The night started out perfectly. It was raining, but other than that, everything was story-like. It was my last night with my wife before I went off to war again.
I was a Second Lieutenant in the United States navy and I was on leave for a week. The most recent battle I took part in had been outrageously vicious. The anger in the air was so thick you almost choked when you took a breath. Missile after missile, torpedo after torpedo, I was sure my time would come that day. Dodging weaponry was certainly not my strength. I was sure my last breath would be taken in the midst of flying bullets in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. Its freezing waters would swallow me whole and my wife would be left to mourn my death. But when the battle finally came to an end and the admiral granted us our leave, I was overly delighted to say the least. Phoning my wife immediately, we relished in our joy. I had made it through the battle and I would see her in just three short days.
We had gotten married at such a young age everybody had told us. She was eighteen and I preceded her by one year. But we knew we were meant to be, and after my acceptance into the war, we got married. It was as simple as that. We told each other that if we never saw each other again, we wanted the comfort of knowing that we were bound by marriage then and for the rest of our lives.
That last night that we were together, we had attended a get-together sort of thing where all the men in my division who were on leave took their wives to dinner and to dance afterward. After this scheduled event, we would regain our stature in fighting in this brutal war. We would no longer be the husband, son, and brother that we had been. We would be robotic navy men who acted on command.
Us men in our uniforms filed through the fancy door to the open dance floor, pairing with each man’s wife on his arm. Our heads were shaved with pride for our country, and our deep blue uniforms kept us within the binds of visual equality.
Upon entering, I took notice of the organized manner of the tables set for two. Two chairs opposing each other, two glasses turned to stand on their rims, two sets of silverware with two napkins - everything was made for two, save the solitary romantic candle in the center to set the mood. To make things as memorable as they could possibly be before we went away again. It was evident that this night would be one to remember.
Dinner began after each seat was filled with man and wife. Emotions mixed in the air as salt mixes with water. The combination of fear and sadness was covered up and hidden with smiles and positive conversation, but it was there nevertheless.
Dinner was over in a flash, and now that I look back on it, I see only a blur.
The hardwood floor was cleared of tables and chairs and was magically transformed into a dance floor. The slow music started, and the tears started with them. Tears that had been held back for the longest of seconds. Those tears of sadness and foreseen loneliness. Song after song, kiss after kiss, tear after tear, the night raced on. And as the night neared an end, and the phonograph that spun its slow songs to the couples neared its last staticy piece, the tears fell more rapidly and nobody had a care in the world who saw.
I was her husband and she was my wife. And we danced and we cried and we held each other, clinging onto anything and everything that we could, from the scent of each other to the way each other felt to the sounds of each other’s breathing to the feeling of each other’s wet tears soaking through our clothing. And as the song ended, we knew that this time of short-lived bliss was over.
We were filed out onto the rain-slicked sidewalk, as large drops came down upon the dozens of couples who stood outside exchanging their last goodbyes. This time of deformed contentment was ended with a brief brush of my lips upon hers before we were torn apart and I was thrown on a bus to go serve our country.
I strain to remember the details of this very special night, yet find it impossible. To feel what I had felt that night would be far too pleasurable than I can fathom. If I could nurture the ability to re-live these events, I would owe a great debt to the Gods.
Dear Mrs. Timberlake,
We at the U.S. Navy Headquarters regret to inform you of the death of your husband, Justin Timberlake. The casualty was committed on the night of September 26, 1918, along with ten others in his division. Those eleven proud soldiers will be greatly missed both by their relatives I’m sure, as well as all the men here serving in the war. Their trials and efforts served our country proud, and we thank them immensely for the part they took in defending the security of the United States of America.
Sincerely,
Admiral (AD) John D. Brown
United States Navy
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