Two Words



As I have grown more mature (not "older,") June the Sixth has taken on much more meaning for me.  The remembrance of D Day, June 6, 1944 affects many people very deeply.  I've come to be one of them. 

Imagine, if you will…

It’s been raining for days, but the weather has finally broken.  In the foggy mist, however, it is still cooler than you had expected.  You now find yourself hunkered down in a long, steel landing craft with the rest of your platoon… guys you have come to know quickly over the last several weeks.  The craft is being piloted over the choppy waters of the English Chanel which seems filled with more floating vessels than you ever knew existed.  Ahead, you see in the distance a sandy beach guarded by high cliffs that appear insurmountable.  The cliffs loom larger as the petty officer guides the craft ever closer.  The bombardment of the beach and cliffs has been underway for as long as you have been able to make them out. 

You glance around.  Your buddies all look just like you even though you may be a farm boy from the mid-west and the fellow next to you is a barber from Brooklyn.  You have come to know and appreciate each other.  You trust one another.  You have to.

Your lieutenant looks like he is still in high school as he moves about the craft slapping your pals on their shoulders… bucking them up.  He seems to be shivering.  Is he shaking from the cool of the salty spray that blows up from the waves and over the sides of the craft?  Surely he is not scared… not afraid of what lies ahead.

Nearer to the shore now.  The bombardment from the ships far behind has stopped.  The crafts have begun landing on the beach, disgorging their troops.  Splashing through the shallows they go, charging the beach.  There are flashes from the cliffs above.  Gunfire is pelting down on the beach like a strong summer’s rain.  You see soldiers fall.  Some stumble, continuing to move forward.  The noise from the battle is deafening but you can still discern what may be soft weeping.  Your buddies lean forward, anxious to dismount and do what they have been trained to do.

You feel the abrupt halting motion as your craft runs aground.  It throws you forward and to your feet.  The ramp at the front of the craft drops to the beach.  You watch as your platoon sergeant leads the way off of the craft, motioning with his arm for all of you to follow.  Your lieutenant, now moving forward beside you looks to either side, to you, and to your buddies. 

“Courage, men… Courage,” he says.

 

Off the craft and onto the beach those brave men did go.  They scratched and they clawed their way across the beach, up the cliffs and across Europe.  The liberated the oppressed under the tyrannical Nazi regime.  They freed human beings who had been kept in conditions worse than animals.  And, when it was all over, they staked no claim.  It was not a conquest.  They returned what they had freed to those to whom it belonged and gladly returned home.

And it all began, for Europe, on D Day… June 6th.

I’m told that General Dwight D. Eisenhower, on the evening before this largest invasion in human history, sat down and wrote a letter. In his letter, he stated that the decision to conduct the coming operation was his and his alone.  In it, he stated that, should the maneuver be deemed a failure, the blame should be placed squarely on his shoulders and nowhere else.  In this modern time in our nation, what a refreshing notion it is for a leader to step forward asking to be held accountable for something that may not have gone well. 

My two words on this anniversary of D Day:  "Courage," and "Leadership."  Indeed. 

A Wedding on Key Biscayne

 

Douglas Blasingame had a headache.  He was also sleep deprived, fatigued, and more than a bit dehydrated.  Okay, Doug Blasingame was hung over.  He was grateful for the wraparound sunglasses that hid his condition to some small degree, but also, he believed, saved him from hemorrhaging through the eyes. 

“Douglas.  Would you go start the car, please?  I’ll be ready in just a minute and I don’t want to arrive at the wedding perspiring.” 

The fact that he had been out intolerably late was clearly indicated by Elaine’s use of ‘Douglas,’ rather than ‘Doug,’ or ‘Honey.’  As he pulled himself from the club chair in which he was sitting, he tried to recall precisely when he had arrived home.  It seemed like minutes ago, rather than hours.  The shower that he had stood under for as long as the hot water lasted had done little to improve his condition.  

He walked outside into the south Florida sunlight and stepped quickly into the shade of the large carport.  He opened the door on the driver’s side of his Mercedes and was immediately struck by the stale smell of cigars mingled with the unmistakable scent of a woman.

“My god,” he muttered.  He slipped into the car and started the engine.  He rolled down all of the windows and turned on the fan of the air conditioner as high as it would go.  He then retreated back into the house.  Stepping into the guest bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of mouthwash.  He drew in a mouthful and swished it for a full minute.  He lifted the sunglasses, peered into the mirror, then quickly put them back in place.  When he emerged from the bathroom, Elaine was descending the large circular stairway into the foyer.  Doug’s gaze followed her down.  She looked like a goddess.

