Devotion

by Adam Makos

  Tom shared Koenig’s frustration. Rumor had it the carrier Valley Forge had just deployed for Korea, yet the Leyte’s orders were inexplicable—to “keep dancing.”

  —

  Tom leapt from the boat to the dock and slapped his fedora onto his head. The hat was a felt Borsalino and hand-made, just like the one Humphrey Bogart wore in Casablanca. Jesse, Koenig, and the others donned fedoras, too. Tom looked around him and grinned. We look like a bunch of gangsters, he thought.

  In Italy, they had all bought hats on the admiral’s orders. The admiral wanted his officers to look good, since the Dancing Fleet had its headquarters in Cannes.

  The pilots hurried along the dock.

  French dockhands held ropes while boatloads of young sailors came ashore. At the end of the dock, souvenir vendors displayed their wares and tour guides waved pamphlets. They were all hungry for some of the $2 million the fleet’s sailors spent annually in Mediterranean ports. The American government was, in fact, the biggest spender in Europe. Since 1947, America had sent $15 billion in economic aid to Europe under the Marshall Plan, 85 percent of which were gifts to stimulate the reconstruction of war-ravaged Europe in the hopes that democracy—not communism—would rise from the ashes of World War II.

  Tom squirmed past the vendors and onto the sidewalk. He and Jesse and the others gawked at the Riviera, a place they had seen only on travel posters. White clouds billowed over the tropical city and church bells clanged. Alabaster buildings with red roofs were shaded by gently blowing palm trees. Steam drifted down through the green and rocky mountains in the background.

  The beach curved along a half-moon bay and white umbrellas dotted the sand. Men and women sunbathed and others waded into the clear turquoise waters where the ocean floor was visible.

  Tom smiled at the sight of paradise. The travel posters had boasted, “If you love life, you’ll love France,” and already he was a believer.

  —

  As the pack of pilots crossed the palm-lined boulevard, the discord began. Some of the pilots removed their fedoras against the admiral’s orders. Earlier they had joked that they looked like an Olympic sports team in hats and blazers. Tom pinched his Borsalino to straighten it and Jesse and Koenig kept theirs on, too.

  Beside the boulevard, the pilots stopped to confer. A long line of outdoor restaurants and boutiques built in the 1800s awaited them. Sailors with cameras around their necks drifted around window-shopping tourists, some Americans who were finally returning to France after the war. Locals darted between the foreigners, their heads down.

  Marty excused himself to complete his black market transaction. Other pilots departed the group to rent a short-term apartment—a place to nap and change and entertain girls.

  Tom fished a pamphlet from his pocket, a guide to local culture that he had received from the ship’s tour director, the chaplain. Tom read aloud how the Man in the Iron Mask had been imprisoned in an island fortress just a half-mile from shore. Tom suggested they go there.

  But someone said they should visit a casino instead. Tom wasn’t eager to gamble in the morning, nor was Koenig or Jesse. But the remaining pilots loved the idea. “We’ve got to be careful where we go with Jesse,” Tom quietly reminded the ensign who’d championed the idea. Tom didn’t want to see Jesse embarrassed if a casino doorman refused him entry. The ensign reluctantly agreed.

  Jesse must have sensed the tension, because he announced that he was going to shop for perfume for Daisy. Koenig had plans of his own. The others remained fixated on the casino, so Tom, Koenig, and Jesse made plans to later take a boat together back to the Leyte.

  The group broke up and the pilots went their separate ways. Koenig strolled away in one direction while Jesse set off in the other.

  Alone, Tom slapped his guide pamphlet against his hand, unsure of what to do and filled with disappointment.

  The skipper said to stick together.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE REUNION

  That same morning

  Cannes, France

  A HANDFUL OF YOUNG MARINES in tan uniforms and tent caps stood on the sidewalk behind the beach. They were not there to swim. They were girlwatching.

  The beach was crowded with willowy female bodies lying on striped beach chairs. Behind the sunbathers, waiters emerged from cabanas carrying trays of beverages.

