War Stories

by Gordon Korman

  “Don’t forget, G.G.,” Trevor pointed out. “It’s not the same bridge. They had to rebuild it, remember?”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” the old soldier growled. “It was a pile of broken Tinkertoys the last time I saw it.” He stepped out onto the span and began to walk across, limping a little from the shrapnel lodged in his hip.

  “Grandpa,” Dad said tentatively, “it’s windy out over the water. Maybe we should take the car.”

  G.G. glared at him. “What am I, a delicate flower? They blew this bridge out from under me, and I’m still here. I don’t think a little wind is going to kill me.”

  Trevor and his father exchanged a look. Ever since they’d arrived in Paris, G.G. had become increasingly irritable. He had always been a crusty character, but lately, he was downright hard to get along with, snapping at his grandson and great-grandson.

  “Don’t take it personally, Trev,” Dad soothed. “G.G. loves you more than anything. But I think this trip down memory lane is harder on him than he expected it to be. It’s like the closer we get to Sainte-Régine, the weirder he gets.”

  “Of course he’s weird,” Trevor told his father. “This is where Leland died.”

  The old man had stopped in the center of the bridge and was peering over the side, his knuckles white as he gripped the railing. A passing car slowed and the driver rolled down the window.

  “Monsieur?”

  “I’m not jumping, if that’s what you’re worried about,” G.G. snapped. “Been there, done that.”

  The car drove past and the old soldier returned his attention to the Aisne. “Red, then green, then black,” he said quietly.

  “What’s he talking about?” Dad whispered as they started out toward him.

  “Disarming the charges,” Trevor explained. “First you cut the red wire; then the green; and if you’re still alive, the black. Weren’t you paying attention when he told us the story?”

  “I’m older than you, so I’ve heard a lot more of his stories,” Dad explained. “After a while, they all run together, and the only thing I remember about war is I want no part of it. It breaks things and people. Like this bridge—and Leland.” When Trevor started ahead, his father held him back. “Maybe it’s a good idea to give your great-grandfather a little more time alone with his thoughts.”

  They watched G.G. at the rail, gazing out at the river. Trevor could only imagine what must be whirling through the old soldier’s mind at a moment like this. Maybe he was remembering the explosion or his wild drop into the water. Maybe he was saying goodbye to his friend Leland one last time.

  And then G.G. looked up. “Well, what are you two waiting for? I don’t have all day.” And he continued to march across the bridge.

  Trevor ran ahead to catch up with the old man, while Dad went back for the car. On the other side, G.G. went looking for the clearing where the Nazi encampment had been.

  “Where you kicked the gun away from the guy with the firewood!” Trevor enthused.

  “Stupid forest,” G.G. complained. “Maybe it was farther upstream.”

  Dad parked the car on this side of the bridge and joined the search. “Or maybe the clearing isn’t there anymore,” he put in. “Seventy-five years is more than enough time for little bushes to become tall trees.”

  It seemed to bother the old man. “Nothing’s the same. The road’s different too—wider, smoother. I don’t know how I rode that motorcycle on it the way it used to be.”

  “You have to finish telling us the story,” Trevor urged. “Trapped behind enemy lines, with no bridge to get back to your unit. What happened? Did you have to kill anybody?”

  “Are you kidding? I darn near got killed myself. I was going like sixty when I went into the ditch. And when I came to, I looked up and saw …”

  “Saw what?” Trevor prompted breathlessly.

  A shudder ran through the old man’s long, lean frame. His shaking hands latched onto the trunk of the tree in front of him. If it hadn’t been for that, he might have fallen to the ground.

  “Grandpa!” Dad jumped forward to support his unsteady grandfather.

  He and Trevor managed to guide G.G. over to the car and sit him down on the hood. Trevor popped open a water bottle and the old man sipped from it.

  “It’s no big deal,” G.G. insisted. “I was just a little dizzy for a minute.”

  “For a man your age, being ‘a little dizzy’ is a big deal,” Dad insisted.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine.”

