The young Private first class used his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The sweat rolled down his skin after performing several songs on the Mess Hall stage. The makeshift lights were blazing hot and pointed straight toward him. The packed room thumped and swelled from the body heat of five hundred enlisted men. He loved singing for his comrades, but knew his stage career was grounded while he was still in the Army.
His physical prowess was average at best. A five feet, nine inches and barely one hundred and fifty pounds, his booming voice was obviously his most valuable characteristic. He looked especially slim in his dress attire, neatly buttoned and tucked in tight for performances. His prominent Irish features gave him a commanding presence despite his meager rank. The soldiers loved his company during card games, over meals and at night, when he sang the barracks to sleep with sweet melodies that comforted the men and reminded them of the beautiful women desperately waiting to see their faces again. His enormous smile and hearty laugh warmed the room, more so than the dry Texas heat. Some of his closest friends on the base sensed a deep conflict within him that always brought a tear to his eye as he crooned sweet love songs late into the night.
Two years earlier, the young man stumbled upon the one thing that held back his full commitment to the U.S. Army: love. In a Chicago high school, notorious for student fights and touted as the toughest school in the city, the baby faced boy scowled through the halls, protecting himself from regular bullying because he appeared so frail and young. Quick to throw a punch, he was known as a scrapper with a fiery temper. Just a year before he found love, his previous high school kicked him out for punching a principal during a lunchtime melee. His reputation preceded him to his new school and he was tested daily by anyone looking to make a name around the halls.
On St. Patrick’s Day, 1937, the young man strolled past his high school to attend Catholic mass. After confessing to Father McCleary, he wandered to school and slipped in the doors between classes. He pushed open the cold metal doors and a small gang of kids confronted him, jealous of his carelessness toward the school’s attendance policy. He emptied his lungs of the last puff of smoke from his non-filtered cigarette and a mixture of smoke and frigid March air clouded the dimly lit foyer. He tried to ignore the collection of tough guys. One determined, courageous youngster stuck a finger in his face and shouldered him as he walked through the glaring group. He thought of confession; how uncomfortable he felt and how he promised to go this week without sin. Then, he smiled as he remembered the disturbed look on the Priest’s face as he described his last fight. The assailant looked confused when he smiled, but the inquisitive expression was quickly altered by a fist to his left cheek. After a short scuffle, a passing teacher separated the boys. Unscathed, he was led to the Principal’s office by his ear.
He glanced around the familiar room as he waited to see the high school’s tsar. A receptionist sat behind an oversized oak desk, pecking at an antiquated typing machine. Over her left shoulder, the Principal’s door was closed. A trophy case in the corner needed dusting and the administrator’s credentials yellowed under the glass frames on the wall. Suddenly, an unfamiliar face strolled into the office.
“Anything else I can do for you Mrs. B?” she asked of the secretary as she brushed by his knees.
He touched his pants as if her long dress changed the gritty denim texture. He stood quickly, as his father had taught him when a lady entered a room, but the secretary shot him a stern glance as he returned to the waiting chair. He swore he saw the girl smile in the trophy case reflection. Her sweet smell finally wafted his way and he faked a yawn to take in as much of her exciting scent as possible. His inexplicable youthful confidence gave him the courage to look her straight in the eyes as she turned his way. She was much shorter than he and he doubted she even reached five feet. Her long curly hair flowed over her petite shoulders and mixed with her brown overcoat like a waterfall meeting the river below. He gawked at her beauty and she noticed his stare, she turned away and blushed at his boyish flirtation.
The Principal’s door slowly creaked open, but his eyes didn’t flinch from her rosy red cheeks.
“Harold Patrick Barry! Get in here!” demanded the angry totalitarian.
He stood again, this time drunk with puppy love and staggered by the young girl. He slipped a hello her way as he approached the Principal’s office. She finally smiled and he bumped into the door frame as the lecture began.
Harold Patrick walked out of the Principal’s lair feeling untouchable. The lashes he endured were numbed by the tingle of love at first sight. He smiled at the secretary, “Thanks Mrs. B.” She was flabbergasted by his happiness after hearing the paddle’s crack behind the closed door.
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