WWII: Nostalgic for Camaraderie
These days it’s not unusual for me to be behind in my reading — online and off — which explains why I’m just now reading this lovely column by William McKenzie exploring the fascination we have with the camaraderie of the World War II years by discussing his mother and her Poker Club.
His point about a modern-day longing for the common purpose that was the hallmark of the war years is well taken. And I enjoyed the fact that he was recognizing a group of women who have been “in the same foxhole” since Pearl Harbor. But I especially loved the fact that they are a poker club.
You see my Dad’s Army Air Corps nickname was “Slick” for his prowess at a poker table. In fact, he won the money that eventually paid for his business playing cards all over North Africa and Italy. Years later he’d just shrug it off saying, “Why not? I was 21-years-old and the Germans were shooting at my *ss every day. I never expected to come home alive.”
The column also reminded me of something I wrote a few years back about an encounter with a WWII vet that I thought I’d share with my readers today. I was sitting outside a bookstore when I spotted a trim, good-looking older man standing outside the front door.
He had wavy silver hair and stood perfectly straight as he gazed out over the parking lot. In a moment or two he removed a briar pipe from his pants pocket and lit it. A slight breeze was blowing and it wasn’t long before I could smell tobacco that was rich and well, grandfatherly and kind of sexy all at the same time. This guy definitely had the Sean Connery thing going. I could tell he was getting tired of standing and was just about to wave him over when he started toward me. Reaching for the extra chair as if to drag it away he said, “May I use this?”
“Please do,” I answered, “and sit here if you like. I enjoy pipe smoke.”
A look of pleasure and surprise crossed his face, “You do?” he asked, “My wife says it’s a filthy habit.” He sat down and we began to talk about how he started smoking during the war — World War II — when cigarettes were handed to the troops by the carton. “When you’re that age,” he said, somewhat wistfully, “you think you’re invincible. We had to know it was bad for us, but we just didn’t care.”
I told him about my own father flying planes in North Africa, smoking way too many cigarettes and playing poker. The old gentleman laughed at that and said, “Good for him, I did too.”
Just about that time a pretty silver haired lady motored out of the bookstore in an electric wheelchair. He didn’t jump up to help her, but watched as she approached a mini-van and opened its electric side door. When she was almost inside he said, “Well, I see my wife so I guess I better go but I’ve enjoyed talking with you miss.”
“Thank you, so have I. Have a nice day sir.”
He got up from his chair and went to the van, climbing in the driver’s side. I watched as he backed into the parking lot. Just before he turned away, he waved at me, one of those little finger waggle waves people with secrets give each other. I laughed, he grinned, and I think we both came away feeling it had been a lovely encounter.
Whether he was in his eighties or not, he was still handsome and charming, and obviously still liked to pass the time of day with a strange woman. It wasn’t a sidewalk cafe in Paris, but in a strange way it could have been. He’d have been gorgeous in his uniform, I, no doubt would have been wearing a silly hat. We’d have sipped espresso and talked about the liberation. I think I’m really sorry I didn’t know him then.
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October 16th, 2007 at 5:38 pm
Hey there! Thanks for the shout out.