  “I want to hear that from somebody who knows,” Dad decided. “We’re going to find a doctor.”

  G.G. turned blazing eyes on Trevor. “Talk some sense into your father.”

  Trevor gulped. “This time he’s right.”

  The nearest doctor turned out to be in Soissons, a small city about the same size as Saint-Lô. That was where the similarity ended, though. While Saint-Lô had been almost entirely rebuilt after the war, Soissons was an ancient town, with some buildings dating back as far as Roman times.

  Dr. Duceppe spent about twenty minutes examining his elderly American patient. He pronounced Mr. Firestone Senior in excellent health for a man his age. “He is simply tired. It is exhausting, this tourism. Sometimes, we need vacations from our vacations, n’est-ce pas?”

  “It’s not a vacation,” the old man told him. “We’re going to Sainte-Régine.”

  “G.G.’s getting a medal,” Trevor supplied. “He liberated the town during the war.”

  The doctor smiled tolerantly. “Sainte-Régine has been there for hundreds of years. Another twenty-four hours and it will still be in the same place. A fine dinner, a relaxing evening, and a good night’s sleep will make all the difference for your war hero. That is my prescription.”

  All three Firestones thought that sounded like a pretty sensible idea. In the waiting room, Dad emailed their hosts in Sainte-Régine that they would be delayed by a day.

  As they left the hospital, none of them noticed the boy and girl seated on their motorcycle parked halfway down the block.

  “He eats too much, this old man,” Philippe Lafleur commented sourly.

  The two cousins watched from a park bench concealed by bushes. Across the boulevard, the Firestones were enjoying a fancy dinner on the outdoor patio of their hotel restaurant.

  Juliette’s thoughts were elsewhere. “But what are they doing here in Soissons?”

  “Living like kings,” her older cousin said bitterly. “While we sleep in hostels, battling cockroaches, the Americans stay in the finest hotels.”

  “You’re not listening,” Juliette insisted. “The boy—Trevor—posted their whole itinerary on his Instagram. They were in Normandy because the old man landed on the beach there. They were in the hedgerows, where he fought. And Saint-Lô. And in Paris because he was there for the liberation.”

  Philippe was impatient. “So?”

  “So he never went to Soissons as a soldier, and it wasn’t on the Instagram list. Their schedule has them in Sainte-Régine tonight. Why are they here and not there?”

  Philippe looked hopeful. “Are you saying that we have succeeded in scaring them off? That they came to Soissons instead of Sainte-Régine? And from here they will go home?”

  She shook her head. “Not very likely. Since Normandy, we’ve been harassing them, yet still they came. They are stubborn.”

  “So why this diversion to Soissons?” Philippe asked.

  “Perhaps it is exactly what it appears to be,” she mused. “They needed a doctor, probably for the old monster. At such an age, ailments are many.”

  Her cousin was skeptical. “Whatever his ailment, it has not affected his appetite. Is that a second piece of pie? I hope he chokes on it!”

  Juliette frowned across the boulevard at the dining trio. “He doesn’t look like a monster,” she commented, half to herself.

  “And you come to this conclusion how?” Philippe challenged. “This is no case of mistaken identity. Is he not Private Jac
ob Firestone, United States Army, the man who destroyed our family?”

  She sighed. “I suppose so. But they seem like such a nice family—especially how the old man interacts with the boy.”

  Philippe scowled. “I remind you that he’s the reason we have no older generation to interact with. If he still intends to go to Sainte-Régine, we will make him pay.”

  Juliette couldn’t argue with him. She’d heard the story, passed down from generation to generation. It was impossible to get it wrong, because their family was so small. And there was only one villain, one name to remember: Jacob Firestone.

  Now Sainte-Régine wanted to celebrate this man as a hero.

  Not if the Lafleur family had anything to say about it.

