Reunion

Michael settled himself in the rear seat of the taxi, intending to snooze a bit on the too-familiar and ever dull ride from National Airport to downtown Washington. He had made the trip enough times that he could pick out the new high-rise apartments, shopping malls, and government buildings that had risen on the landscape since his last visit. They were all of a drab and sterile sameness that aroused no interest. The wonder was that there was any room left to build anything. He was pleased that the reunion was to be held at the old and, he hoped, still graceful Wardman Park Hotel, now the Sheraton Park, on Connecticut Avenue. It had been years since he had stopped there. The Hay-Adams or The Mayflower were more convenient.

The last time he had stayed at the low, rambling Wardman Park was ten years ago, when he and Chrissie had come from New York for Billy's graduation from Georgetown. It was still the Wardman Park then.

The first time, though, in 1942, Michael had been worried that he would be caught and thrown out of the place by a burly house detective.

He had been on his way overseas with a provisional group of aircrews, replacements for the Eighth Air Force in England. The group was billeted at Camp Kilmer near New Brunswick, New Jersey, and the crews were on "red alert," which meant that they could move out at any time to board a troopship. Therefore, all personnel were restricted to the base.

Michael, then Second Lieutenant Michael Francis O'Reilly, United States Army Air Corps, had had no intention of observing the restriction. Home in the Bronx was a mere forty miles away, and he had not had leave since his aviation cadet days in Texas months earlier. He had arranged with a fellow pilot to contact him at his parents' if orders came through to move out. But when Michael called home, he learned that his parents were in Washington, where his father had been called to receive a presidential appointment to the War Production Board. So he had headed his rental car south.

Washington was crammed then as he had never seen it. Michael caught up with his parents at the Willard Hotel just three hours before they were to take the train back to New York. They barely had time for a few drinks and a sandwich. It was an emotional time. Michael's mother had wept a bit, certain that she was seeing her eldest son for the last time. Michael's father had been hearty and cheerful.

"War is a terrible thing," he had said. "But if there is one, a young man ought not miss the opportunity to test himself. If one survives it, wartime service—combat—is the most thrilling experience of a lifetime."

They had parted shortly after at Union Station. Michael felt bereft and a little frightened. He had driven his parents to the station and parked his car just outside near the taxi ramp. When he came out, it seemed like hundreds of people were trying to get taxis. He offered to give lifts to a number of them going in his direction, north. He had decided that Washington held no attraction for him and that he might as well return to Camp Kilmer. There were too many uniforms in Washington, too much rank. As a second lieutenant, he felt self-conscious and intimidated.

Four riders accepted, one a WAAC lieutenant, who was billeted at the Wardman Park. What happened afterward, Michael assured himself, happened by pure chance. The WAAC officer—he had forgotten her