Date/ Time: Saturday, 3 July 1943 / around 0800 hours Who: Captain Doubletree and Darla King Where: Swallow Churchgate Hotel
The loud and bubbly brunette had left the hotel room before the sun even came up. In fact, she had merely waited for the American captain to fall asleep before she put her clothes on and left - in a disappointed, regretful huff. She left the tall man who could dance so well and seemed so attractive behind, in bed, to snore without her. She'd left the pub that night with the most popular of men there, the one who told all the cheeky jokes, the one who danced so incredibly well, the one who she felt proud to take back to get a room with her.
It was clear in about an hour that nothing else would be happening that night, to put it in more polite, vague terms. He. . .how was there even a good way to phrase it?
"I'm sorry, honey, my mind must be somewhere else tonight," he'd told her apologetically in the hotel room the night before. She vowed to try something else, which obviously was futile as well. "Honey, you can't rush these things. Not with the stress I've got," he drawled, pushing her away from him, pulling the sheets back around himself.
The woman smiled and said it was all right, that these things happened, and silently regretted not going with the younger man with the red hair at the end of the bar.
However, all of those were forgotten to Sam Doubletree, who dozed and snored, comfortable in the bed. It was worth it just for an actual bed, rather than a slingshot of a cot he had in his own barracks. He wasn't aware that "what's-her-face" had left in the middle of the night, or anything, for that matter. Nope, he'd gotten a good night's sleep. The hotel room was worth it in that respect.
He didn't know also, however, that it was check-out time for him.