  The two cousins watched as the Firestones paid their bill and disappeared into the hotel lobby. The old man didn’t seem all that sick, she reflected, but it was possible that he’d slowed down a little since their arrival in France. She remembered him striding vigorously off the ferry in Cherbourg, showing all the arrogance of the young soldier he had been in 1944. What did the Americans call it—attitude? Some of that was missing in him tonight. And was that a slight limp?

  “Let’s go back,” Philippe decided. “They will be up early, those three. And if they head to Sainte-Régine, we should be close behind them.”

  That was another thing about the Americans: They awoke at the crack of dawn, eager to start their day. It was so uncivilized.

  “You go ahead,” Juliette told him. “I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

  With a shrug, her cousin climbed onto the motorcycle, donned his helmet, and putt-putted away.

  Through a large picture window, Juliette could still see the Firestones in the lobby, waiting for the elevator. Was it wishful thinking on her part that they seemed so harmless, so ordinary? This was the hated Jacob Firestone. She watched Trevor veer away from the adults, lost in the depths of his phone screen. He could have been any one of her school friends from Sainte-Régine.

  He stepped back out to the patio, phone held high, searching for a signal. And the next thing she knew, his eyes were off the phone and locked onto her.

  She leaped to her feet. Her first impulse was to run, as she had done before. But something kept her there as the American crossed the boulevard and approached her.

  He said the last thing she expected. “Hi.”

  “Bonjour,” she replied warily.

  “I know you, right? You’ve been following us since Omaha Beach.”

  Juliette didn’t answer. She just stood, letting the emotions swirl inside of her. For the first time since the war, a Lafleur stood opposite a hated Firestone.

  He grew angry at her silence. “Have you been messing with our car? I don’t care about the dead bird, but slashing the tires—that’s not right. What did we ever do to you?”

  Juliette felt a long, bitter speech forming in her mind, one she was determined would never come out her mouth. She and Philippe could get in big trouble for what they’d done. Admit nothing! she ordered herself.

  “The doctor says my great-grandfather is overtired,” Trevor persisted. “Well, maybe he wouldn’t be if we didn’t have to waste a day waiting for new tires. And all he’s trying to do is go back to the town he liberated seventy-five years ago. He’s a hero!”

  Juliette’s eyebrows shot up. “A hero? Is that what they told you?”

  “Nobody had to tell me anything,” Trevor snapped back. “It’s in the history books.”

  Her eyes sprayed sparks, and it almost erupted from her—the entire horrible story. But instead, she spat, “There is much that your American history books leave out!”

  She spun on her heel and stormed away into the night.

  When Jacob’s vision finally returned to him, he found himself lying on a sweet-smelling hay-filled mattress. He blinked, trying to bring everything into focus. This wasn’t home. This wasn’t the army. He found himself staring at a dappled wall of beige masonry with white dots. He reached out to touch it and instantly recognized the oblong item that came away in his hand.

  “Potatoes?”

  “Pommes de terre,” corrected a voice behind him. “Welcome back, monsieur.”

  Jacob wheeled on the mattress. He knew that face. Memories flooded in on him—the bridge gone, Leland disappearing in a burst of flame, a wild motorcycle ride through enemy territory—

  “Where am I?” Jacob demanded. “Who are you? Why are you holding me here?”

  “Calm down, monsieur,” the man told him. “We are not the Boches—the Germans. You are with the Free French—La Résistance. René Lafleur, at your service.”

  Jacob scrambled up. “I have to get back to my unit!”

  René took hold of his shoulders and eased him back into bed. “In time. First you must recover.”

  Jacob was about to protest, but he realized that the Frenchman was right. It hadn’t taken much for René to force him back onto his pillow. Jacob accepted the fact that he wasn’t strong enough to be any use to Bravo Company. His ribs were so sore that a deep breath was practically unbearable. He was almost panting just to avoid that pain. Also, his head hurt, and there was a buzzing in his ears that reminded him of being menaced by a single mosquito.

  “What is this place?” he asked, and was alarmed at how feeble his voice sounded.

