Sentimental Journey Read Online Free PDF Page A

on Europe and its people like a carnivore, for actually thinking Americans would stand by passively while his U-boats canvassed their Atlantic shores. The U.S. might not be in the war yet, but Americans didn’t scare easily.
    J.R. rested his arms on the smudged brass rail of the bar. Soon the baseball banter had died down, replaced by quiet talk and the whiskey-soft tones of Ella Fitzgerald singing about a brown-and-yellow basket. Jonesy began to whistle along as he dropped two olives in a highball glass, set it on a cocktail napkin that was stamped with the U.S. Army insignia. He slid that drink toward J.R.
    “Thanks.” J.R. took a swig, then cupped the cool, damp glass in two hands and stared at the milky flecks in the ice cubes, his mind on everything, and on nothing. He was just reaching for the olives when the door swung open and a corporal from Colonel Langdon’s office came inside.
    The room grew tellingly quiet as the kid walked up to J.R. and gave a quick salute.
    J.R. used the toothpick with the olives to stir the drink, never taking his eyes off the kid.
    “Captain Cassidy, sir, the colonel wants to see you. He said on the double, sir.”
    J.R. didn’t say anything. It was obvious from the quiet around him that the gossip about Langdon’s wife had spread fast. He dropped the toothpick and raised the glass to his mouth, then took a long, slow drink and licked his lips. He leaned back slightly, crossing his feet as he rested his elbows on the counter behind him, the drink still in one tanned hand.
    The aide was rocking from one foot to the other, looking like a little kid in trouble.
    What the hell . . . J.R. figured it wasn’t the kid’s fault that he was assigned to the biggest horse’s ass in the Army. He took another drink and straightened, then used his glass to gesture toward the door. “After you, Corporal.”
    The kid was out the door in an instant. J.R. glanced over at Mich , who looked worried. J.R. shrugged, took a swig of his cocktail, then moseyed out the door, his drink still in his hand.
    Once outside, he jogged down the steps and walked over to a brand-new vehicle—a prototype Ford GP with a white star freshly painted on its Army-green door. He crawled into the shotgun seat, his drink still in one hand. The melting ice cubes rattled as he settled his long legs past the emergency fire extinguisher and out onto the riveted floorboard. He slung an arm over the back of the seat and turned to the kid, who had his finger on the starter, but was just sitting there, his other arm resting on the steering wheel as he eyed J.R.’s vodka with an uncomfortable look.
    “You gonna take that drink with you, sir?”
    J.R. looked at the drink. “I sure am. Do you have a problem with that, Corporal ?”
    “No, sir. But . . . ” He swallowed his words.
    “Go on.”
    “You know how the colonel feels about protocol, sir.”
    “Yes, I do. But I have a feeling I’ll be needing this drink.” He swallowed a mouthful of clear, smooth vodka, leaned back against the seat cushion, and gestured toward the road with his highball glass. “Let’s go, Corporal. Our commander awaits.”
    The kid pushed the starter, jammed into gear, and the jeep took off toward headquarters, with J.R. sucking on an olive.

“SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME”
     
    Camp headquarters was in a clapboard building with a green roof and thin, vein like cracks in its many layers of government-issue white paint. There was a hollow sound to the front steps when your shoes hit them, and the railing had splintered wood on its underside that stuck into your palm if you made the mistake of using the damn thing.
    The tall, narrow front door was painted the color of a boiled lobster. Someone once joked that the door was a warning—the first sign of all the red tape you’d have to put up with if you ever wanted to get anything done.
    The camp commander, Colonel Langdon, wasn’t from that old school of officers who’d been commissioned on the