  “Hey, fellas, have a look-see!” one Marine said, directing his buddies’ attention to a girl in a sundress who had found a spot to camp for the day. She wrapped her towel around herself and pinned it underneath her arms. Her sundress fell surreptitiously to the sand and she wiggled into her bathing suit.

  Another young Marine, with red hair and a small, downturned nose, leaned around his buddies. A shy grin spanned his fleshy face. He was twenty-one-year-old Private First Class John Parkinson. His buddies called him “Red.”

  Credit 15.1

  John “Red” Parkinson

  “Is she putting on a bikini?” he asked.

  The other Marines shielded their eyes but couldn’t tell—the girl’s towel was hiding everything. Spotting a bikini in 1950 was a rare but exciting event. The tiny swimsuits were rumored to slip off sometimes, because girls weren’t used to wearing them yet.

  The girl’s towel floated to the sand, revealing a disappointing sight for Red. The girl stood in a one-piece bathing suit. The Marines groaned and Red struck his forehead with his palm. But the Marines didn’t give up. They started walking down the sidewalk, still scouting.

  Red and the others were Fleet Marines, the boys shown in recruiting posters wearing dress blues. The public assumed that Fleet Marines were lifelong military men, the saltiest of the salty, but in reality, this new crop of Marines was made up of military rookies—eager products of the postwar middle class who’d just graduated high school and seldom skipped chapel. But when it came to ogling a girl in a bikini, boys would be boys.

  Before joining the Marines, Red had never even seen a beach. When he was seven, his mother left the family’s Brooklyn tenement one day and never came home. Red’s father worked on the New York waterfront and couldn’t care for the boy, so he sent Red to live with family friends at a farm in New York’s Catskill Mountains.

  Red’s adopted family, Uncle Anton and Aunt Anne, were Czech immigrants who raised him to be a farmer, too. When Red turned nineteen, he told them that he wanted to see the world before settling down. With their consent, he hitchhiked to the nearest recruiting center and became a Marine—because theirs was the only office open. The other recruiters had all gone home.

  “Hey, fellas, I see something promising,” one of the Marines announced. His eyes locked on a petite brunette with dark sunglasses and black hair that curled beneath her ears. She was draping a towel over a beach chair. She looked young and unusually chesty for having such a small waist.

  “Wow, she looks just like Elizabeth Taylor!” Red said. Taylor was the reigning starlet of Hollywood’s new generation. She was only eighteen years old, but already she was acting alongside seasoned actors such as Robert Taylor and Van Johnson.

  The other Marines laughed at Red. They said there was no way that Elizabeth Taylor would be alone on any beach, let alone in Cannes.

  Red studied the girl more closely. Headlines called Taylor the most beautiful actress in the world and the girl on the beach was certainly good-looking.

  “Maybe it’s her twin sister,” one of the guys ventured. Another urged Red to go investigate. Another joined the chorus until Red finally relented.

  He took a deep breath and started walking toward her.

  —

  Sand poured into Red’s black shoes. He approached the girl from the side and pretended to be looking for a beach chair. As he walked past, he saw that she was wearing a white one-piece with a pink flower pattern. The suit’s top tied around her neck and the bottom curled discreetly around her hips. Beneath her sunglasses, she had a pale, China-doll face with arcing black eyebrows and a nose that turned up at the tip. Red’s
eyes locked on an unmistakable beauty mark on her right cheek and his heart took off racing.

  Holy cow! he thought. It might really be her!

  Red walked a safe distance then looked back to his buddies. They raised their hands and shrugged: Well?

  The last thing Red wanted to do was annoy the girl, and he didn’t know what to ask her, anyway. His thoughts flashed back home to his uncle Anton.

  How would Uncle Anton handle this? Red wondered. The hard-working Czech was his hero, a man with strong Slavic features and muscles like a bull. Day after day they’d milked cows and harvested cauliflower, potatoes, and hay, and Uncle Anton had always impressed on him one golden life lesson—If you’re going to do something, then do it right, or don’t bother doing it at all.

  Red turned around and doubled back toward the girl. He stopped near her feet.

  “Miss Taylor?” he said.