  René smiled. “You are missing your American wall-to-wall carpeting and feather bed? I apologize that my root cellar is not more elegant, but it is safe from the prying eyes of the Boches. We are occupied, yes?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Jacob stammered. “I’m grateful.”

  “Wait until you taste my wife’s cooking before you express your gratitude,” René advised him. “She is a good woman, but should not be allowed anywhere near a kitchen.”

  A snicker was torn from Jacob, even though he didn’t feel much like laughing. Not with Leland gone and Bravo Company who knew where.

  “You will see,” René promised.

  In all, Jacob spent eight days recovering in the secret cellar of René’s farmhouse, outside the town of Sainte-Régine. He soon learned that the cellar was far more than a place to store potatoes and turnips; it was a local headquarters for Resistance members from all around this part of France. Nor was Jacob the first Allied service member to enjoy the hospitality of the Lafleur farmhouse. René was part of a network that helped smuggle downed pilots back to England via Spain. More than twenty had slept on that very mattress and experienced Madame’s notorious cooking.

  Jacob had to admit that even the US Army served better food than Madame Lafleur. Her saving grace turned out to be that she was the nicest person he’d ever met. There seemed to be no end to her kindness, and that was something a soldier received very little of. Madame understood what the consequences would be if the Germans found an American infantryman hidden in her home. Sometimes she was even called upon to entertain and feed German officers who were in the district. When that happened, tension crackled throughout the wood-frame house, especially in the cellar, where Jacob didn’t dare move a muscle. He would become a prisoner of war, which would be bad enough. But French citizens who were discovered to be members of the Resistance were shot on the spot.

  Usually, Jacob wasn’t alone in the cellar. The five Lafleur children were always around, bringing him food and basins of hot water for washing. And there were Resistance fighters—grim-faced men and women in dark clothing who came at all hours of the night and spoke in low voices. Jacob was not able to understand their conversations, but there was no mistaking the seriousness of what they were involved in. They were kind to an American soldier, but wary too. They placed their hopes for liberation with the Allies, yet distrusted them too. There were spies everywhere.

  As Jacob’s bruised ribs healed and his headaches receded, he began to ask René when he’d be able to rejoin his unit.

  “You feel fine because you are lying on your back doing nothing,” the Frenchman explained. “Being a soldier takes much mo
re than that.”

  “But I’m useless here,” Jacob insisted. “Worse than that, I’m a danger to your family.”

  “You are a blessing to my family,” René amended. “You give my children the opportunity to practice the English they learn in your American movies. And you complain about my wife’s cooking slightly less than everybody else. Most important, you fight the Boches, and for this you must be completely healthy. I will tell you when it is time to leave.”

  Jacob had to be satisfied with that. But when René began making inquiries through the Resistance network as to the whereabouts of Bravo Company, Jacob knew the time would be soon.

  “Tonight there will be no moon,” René told him one morning.

  The message was clear: He was leaving.

  They waited until one a.m. Jacob passed from bed to bed, whispering his farewells to the children. When he hugged Madame, it was almost as hard as parting from his own mother.

  “Hurry up,” mumbled René. “You are lucky she didn’t poison you.”

  Madame just laughed. “Come back to us, cher Jacob. Bring your General Eisenhower and chase these Boches away.”

  “I’ll try,” Jacob promised. Then he and René slipped out into the darkness.

  They traveled on foot to avoid detection, staying away from roads. After two hours, they met up with another Resistance contact, who would be taking Jacob the rest of the way.

  Jacob turned back to thank René, who had undoubtedly saved his life. The man was already gone, melted into the night. Jacob had spent barely a week with the Free French. Yet he was certain that, even if he lived to be a very old man, he would never see their like again.

  “Allons-y,” said the second Resistance man. Let’s go.

  Jacob was never aware of the moment he crossed into Allied-controlled territory. The boundary had been the Aisne before, but he noticed no river. That was the reality of this war. Battle lines changed by the day, the hour, and sometimes even the minute.

  Eventually, they came to the top of a rise, and the guide pointed to the valley below. “Voilà,” he said with satisfaction.