What a mess! The trip of a lifetime had turned into a disaster. Here they were, thousands of miles from home for G.G. to get an honor he didn’t deserve and no longer wanted. Hardest to accept was that the awful girl and boy who’d been dogging their movements had been right all along! Jacob Firestone was no hero—and nobody agreed with that more than Jacob Firestone himself.
The thought of home made Trevor yearn to see Mom—and even his kid sisters, Kira and Kelsey. But when he pictured his bedroom, it struck another discordant note. The walls were covered with posters and pictures of World War II, and for some reason, they just didn’t seem right anymore. Even though he’d been born decades after it had ended, the war had always been the center of Trevor’s life. He was the great-grandson of a war hero, and even though he and G.G. were far apart in age, they’d always been best friends. He played video games based on the war, built models from it, read books and watched movies about it. He thought about it, dreamed about it, imagined what it must have been like to be there. In school, he never handed in a social studies project on any other subject. World War II was the largest single event in history, and a lot of people considered it humankind’s greatest achievement—that so many whole countries could team up to fight against evil. Even now, Trevor felt that way with all his heart.
But he had always pictured the war as a gigantic chess match, played by generals, using pieces that represented armies. Everything went like clockwork. You executed your strategy, conquered territory, defeated your enemies.
He still believed World War II was right. Yet now it seemed more like a wheel of fortune, where the difference between life and death was pure luck. Whole cities could be sacrificed because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The bombs falling on you could be coming from your own planes as easily as those of your enemy. You could make it across the deadliest expanse of Omaha Beach, only to put your foot down on a mine as soon as you’d reached semi-safety. And perhaps worst of all was what happened to G.G., where a tiny lapse of judgment resulted in the deaths of innocents—your mistake, your fault, end of story.
Chaos was the word G.G. had once used to describe war. It looked cool on a movie screen or in a video game. But when real lives were being lost, snuffed out by sheer random chance, there was no glory.
There had been no glory three-quarters of a century ago in Sainte-Régine for Private Jacob Firestone. And Trevor could see that his great-grandfather would be haunted by it until the end of his life.
He was pretty lost by then, but he knew he’d be able to find Au Toit Rouge. Sainte-Régine was so small, and the cathedral towered over everything, like a beacon that would guide him to the hotel. Upset as he was, he would have to go back eventually. It was a long way to Connecticut, and Dad had the tickets and passports.
Trevor took one more corner and practically ran into her. The blond girl was walking briskly in the opposite direction. They both froze for a moment, staring at each other.
“Don’t run away,” Trevor told her.
“I did not throw that stone!” She stuck her chin out defiantly, expecting an accusation.
“I believe you. But I also believe you know who did. Your friend with the motorcycle?”
“My cousin, Philippe,” she admitted. “I am Juliette. Lafleur—perhaps you have heard this name?”
“I’ve heard it,” Trevor replied gravely. “From G.G.—from my great-grandfather. A man he once knew—René Lafleur.”
“My great-grandfather,” she confirmed. “The only survivor.”
“G.G. also told me about La Vérité. That’s you, right? And your cousin, the hall-of-fame pitcher?”
“Excuse me?”
“It takes a pretty big arm to heave a cobblestone that size through a window three stories up. What do you want from us?”
“Is this not obvious?” she asked emotionally. “We do not want your G.G. to be honored in our town. Why do you think we formed La Vérité and posted warnings? Why do you think we traveled to Normandy and followed you across France?”
Trevor was amazed. “But how did you find us? France is a big place.”
Juliette offered a rueful smile. “How could we not? You Americans describe every move you make on your Instagram. We knew when your boat would arrive in Cherbourg, and each place you would visit thereafter. You have a fine eye for detail, but you make a poor secret agent.”
“All to get revenge on a ninety-three-year-old man,” Jacob concluded resentfully.
