroom. She demurely remarked, “I thought I’d get into something more comfortable.” “I think that’s a wonderful idea.” he responded, the half-smile twinkling, and offered her a glass. She sipped. He softly interrupted the silence. “The most exciting thing imaginable for a man is to watch a beautiful woman slowly remove her clothing. Mind if I watch?” Cynthia placed the half-full glass on the bedside table. Her eyes never left his as she unbuttoned her light blue uniform jacket and tossed it on the nearby chair. She slowly untied the man’s tie, which was presumably thought to be military, and flipped it to him. She began to unbutton the shirt in a tantalizing manner, playing with each button until the shirt hung loosely from her shoulders, finally shrugging it off onto the floor. Still meeting his eyes, she unbuttoned her skirt, permitting it to slowly slide down her naked legs. She stood before him clad only in the silk bra and panties she had bought in Paris before the war. Ever so slowly she reached her arms behind her and unhooked the clasp to her bra, then threw it violently over her shoulder. Now excited, Cynthia pulled the panties off and placed her hands proudly on her hips. She was magnificent. Her breasts, hidden by the shapeless blue uniform minutes before, were large, yet erect. Slender, shapely legs led to a full brown bush of hair. He drank her in, barely able to contain himself. “Your turn.” They made love for hours; in bed and out; lying down and standing up. He thought he had known every conceivable way to do it, but Cynthia demonstrated a sexual imagination almost equal to her insatiable appetite. Her use of multiple mirrors had turned the act of sex into a spectator sport. After taking turns cleaning themselves in the bathroom, Gene followed her into bed where Cynthia was sipping the remainder of her drink. She offered him a sip. She leaned over and kissed his nipple. “That was rather wonderful. I think we must try it again sometime. Don’t you?” “He grinned. “On a scale of one to ten I’d give it an eight.” “You bloody what?” She pounded his chest with her fist. “Well, the mirror was crooked. I’d give the rest of it a twelve.” “That’s better,” she purred, resting her head on his chest. “Do you know what the problem with you is?’ “Haven’t a clue.” “All of you men, I mean. You have no stamina like us girls. Takes you hours of recuperation to get it going again. Pity. Well, while we’re waiting, why don’t you wash my undies, Mr. Millionaire Laundry Man.” He spat back, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself, Miss Debutante Cunt 1939!” She sat up in bed, a look of contrition on her face. “Oh dear, our first lovers’ quarrel. I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, but apparently I struck a raw nerve. Please believe me when I say that I’m sorry and I adore you.” Gene sat up and kissed her gently, his anger evaporated, but replaced by an expression of gloom. “You struck the rawest of raw nerves, Cynthia. I am totally ashamed of my current circumstances, and I don’t know what to do about it. My illustrious father has pulled strings at the highest levels of the American government to make sure that I’m never in a combat assignment. I discovered that from a Harvard classmate who is now a personnel officer at the Pentagon. According to him, my personnel file has a blue flag, which means that the President must be notified of any change in assignment. Every American soldier has the right to request a transfer, and should that request be for assignment to a combat unit, the request is almost always granted. I have made fourteen such requests, and each and every one has been rejected by my company commander.” “But why should he care? Did the President order him?” “Nothing so obvious. Captain Christopher Taylor of the “Fighting 140th” has been seduced by my father with the promise of a lucrative position at Fidelity Bank and Trust after the war if, and only if, yours truly remains a laundryman for the duration. Thus, I’m caught in a trap. So, in the vernacular of the American enlisted man, “I don’t give a flying fuck.” Cynthia started giggling and couldn’t stop. “What’s so damned funny?” “I thought I knew every conceivable position, but I must confess that I’ve never heard of that one. Could you show me how?” “I’ll show you how, all right,” and he grabbed her and kissed her hard on the mouth. Her hand slithered down his leg, and discovered that his recuperative powers were astonishing. The next three days were spent in a smorgasbord of sensual delight. Sex, of course, but interrupted by brunch at the Savoy Grill, reservations courtesy of Sir Frank Headley, then dinner at the Dorchester, and dancing at yet another of London’s posh establishments. He had been surveyed rather suspiciously while dancing by some of Cynthia’s former admirers, who quite naturally assumed that she was slumming with this Yank enlisted man. He had escaped any real trouble until a drunken American Air Force officer had tried to cut in on the dance floor. He politely lied, informing the jerk that Cynthia was his fiancée, but the drunk wouldn’t take no for an answer, and made a scene. When Gene gently pushed the idiot away, he swung at Gene, and Gene decked him with one punch. He spread an excessive amount of apologies and cash to the relevant hotel employees and the incident was mercifully swept under the rug. On the way home Cynthia thanked him for the wonderful evening. “Even the fist fight. You are a belligerent, aren’t you?” He didn’t respond, so she continued, an awkward expression on her face. “Gene, you are the best lover I’ve ever known.” She paused looking for the right words. “But it’s over, right?” She looked away. “Yes. If I see you again, it will be much harder to say good-by. I’m very close to falling in love with you, and I can’t allow that. Down deep, I don’t think you want that kind of commitment either. But what made my mind up was the brawl with that drunken fool. You were quite justified in popping him. Don’t misunderstand. It’s just that I now realize that you won’t ever acquiesce to your father’s attempts to keep you alive. You’ll fight him until