Vic and his English teammate Monty had been at USAF Martlesham for just three days when Randy told them about the dance planned for the coming Saturday in the new mess hall.

‘They’re flying in a swing band from Austin. It’ll be a knockout. You have to be there, kiddo.’

Vic had become accustomed to being called ‘kiddo’, and assumed it was because he was so much smaller than most of them. They were all giants, dwarfing even Monty’s five foot ten, though their faces were so youthful they looked as though they’d only just learned to shave. And although they spoke the same language, he often failed to understand them. A swing band? And where on earth was Austin? It didn’t matter anyway, because he didn’t plan to go, knockout or not. Monty was keen, but Vic rolled out his usual excuses: can’t dance, nothing to wear, bit of a headache. But Randy was nothing if not persistent.

‘Look,’ he said, lighting up a Lucky Strike and lounging back on Vic’s bunk as though he owned it. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Mac, you don’t feel comfortable at dances. And I get it. There’s your colour an’ all, and those uptight English ballroom affairs are enough to make anyone uncomfortable. But have you ever been to an American dance, with a jazz band? It’s black music, man. There’re no fancy doo-dah steps to learn, you just do what feels right. I guarantee you won’t be able to resist tapping your toes, and before long you’ll be on the floor, ’specially with a couple of daiquiris inside you.’

‘Thank you, but I really don’t think so . . .’ What on earth was a daiquiri, anyway?

Randy’s voice took on a confidential tone. ‘I shouldn’t be sayin’ this, but it really ain’t the done thing to refuse. The brass hats might think you ungrateful.’

Vic recognised at once that he’d been checkmated. These Yanks might act stupid some of the time, but they were clever devils underneath.

‘Okay then, I’ll come for a short while, just to be polite,’ he conceded.

‘Good man. See you in the bar, seven sharp.’

A daiquiri, Vic discovered, was a drink of rum mixed with ice and lime juice that slipped down so easily that it was only quarter of an hour later you realised how strong it was. After drinking two of them, he belatedly recalled being warned that American measures were double or even, sometimes, treble those served in English pubs.

As Randy led them from the bar across the stretch of tarmac to a nearby hangar, the fresh air helped to clear Vic’s head and he felt ready for anything. Even so, the sheer noise of the band, the size of the dance floor and the numbers of dancers, at least a couple of hundred, was daunting. Randy and Monty disappeared, leaving him clinging to the wall like a gooseberry. He soon discovered that his feet were actually tapping, all by themselves, to the irresistible rhythms of the music. No one seemed to be taking any notice of him. Dancers whirled past, flinging themselves from side to side without any semblance of formal steps, and he was so transfixed that he failed to notice the young woman sidling up beside him.