  The girl lifted her sunglasses. Underneath were crystal blue eyes framed by thick black eyelashes. There was no mistaking the eyes of Elizabeth Taylor. The papers said that in the right light they actually sparkled violet.

  “Why, hello,” she said. Her playful voice trailed away with an aristocratic up-note, a hint of her English heritage.

  Red introduced himself, stammering.

  “Why, it’s nice to meet you, Red.” The starlet sat up in her chair. “Are you a Marine?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, sticking out his chest.

  “Please, call me Elizabeth,” the starlet said.

  Credit 15.2

  Elizabeth Taylor in Cannes with sailors of the Leyte

  She asked Red if he was enjoying Europe. Red told her how at each port he hurried to the train station to go sightseeing. Before joining the Marines, he’d never seen a building bigger than a silo, but now he’d been to Berlin, Switzerland, and even to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Elizabeth asked what he thought of each experience and seemed genuinely interested.

  The other Marines came stumbling through the sand. They joined Red and introduced themselves to Elizabeth. She seemed to love the attention. Red told her he had seen National Velvet, and the other Marines said they had seen her other blockbuster, Courage of Lassie, about a girl’s dog who runs away and serves in World War II. Elizabeth asked the men about themselves and grew even more animated—just like she was a girl at home hanging out with friends in an ice cream parlor.

  “Miss Taylor, not to impose,” a Marine said. “But would you happen to have change for a hundred-dollar bill?” He assumed movie stars carried stacks of money.

  “Oh,” she said, “maybe Nicky can help you.” Her voice turned meek. “He’s up at the Carlton Hotel.”

  She was talking about her new husband, twenty-three-year-old Nicky Hilton, son of the famous hotel founder Conrad Hilton. Elizabeth and Nicky had been married for only two months.

  “Thanks, Miss Taylor,” a Marine said. “We’ll go ask him.” The latecomers peeled away to seek their change, and Red found himself alone again with the starlet. They talked for a few more minutes, then Red excused himself. As much as he was enjoying talking to Elizabeth, he knew that if he didn’t catch up to his buddies, he might not find them again.

  “It was nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said, giving a little wave that made Red smile. He waved in return but couldn’t help noticing that Elizabeth seemed sad to lose the company.

  —

  Several hours later, wealthy guests filled the terrace café of the luxurious Carlton Hotel, but Jesse sat alone.

  Between sips from a glass of ginger ale, he scribbled another letter. He’d already written a small pile that he’d sealed in envelopes. Around him posh travelers chatted in white wicker chairs and sipped flutes of the local pink-colored wine. The air smelled of flowers and music drifted through the terrace.

  The terrace lay at the front of the palatial hotel. At seven stories tall, the Carlton was the tallest building in Cannes, with black turrets on the front corners of its roof. Jesse had discovered the hotel in a Guide to the Mediterranean book that Daisy had slipped into his bag before the carrier departed Quonset Point.

  The hotel’s terrace proved the best place to write letters. A waist-high wall of carved white stone enclosed the space and made it feel almost private, while a sun canopy provided just enough shade. Down several marble steps and across the boulevard lay the beach.

  Jesse had written to Daisy and his family, as usual. The navy’s mail delivery service was top-notch: Planes whisked mail to the States so quickly that a letter often reached its destination in five days. Jesse’s squadron mates joked that he deserved his own zip code because he sent and received so much mail.

  Credit 15.3

  Halley Bishop

  “Hey, Ensign Brown!” a voice called from the sidewalk.

  Jesse turned to see the V-shaped face and shy eyes of the crash crew medic, twenty-six-year-old Corpsman Halley Bishop.

  “Hey, Doc,” Jesse said.

  Halley wore a sailor’s white uniform with a Red Cross armband around his left sleeve and he carried a canvas medic’s bag over his shoulder. Today his duty was to patrol the boulevard in search of drunken or injured sailors, but it was too early for trouble, so he’d come to see the legendary hotel.

  Jesse invited the young medic to have a seat, but Halley hesitated and glanced over both shoulders. Navy tradition forbade enlisted sailors from associating with officers.