“No, not revenge. We wanted to persuade him to stay in America. And when he arrived in Cherbourg, we wanted him to change his mind and go home. After what he did to our family, he does not deserve to be honored.” She let out a heavy sigh. “But now that you are here, we merely wish the ceremony to be over, and you to be gone.”
Trevor nodded. “I get that. You’d probably be surprised to hear that G.G. doesn’t think he deserves to be honored either.”
She flushed with anger. “Then why are you here? Did we not make it clear enough that the ‘hero’ of Sainte-Régine was not wanted? When we vandalized your car and your hotel rooms, did you think we were the welcoming committee?”
Trevor shrugged unhappily. “I can’t figure out why he wanted to come. I don’t know what to think anymore. Maybe he felt that by coming here, he could somehow make amends for what happened. I’ll tell you one thing, though—that quiet, weak, unhappy old man is not the great-grandfather I grew up with. G.G. is strong, and lively, and funny, and loud. There isn’t anything he doesn’t have an opinion about. He’s my favorite person in the entire world—or at least he used to be. But the closer we got to here, the more his guilt came crashing down on him. And if it’s Sainte-Régine that’s turning him into a shadow of himself, then I want him out of here twice as much as you do.”
He waited for an angry retort. It didn’t come. Instead, Juliette said, “So we have something in common, you and I. We want this to be over. A Lafleur and a Firestone in agreement. Who would believe it?”
“Maybe we want the same thing,” Trevor pointed out, “but can you say that for everybody else? That ceremony tomorrow is right out in the open. I have to know that G.G. will be safe. How many members of La Vérité are there?”
Juliette’s reply was bitter. “You continue to miss the point. We are not many, we Lafleurs, thanks to your G.G. The many aunts, uncles, and cousins we would have today—never born. So you need not fear the armies of La Vérité. There are but two of us. Me and—” She stopped short.
“Cousin Philippe,” Trevor finished.
Her expression was suddenly distressed, and she spoke in an anxious voice. “Philippe is not a bad person, but he will not put the past behind him as I have decided to do. I begged him not to throw that stone. He would not listen.”
“Do you think he’ll try to bust up the ceremony tomorrow?” Trevor asked anxiously.
“I fear so. He is very angry.”
“We have to call the police!” Trevor urged.
“No!” Her tone was strident. “He is what you Americans call a hothead. But I will not have Philippe arrested over what he might do.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Trevor shot back. “I know you love your cousin, but think how much damage one of those cobblestones could do to somebody’s head—especially an old man. That wouldn’t be good for Philippe either. He’d get sent to Devil’s Island.”
Juliette laughed in his face. “You see too many movies. Nobody gets sent to Devil’s Island anymore. And in case you are wondering, we no longer have the guillotine.”
“Okay, you don’t like G.G.,” Trevor concluded. “And maybe he did an awful thing. But remember this—he was only here because he came from thousands of miles away to fight for France. Nobody made him. He volunteered. So he’s a hero for that, anyway—him and Beau and Leland and Freddie …”
She looked shocked, and he realized that two tears had spilled over and were trickling down his cheeks. He had so much more to say—about how the youn
g soldiers had risked their lives every day, and how Freddie and Leland had made the ultimate sacrifice. But he didn’t want to blubber all over her. So he finished with, “You know how old G.G. was when he fought here? Seventeen.”
“Philippe is seventeen,” she whispered.
They stood there, facing each other, for what seemed like a long time. Trevor was breathing hard from the effort to keep his emotions in check; Juliette was lost in thought.
Finally she spoke up. “I’m sorry, Trevor. I cannot inform the police.”
“But who’s going to protect G.G. if something bad happens?”
“We will. You and I.”
Dad pulled the end of the tie through the Windsor knot and tightened it at Trevor’s collar. “There. You look almost human.”
Trevor winced. “I feel like I’m strangling.”
Dad fiddled with his own shirt. “Me too,” he admitted. “That’s one of the perks to being a teacher—you don’t have to wear a suit.” He turned serious. “You’re okay with this, right, Trev? I know what G.G. told us yesterday must have been pretty upsetting to you.”
