A Soldiers Story
John Blanchard
stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and
studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand
Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but
whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose.
His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida
library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued,
not with the words of the book, but with the notes penciled in
the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and
insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the
previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and
effort he located her address. She now lived in New York
City.
He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to
correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in
World War II. During the next year and one month the two grew to
know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling
on a fertile heart. A romance was budding.
Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that
if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like.
When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they
scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central
Station in New York. "You'll recognize me," she
wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my
lapel."
So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart
he loved, but whose face he'd never seen. I'll let Mr.
Blanchard tell you what happened:
A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her
blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes
were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness,
and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive.I
started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was
not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved
her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured. Almost
uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw
Hollis Maynell.
She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well
past 40, she had graying air tucked under a worn hat.. She was
more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled
shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I
felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to
follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose
spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own. And there she
stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray
eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My
fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that
was to identify me to her.
This would not be a romantic love, but it would be something
precious, something perhaps even better than romance, a
friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful.I
squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the
woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness
of my disappointment.
"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss
Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to
dinner?" The woman's face broadened into a tolerant
smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she
answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just
went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said
if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you
that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the
street. She said it was some kind of
test!"