  “It’s okay,” Jesse reassured him while clearing his pile of letters aside. Halley pulled up a chair, removed his hat, and swept back his brown hair, which was so lengthy that it barely met regulations.

  A waiter in a white jacket and bowtie delivered a bowl of olives. Jesse told Halley that he wanted to buy him a drink. Halley again checked for officers. He had grown up in an orphanage in North Carolina, where he had learned a healthy respect for authority.

  Speaking only in French, Jesse asked the waiter for another ginger ale. Jesse looked to Halley, who threw his hands up and asked Jesse to order him the same. In high school, Jesse had become fluent in French.

  The men chatted without pretense. When the waiter delivered their drinks, Jesse admitted that he liked ginger ale because it gave the appearance of alcohol and thwarted his friends from pressuring him to drink. Halley was struck by Jesse’s ease and humility.

  Jesse caught Halley by surprise with a question. He asked the young medic if he had ever learned a good way to break bad news, such as news of a death. During WWII, Halley had seen plenty of death as a “doc” with the Marines on Peleliu.

  Halley shook his head. He explained that the officers, not medics, wrote letters to families of the dead. Halley asked Jesse if Carol Mohring’s death was eating at him. They both had watched the plane sink.

  Jesse motioned to the envelopes and said that he’d finally brought himself to break the news to his wife, Daisy.

  Halley leaned forward sympathetically. “Ensign Brown, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that death’s gonna get us all, but we’ve got some say in how we go. You die flying a Corsair, well, that says enough. Ensign Mohring was a brave man.”

  Jesse thought for a moment and nodded. His face loosened and he posed a new question for the young medic.

  “How about another round of ginger ale?”

  —

  Morning turned to afternoon, and the sun grew hot on the terrace canopy.

  Alone, Jesse finished the remnants of his lunch while Halley was away at the restroom. When the young medic returned to the table, he took his seat in a hurry. “Ensign Brown,” he said, “you’re never gonna believe this. Guess who just sat behind us?”

  Jesse shrugged but noticed that his surroundings had gone silent. Everyone on the terrace was looking in the same direction and whispering. Jesse glanced over his shoulder. Several tables away sat Elizabeth Taylor and her friends.

  Elizabeth had wrapped her hair with a colorful bandanna and was wearing a lace sundress with a low neckline. She looked as if she had just come from the beach.


  Jesse turned back to Halley with a grin. Halley smoothed his hair with his hands and said that he was going to talk to her. His eyes turned steely, the look of someone who’d stitched up men in combat. Before Jesse could stop him, Halley was walking toward the table of ladies.

  “Hi, Liz, I’m Halley,” he said. “You may remember me? We went to school together.”

  Elizabeth looked up. “Oh really?” she said with girlish innocence. “Were you at University High?”

  “That’s the place!” Halley said with relief.

  Elizabeth stood to shake his hand. “So good to see you again!” she squealed and pumped his hand vigorously.

  For the next ten minutes, Halley and Elizabeth stood and chatted about where life had taken them since their school days. They came to the conclusion that they had attended not one but two schools together. Halley told Elizabeth about his pilot friend and Jesse caught the pair looking at him. The sudden appearance of a slender young man with black hair and a widow’s peak brought the discussion to a halt. He was Elizabeth’s husband, Nicky Hilton. Hilton wore a polo shirt tucked into khakis and a gold watch and he seemed impatient to talk to his wife. Halley politely excused himself but Elizabeth asked him to wait. Hilton told Elizabeth that he was going to the races with his friends, then turned and left abruptly.

  Elizabeth shook her head, dumbstruck. When she regained her senses she called the waiter over and asked for a bottle of wine. The waiter returned with a cold bottle wrapped in a towel. Elizabeth told the waiter that the wine was for her friend Halley, who reeled in surprise.

  “That’s awfully nice, Liz, but I don’t take to wine,” he said. “I’m just a simple beer guy.”

  “Then give it to your pilot friend,” Elizabeth said, leaning to look at Jesse. “Tell him it’s a present.”