It was the morning of the ceremony honoring Private First Class Jacob Firestone, the hero of Sainte-Régine, and the three were up early in the suite, getting ready. A local cleaner had volunteered to press their dress clothes, which were crushed and wrinkled after the better part of two weeks packed away in suitcases. Now their shirts were so heavily starched that they could barely move. G.G. was still in the bathroom, shaving, but they knew they were going to hear about it from him. He wasn’t a big fan of “monkey suits.”
“I’ll be okay,” Trevor assured his father. “I walked it off yesterday.”
He had already decided not to say a word to Dad and G.G. about his meeting and conversation with Juliette Lafleur. The last thing they needed to know was that Juliette’s psycho cousin was out there somewhere, planning to attack the ceremony and probably G.G. himself. The old soldier was freaked out enough already, just by remembering the past.
This trip should have been a win-win for G.G.—to reexperience the most exciting and meaningful part of his life, capped off by having glory heaped upon him by a whole town. Who would have believed that a seventeen-year-old soldier, who should have been in high school, could make one tiny error in judgment that would come back to haunt him more than seventy-five years later?
Dad sighed. “At least it’ll be over soon. If Grandpa can keep it together long enough to take his medal and say thanks—or no thanks—then we can get out of here. I’m positive that once he’s away from this place with so many loaded memories, he’ll be his old self again.”
Yeah, Trevor thought to himself. But will I ever be my old self again?
So much of his identity came from his fascination with World War II and from his connection to it, through G.G. Now that was gone—or at least different. And he felt empty, like a part of him had gone missing.
Trevor regarded his father expectantly. It had to be coming—Dad’s I-told-you-so lecture about his son’s obsession with war and G.G.’s war stories. But for some reason, Dad wasn’t in a gloating mood. Or maybe Daniel Firestone was even more upset by G.G.’s revelations than Trevor was. After all, Dad was the one who had grown up in the old man’s house. The last couple of days couldn’t have been easy on him either.
A snort of laughter from the doorway interrupted that train of thought.
“Ha—are you two getting married in those suits?”
G.G. wore jeans and a warm-up jacket.
“Grandpa!” Dad exclaimed. “Where’s your suit?”
“In the closet where it belongs,” the old man growled. “I’m not getting dressed up like an undertaker and pretending to be the hero I’m not.”
“I understand you have mixed emotions,” Dad said gently. “But these people are coming out to honor you, and you owe it to them to let yourself be honored.”
G.G.’s voice was bitter. “Well, so long as they’re happy …”
Dad was adamant. “Their town was occupied by the Nazis, and then it wasn’t anymore, thanks to the efforts and sacrifice of an American unit. You’re the last surviving member of that unit. Nothing can change that.”
Trevor blinked. Dad believed that? And was that a small note of pride in his voice?
G.G. looked at his great-grandson. “Does he push you around like that?” But he took his suit into the bedroom to change.
When the old man was dressed, Dad helped pin on the various medals and combat ribbons G.G. had been awarded during the war. Over the years, Trevor had seen them all in their cases, but this was his first view of his great-grandfather decked out in full military regalia. It was an impressive sight—until he took in G.G.’s sunken eyes, grayish pallor, and the slumped shoulders that had replaced the old soldier’s normally ramrod-straight posture.
Dad was determined to stay positive. “You look wonderful, Grandpa.”
“Let’s get this over with,” G.G. said through clenched teeth.
The whole thing was what the old man would have called “a dog and pony show.” As soon as they stepped off the hotel elevator into the lobby, the waiting employees burst into applause. Parked at the curb was a horse-drawn carriage, strewn with flowers.
“That’s one way to spruce up your town for a party,” G.G. whispered to Trevor as they clip-clopped toward the central square. “Spread around some horse manure.”
