The better part of valor

             Those of us who grew up in the Black Hills were aware of the brothels that operated on Deadwood’s Main Street. Before we were teenagers we knew what kind of “girls” boarded at Ma’s Nifty Rooms.

But I traveled some 800 miles from home before actually meeting a woman who practiced the world’s oldest profession.

In 1944, an Air Force assignment landed me at the Army Air Force Base near Great Bend, Kansas, where I first met Matt Brudinski. Matt was a PT (physical training) instructor and reigning Second Air Force welterweight boxing champion. The physically powerful airman became a particular friend to me and my good buddy Sgt. Bob Sheakley. Matt took care of signing our names to the PT slips we had to turn in to prove we enlisted men were getting the proper amount of healthful exercise ordered by the base commander. In return, we arranged for Matt to take a few coveted test flights in the B-29 bombers as a “gunner trainee.”

            Once or twice a week we all got together at the NCO club for beer and bull. We learned our Polish boxer came from Chicago’s southside where he had to be physically tough and streetwise just to survive to maturity. Matt learned that Bob and I were from the Midwest, not very knowledgeable about some of the basic facts of life. Despite our vastly different backgrounds the three of us formed a close bond.

            On off-duty weekends we explored the many small towns within hitchhiking distance of Great Bend. One Saturday our destination was McPherson, 65 miles east of the base. Arriving late in the afternoon, Bob and I booked a room in the only hotel in town, a four-story red brick structure. For $3.00 we were assigned a room on the top floor with two single beds, midway down a long hallway lined with rooms on both sides. An ancient creaking elevator, complete with metal latticework doors, was at one end,

 a set of bathrooms at the other.

            After reconnoitering the town and having a bite to eat at the drugstore lunch counter, we discovered McPherson was a community that rolled up the sidewalks at 8 p.m., even on Saturday nights. Our evening’s entertainment was limited to several magazines, two pints of bootleg whiskey purchased from the hotel’s 60-year-old bellboy and eight bottles of Coke mixer.

            Arranging the beds in an L shape, so the lamp on the single night table could benefit us both, we stripped to our skivvies, mixed our drinks, punched up our pillows and began going through our reading material.

            A peculiar noise pattern started not long after we’d settled down for the night. We recognized the complaints and groans of the elevator arriving at our floor and the slapping sound of black steel slats as elevator doors opened. Then we heard footsteps in the hallway that stopped at the room directly across from ours, followed by a short triple rap on the door.

            A muted conversation lasted only a moment or two before the bellboy tracked back to the elevator and a different set of footsteps led to the door across the hall. No knock this time, but we heard the door open and close. Soon the springs of the bed in that room began to complain in a rhythm that even our unworldly knowledge could easily interpret. Then the door across the hall opened, footsteps retraced to the elevator and, in a few moments, a much lighter step headed down to the bathroom at the other end of the hall.

            Within a few minutes the occupant of the neighboring room returned and the entire procedure was repeated. After the fourth repetition, we cracked our door, stuck our heads out and asked the attractive woman returning to her room, “Hey, what the hell are you doing in there?” She answered with another question. “What do you think I’m doing?” We described our concept of the activities in explicit terms and she confirmed our assertions.

After the next cycle, Bob asked what she charged. Her reply of ten bucks caused us to exclaim in unison, “My god! Is it made of gold?” (Bear in mind this was 1944 when $10 was like 100 of today’s inflated dollars.) With a sly smile she retorted, “I’m doin' business, ain’t I?”

            She’d earned another 20 bucks before we invited her into our room to have a drink between customers, assuring her we absolutely were not attempting to trade whiskey for her expensive favors. Reassured, the young woman came into our room and accepted the promised drink.

After a couple of hefty sips she remarked, “I know sooner or later you guys will be asking me why I’m doing this, so I might as well tell you right now.” 

Explaining she worked in a ladies clothing store in a town about 30 miles from her after-hours business location, she added, “Whenever I need some extra money for something special, I come over here. Right now I’m working for a fur coat that’s on sale in our store.”

            The three of us became well acquainted as the night progressed and the frequency of her customers decreased, along with our whiskey supply. By the time Lucinda went back to her own room for one last trick, we’d exchanged personal histories, lifetime hopes and had actually became quite good friends.

            Two months later, spring had arrived and Matt had defended his title one more time. Bob and I were strolling down the main street of downtown Great Bend just as the setting sun cast a bright golden light on the couple approaching us.

             Proudly strutting toward us was our handsome boxing champ. Hanging on his arm, a lovely fur coat carelessly draped across her shoulders, was our lady of the night in McPherson.

            Bob and I quickly saw something across the street we had to immediately investigate. We’d just stepped off the curb when Matt yelled, “Hey you guys! Come back here. I want you to meet my fiancé.”

            Reluctantly returning to Matt’s side, we learned the wedding was planned for late September in Chicago. If we could get leave, Matt wanted us to be best men for the groom.

When he introduced us to his intended bride, there was not the slightest glimmer we had ever seen her before that moment. I shudder to contemplate what would have happened if either of us had so much as uttered a single word about our previous meeting with Lucinda.

            Although we all separated after the war ended and went our individual ways, I’m willing to wager that Matt and Lucinda Brudinski remained happily married and have many wonderful children and grandchildren.

            Recalling those incidents of more than a half-century ago, a couple of very applicable adages come to mind:  “Love is blind” and “Discretion is the better part of valor.”                      DM                                                                                                     

Author’s note: The facts in this story are true; only some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.