Douglas Blasingame had been such a swordsman in college that he was known around his fraternity house as “Zorro.”  The label followed him through B School at Wharton and even into his early, productive years at the brokerage.  He earned it.  The difficulty had nothing to do with the name, of course.  The difficulty was that the name still fit and Doug was now well into his eighteenth year of marriage.

It was the very beautiful Elaine Kaplan who had agreed to become Mrs. Douglas Blasingame when he offered no argument to Abe and Sophie Kaplan’s desire that the nuptials be performed by a rabbi from their congregation.  Doug loved Elaine deeply and he tried, he really did, to remain faithful.  But shortly after they became man and wife, Zorro, however discreetly, once again saddled up and rode.  Elaine had her suspicions as to some of his activities, but she chose to push them aside, electing instead to support her hard-charging career-minded husband.  As an investment broker to “high net worth individuals,” a certain amount of entertaining was expected.  So he said.

She looked at her husband giving him more of a smirk than a smile.  “Are you off the critical list?” she asked.  She reached up and removed his sunglasses.  “Oh my.…” She handed them back to him.    “Put them back on.”

“Are you ready to go?” he asked. 

Doug followed Elaine out to the car and held her door as she slid inside.

“Real smart, Douglas,” she said.  “You’ve got the air conditioner cranked up with all the windows down.  Do you expect to cool all of Miami?”

“No, Elaine… just the part of it that you are in.”

He got in behind the wheel and raised the front two windows.  Then, feeling that he had adequately cleared the air, raised the rear windows.  He backed out of the drive and accelerated out of the neighborhood.  He found Dixie Highway and took it north, toward the Rickenbacker Causeway.

“This wedding ought to be beautiful,” said Elaine.  “Right on Key Biscayne with the bay in the background.”

“Mm-hmm,” he said.  Doug’s thoughts were trying to piece together the events of the previous night and what had gotten him into the shape he was in.

“The Hadleys are loaded and you know Myrna is going to make her little girl’s wedding the event of the year.”

It had started out innocent enough, he thought.  Just a couple of beers after work over in South Beach with Mikey Tinkov.  That’s Mikhail Tinkov of Tinkov Software.  Since Doug had snagged Mikey’s business just seven months ago, it had been worth $46 thousand already in commissions.  If Mikey wanted a beer in South Beach, by golly Doug would be there to pull the tap.

“I wonder what Myrna will be wearing.  I hear that black is really popular for bridesmaids’ dresses this year.”  Elaine was chattering away as if Doug were answering and hanging on every word.

It seemed the trouble began around ten o’clock when Mikey wanted to hit that Greek Tavern down at the bottom of South Beach.  Yeah, that’s when things got crazy.  Then those women… those school teachers from Mississippi.  Mikey took a liking to the one named Gloria, leaving Doug with Carla.  One thing led to another, and…  Whoa, what is that?  Doug kicked something when he shifted his feet on the floor.  With his right foot, he pushed it over to the left side of the floorboard.  He glanced down.  He discretely lifted his sunglasses so he could make out what it was he had kicked.  A woman’s SHOE.

“Douglas.  Douglas?  Are you listening to me?”

His heart was pounding as he held the shoe pinned next to the door with his left foot.  “Of course I am… black dresses…”

“Douglas, slow down… there’s something going on up there… the cars are stopping.”

Doug looked ahead.  There was a car off the right side of the road.  Traffic was moving, but slowly, as the rubber-neckers set the pace.   Doug remained in the far left lane. 

As they approached the accident, Doug said, “Look over there, Elaine… see if you can tell what happened?”

Elaine slid almost completely sideways in the seat looking out at the commotion.

Doug quickly opened his door, dropped the shoe outside and slammed it shut.  He accelerated with the traffic, now past the stopped car.

“What was that?” she asked.

“My door wasn’t shut good.  What happened back there?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe a flat tire,” she said.

Doug began to feel much better.  His hangover lifted along with the physical angst he had just experienced, realizing that he had just dodged the proverbial bullet.  He eased back into his seat, now enjoying the ride, and turned onto the Rickenbacker Causeway.  He followed it across Virginia Key and onto Crandon Boulevard and Key Biscayne.  He turned right onto Harbor Drive and searched for the Hadley’s waterfront estate.

The gathering looked to be every bit the high society event that Elaine had expected.  Doug wheeled the Mercedes into the driveway under the portico of the Hadley’s mansion.  Uniformed valets stepped smartly over to the car.  Doug emerged, buttoning the jacket to his suit.  He stepped around to Elaine’s side, waiting for her to emerge.  The valet held the door for her.  Elaine was moving about on the seat, to and fro.  She turned, glancing over the headrest.

“Elaine… what is it?” he asked.

She looked at her husband, bewildered.  “Douglas… I can’t find my shoe.”