Trevor snickered a little. It was a trace of the old G.G., who had been all too absent lately. Mostly, Trevor was too tense to laugh. He peered left and right, trying to catch a glimpse of Juliette amid the throngs of people who had come for the ceremony. She was out there somewhere, keeping her eyes peeled for Philippe.
Sainte-Régine’s central square was resplendent in red, white, and blue—although technically, half of it counted as blue, white, and red, the French tricolore. American and French flags were everywhere, and the raised platform where the ceremony would take place was decorated with bunting.
The mayor himself was there to greet Jacob Firestone. Trevor’s hand was pumped again and again as he was introduced to a lineup of dignitaries, including a handful of senior citizens who had been in Sainte-Régine in 1944 on liberation day. They all had complicated names that Trevor wouldn’t have been able to pronounce even if he could have remembered them. He and his father exchanged a nervous glance. The old soldier was meeting people and exchanging small talk in English. He was a shadow of his regular self, but of course, the town officials had no way of knowing that. So far so good.
As they were escorted onto the platform, Trevor had his first chance to survey the crowd. Oh man, there were a lot of people here! Hundreds—maybe even more than a thousand. It was proof that G.G.’s visit after all these years was a very big deal to the locals. But how was Trevor ever going to spot Juliette in this mob? And more to the point, how were the two of them going to find Philippe before he did something terrible?
His phone vibrated in his blazer pocket and he grabbed it eagerly. He and Juliette had exchanged numbers yesterday.
Her text message was on the screen: Nice suit.
He thumbed: Where ru? On second thought, he changed that to: Where are you? Juliette’s English was pretty good, but maybe she wasn’t so fluent in text shortcuts.
Bibliothèque, came the reply.
???? Trevor shot back.
Library, she translated. Across the square. 3rd floor window.
Trevor’s eyes scanned the buildings on the other side of the crowded plaza. Like the square, the windows overlooking it were filled with spectators. It took him a few minutes to sift through the faces until he’d located Juliette. She waved and he acknowledged her with a small nod. The last thing he needed was to have to explain this to Dad.
Any sign of P? he texted.
Not yet. But his moto has been gone since early this morning and his mother has not seen him all day.
Trevor grimaced. So it was really happening, just like Juliette had said. Philippe was d
efinitely going to move against G.G. during the ceremony. The only question was how.
“Are you playing a video game?” Dad whispered in annoyance. “Show some respect!”
“Sorry.” Trevor slipped his phone back into his suit pocket.
The square was already jam-packed, yet still people were pouring in from the surrounding streets. At last, the mayor stepped to the podium and greeted everyone in French. Standing beside him, a younger woman translated his remarks into English for the benefit of the American guests.
“Today, we are honored to welcome one of our brightest stars. Three-quarters of a century ago, our beloved Sainte-Régine was liberated from Nazi occupation, thanks to a remarkable company of American infantrymen and their armored and artillery comrades. Their bravery and sacrifice will forever be remembered. After so many decades, all but one of these heroes has left this world …”
The crowd stood at attention in total silence as the mayor read the names of every soldier, artilleryman, tank crew member, and engineer who had taken part in the Battle of Sainte-Régine.
Trevor looked at his great-grandfather when the name Beauregard Howell was spoken. The old man stood a little taller, and Trevor could almost hear Beau saying, “Straighten up, High School” in one of G.G.’s endless stories. But G.G. seemed emotional at all the names, even though there were more than two hundred. These were the men he had served with, lived alongside in the mud and cold, laughed and cried with. And he had watched too many of them die. Now, to hear their names spoken and remembered in a far-off French town brought tears to his eyes.
Trevor realized that, long as it was, the list was incomplete without the names of Freddie, Leland, and the men who had lost their lives long before Bravo Company made it as far as Sainte-Régine.
Adrift in his thoughts, he almost missed the feeling of vibration against his chest.
As he pulled his phone out of his blazer, Juliette’s message appeared on the screen:
War Stories Page 16