you win. And then I fear you’ll be killed—just like the others. I couldn’t cope with that again. Please go away, but remember me fondly as someone who loved you madly for four days and then simply vanished like a puff of smoke.” He took her into his arms and held her, whispering in her ear. “I understand, Cynthia. And I want to thank you for the four most wonderful days of my life.” He left in the morning, catching a ride from a truck driver at the London Motor Pool who was heading for Oxford, home of the ‘Fighting 140th’. Gene sat silent, watching the gentle English countryside roll past his window. He was utterly depressed, realizing that, once again, he was AWOL and thus facing thirty days in the stockade. The first time he had gone absent without leave or AWOL, Captain Taylor had docked his pay and taken away his sergeant’s stripes. The second offense had resulted in similar punishment, including the loss of his corporal’s stripes. Then Taylor wised up, no doubt with assistance from his old man, who had informed Taylor that his son had an enormous trust fund. The third offense resulted in incarceration, ten days in the stockade. The most recent penalty had been twenty days. He hated the stockade. It was a dangerous place populated, by and large, with the scum of the earth. One prisoner had come after him with a homemade knife. He broke the guy’s jaw with one punch and then broke his arm for the hell of it. No one had messed with him since. As the truck ground along the country lanes of Oxfordshire, he wondered if the Cynthias of the world were worth all the trouble they caused him. He thought for a minute, and then a smile creased his face. “Bet your ass!” An hour later, the truck pulled into the enormous tent-city that constituted the American Army base near Oxford. He saw the First Sergeant and approached, deciding to hurry the inevitable process of taking his medicine. “Well Sarg, the wayward boy is back. How deep is the shit this time?” The First Sergeant was an older man and a decent guy. Most realized that he, not the officers, really ran the company. He glanced up at Gene and sighed, “Well, let me put it to you this way, Burke. I sure wouldn’t like to be in your shoes right now. Our poor Captain is having a heart attack because you’ve become quite famous. Regiment’s all over him about your multiple transgressions. Come on. Let’s go see the man and get it over with.” The First Sergeant knocked, and then led him into the Company Commander’s office. Captain Taylor was shaking with rage. “How dare you embarrass me like that? The Colonel is all over me about the high rate of AWOLs in the 140th and your name is at top of his list. He insists on seeing you personally. Now snap to and report to Regimental HQ immediately!” The First Sergeant called him to attention, and marched him over to Regiment with Captain Taylor following along behind to make sure Burke didn’t somehow disappear along the way. After a ten-minute wait, they were ushered in to see the Regimental CO or, as everyone affectionately called him, ‘The Old Man’. The Colonel had been a much decorated infantry officer in the 1st World War. But now, because of wounds suffered twenty years earlier, he had been relegated to the Quartermaster Corps. The scuttlebutt was that Old Man was just as unhappy to be stuck in a non-combat outfit as Private Burke. The Colonel raised his eyes from Burke’s personnel file and shook his head. “Son, I can’t figure out, for the life of me, why a bright, well-educated young man from a fine family like you would ever end up as the stockade rat of my unit. Would you please explain to me what in the hell is going on here?” “Yes, sir. It’s quite simple. I joined the Army to fight, not do laundry. My father has pulled strings at the Pentagon to insure that I’m never in a life-threatening situation, and with the enthusiastic assistance of Captain Taylor, he has, to date, been successful. If I am to be manipulated in this manner, my only recourse is to piss the Army off as much as possible.” The Colonel chuckled while Captain Taylor grimaced. “Well, I gather from the reports of the Provost Marshal that you have enjoyed one of the finer love lifes of anybody here in the UK. If I let you go this time, would you promise to behave?” “With all due respect, Sir, no I will not.” The Colonel flared, “Young man, you are an arrogant son of a bitch. You better clean up your act or you might spend the next ten years in an Army prison.” “Sir, Permission to speak freely.” The Colonel nodded to proceed. “I assure you that I don’t want that. I hate the stockade. But I’d rather be a prisoner than a laundry man. All I’m asking for is the opportunity to fight like you did, sir, in a real combat unit.” The Colonel stared at him over steepled hands, recalling the pride he had felt many years ago as a young lieutenant with the famed “Fighting 69th” in the Argonne Forest. This young man wasn’t a bad apple. He just wanted to be cut loose from Daddy’s apron strings. The Colonel shuffled some papers until he’d found the right one then looked up at Gene. “So you want to fight? Think you’re pretty tough, huh, Burke? Are you tough enough to fight in the most decorated unit in the Army? Tough enough to parachute, climb cliffs at night, cut German throats with a knife? Tough enough to stand up to 30-mile hikes in full gear every day rain or shine?” “Yes, sir. I think I can handle all that. I was an All-Ivy League fullback for two years and the Ivy League Champion in single sculls.” “Well, that’s lovely. But we’re not playing Princeton here. You could easily get yourself killed. You still want it?” “Yes, sir.” The Colonel pushed a form across the desk and handed Gene a pen. “Sign on the dotted line.” Gene did so, and returned the form. “Okay, Burke, you just volunteered for the 1st Special Service Brigade. The First Sergeant will personally finish up the rest of your paperwork, cut your new orders, and you can catch a train up to Scotland tomorrow. But a friendly word of advice, son—you screw up in this outfit and they won’t just throw you in the stockade, they’ll throw you off a cliff. Now get the hell out of here.”