The first thing visitors noticed was the heat, or rather the way it clung. Even in the late afternoon, under the striped awnings of the club veranda, you could see it working on them—the men loosening their ties by a finger’s width, the women shifting in their chairs as the backs of their dresses found the wood. The waiters moved with a practiced calm, glasses of limeade and something stronger appearing just when a guest began to look around.

Marie and I stood at the entrance as they arrived, a small procession of studio faces that had looked out at me from lobby cards and newsreels long before I ever met them. The men wore pale suits cut a little differently from ours, softer in the shoulder; the women had hats that would have looked out of place anywhere but on a train platform or a movie set. My own uniform was the tropical issue—lightweight, pressed to an edge Marie had supervised herself. She had chosen my tie that morning, holding up two and saying, “This one, Julius. It photographs better.” I had not thought I would ever care about such a thing, but in this job I had learned otherwise.

“Welcome to the Isthmus,” I said, offering a hand as each guest stepped up. I gave the short, sensible briefing I always did—how long the drive to the locks would be, where they could and could not wander on their own, which insects to respect. They smiled and nodded, most of them hearing only that there would be a boat ride and an opportunity for photographs.

Once the party was seated, the veranda took on the low hum I had come to associate with these evenings. Cutlery, the clink of ice in glasses, a swell of laughter from one end of the table as some anecdote about a director or a disastrous costume fitting found its rhythm. Marie sat halfway down, between a leading man and his wife, her posture easy, her accent shifting subtly toward theirs as she asked questions that left them talking more than she did. She had a gift for it, for knowing how much of New York society to let show and how much to leave tucked away. I watched the way people leaned toward her, grateful for someone who understood both their world and this place.

My role, on nights like this, was to be everywhere and nowhere. I checked in with the manager about the timing of the courses, with the driver about the hour of sunset, with the Canal pilot about the schedule of ships. Between these quiet circuits, I dropped into conversations just long enough to make sure no one felt unattended. A question about the day’s shooting here, a remark about how the humidity would read on film there. I did not try to be charming. I tried to be steady.

Later, when we walked out onto the lock platform, the heat had softened into something almost bearable. The concrete still held the day’s warmth, but a breeze came up the cut, carrying the smell of water and diesel. The party arranged itself along the rail, looking down at the chamber as it filled, eyes following the slow rise of a freighter in its concrete box. Cameras appeared—small, expensive things that gleamed in the light. Someone asked if it was true that a ship this size could just fit, with inches to spare on either side. I confirmed the fact and saw the way it pleased them, as if the Canal had been designed with their sense of drama in mind.

A photographer from the studio asked for a group shot. We gathered under one of the arches, white suits and dresses lined up against dark stone. Marie slipped naturally to the edge of the frame, one hand on my arm, the other resting on the rail. I took my place where he indicated, hat in hand. “A little closer, please,” he said, and the group tightened by an inch. For a moment I was aware of the absurdity of it—artilleryman turned arranger of tableaux—but only for a moment. The shutter clicked. The picture was taken. Another small artifact to be filed somewhere between the Canal Company’s records and a studio press kit.

On the drive back, the guests talked about how the locks would look on screen, how audiences back home would gasp at the scale. The car windows were down; night insects came in and went out again. Marie and I shared the forward seat, the road unspooling in the headlights. Behind us, laughter rose and fell, someone attempting a song and losing the tune.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Marie said softly, out of the side of her mouth so only I could hear.

“Just taking stock,” I answered. “They’ll leave in a few days. We’ll still be here, doing the same work.”

She nodded, her hand resting lightly on my sleeve. “That’s why they like you,” she said. “You make this place feel solid. They can play at adventure because you’re not.”

I thought about that as we turned toward the post, the silhouettes of towers and cranes standing against the sky. This was not the Army I had imagined as a cadet. There were no gun drills here, no problems in deflection and range. Yet when I saw the faces of the civilian technicians on the locks, the Canal pilots, the local clerks who came to the club on quieter nights, I recognized a familiar thing—a community that needed someone to mind the seams.

It was, in its way, another form of service: making sure that when the world’s attention swung briefly toward this strip of water, what it saw was ordered and welcoming. Standing there between Marie and the stars, I felt, as I had on other fronts and would again, that my job was to keep the machinery—social, mechanical, human—running smoothly, so that others could move through their scenes without seeing the effort underneath.