War Stories

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War Stories Page 17

by Gordon Korman


  He is here!

  Here? Frantically, Trevor scanned the square. It was just a sea of faces, spectators listening respectfully as the names continued.

  Another message buzzed in: Pushing to the front.

  Trevor thumbed: Where???

  In desperation, he looked to the third-floor library window just in time to see her blond head disappear from view. She was coming to try to intercept her cousin, but she’d never make it in time through this teeming humanity.

  “Trev!” Dad hissed angrily, his eyes on the phone in his son’s hand.

  Trevor knew he was in trouble, but there was no time to think about that now. He was on tiptoes, craning his neck, hoping to catch sight of movement in the crowd.

  Juliette burst out of the library and began wading through the audience. She had seen Philippe and knew where she was going. Trevor took note of her direction and tried to project her path through the sea of people.

  The mayor finished the list of names. Respectful applause filled the air.

  Dad’s tone was warning now, and not at all friendly. “Trev …”

  “And now,” the woman translated the mayor’s words, “the fulfillment of our purpose here today—to present Private Jacob H. Firestone with our town’s highest honor, the Order of Sainte-Régine.”

  The mayor reached into a velvet box and drew out a large gold medallion dangling at the end of a ribbon of the French tricolore.

  Plowing through the crowd, Juliette leaped up, pointing wildly ahead of her in the crush of spectators.

  G.G. stepped forward to receive his award. He was fully six inches taller than the mayor, and had to bow his head for the smaller man to place the ribbon around his neck.

  Before, the applause had been quietly somber. Now the square resounded with a loud, joyous ovation and full-throated cheering.

  And then, at the culmination of this entire trip, when the mayor backed away and G.G. stepped forward to address the citizens of Sainte-Régine, Trevor finally spotted Philippe Lafleur. Juliette’s cousin was only a couple of rows back, directly in front of the honoree. The expression on his face was carved from stone. A backpack was slung over his shoulder, and there was something shiny and metal in his hands. Trevor stood on tiptoe, straining to identify the object. And when he realized what it was, he knew panic like he had never known it before.

  As G.G. opened his mouth to speak, Philippe raised the gun into clear view.

  “No!”

  The cry that was torn from Trevor’s throat was barely human. Without thinking—because there was no time—he flung himself between the weapon and his great-grandfather.

  At the foot of the stage, barely six feet away, Philippe squeezed the trigger. Suddenly, Trevor’s vision was filled with red. His eyes burned and he squeezed them shut.

  “Trev!”

  Trevor heard his father’s cry and then he was squashed under Dad’s weight. A second heavy blow came when G.G. jumped protectively on the two of them.

  In the crowd, several spectators grabbed hold of Philippe, who dropped the gun, shouting in anger. “Meurtrier! Meurtrier! Murderer! I give you the blood on your hands!”

  Two uniformed police officers pushed through the throng and took him into custody.

  Anxiously, the mayor and some of the onstage dignitaries unpiled the Firestones and hauled them to their feet.

  The mayor was babbling apologies, but no one could be heard over Dad bellowing, “Trev—are you all right?”

  Trevor took stock of himself, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his eyes. “I’m fine, Dad.”

  “But you’re bleeding!”

  Trevor was bathed in red from head to toe. G.G. was spattered with it too. Even Dad, who’d been out of the line of fire, was smeared from his contact with his son and grandfather. Puddles of the stuff lay on the stage floor.

  Trevor tasted a small drop at the corner of his mouth. “It’s not blood, Dad. I think it might be paint.”

  “La peinture?” asked the mayor in astonishment.

  One of the police officers held up Philippe’s “weapon.” A paint gun. The other examined the backpack. It contained a bladder of red paint connected to the gun via a plastic hose.

  At this, Philippe resumed his angry shouting. Juliette pushed her way through the crowd, but she could not calm her agitated cousin. The two officers began hauling Philippe away, but at that moment, G.G. rushed to the microphone.

  “Cut it out!” he barked. “Let the kid talk!”

  The mayor was horrified. “But, monsieur, he is saying such terrible lies about you!”

  “He’s Philippe Lafleur,” Trevor supplied, wiping the last of the paint out of his eyes. “René’s great-grandson. And the girl is Juliette, his cousin. They’re the last generation of their branch of the family.”

  The old soldier looked down at Philippe and Juliette. “So you know what happened. It’s time that everybody knew.” He addressed the crowd. “Their great-grandfather was the bravest man in all of France. The Resistance. He saved my life, and I repaid him by making the mistake that cost him his whole family. That was more than seventy-five years ago. I’ve lived with it that long.”

  He paused for a very long time, studying his shoes and struggling to regain control of his emotions. Dad tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but G.G. shook him off.

  “So the kid’s A-one right,” he resumed. He gestured to the interpreter. “Translate so everybody understands. I’m no hero. Or maybe I am. I was here and I did the best I could, just like everybody else in my unit. We all messed up our share, and we usually got away with it. But that day, when I thought I was being G.I. Joe, I brought disaster down on a family I loved. I understand why you kids don’t forgive me. I don’t forgive myself. It was unforgivable.”

  G.G. reached under his collar and drew out a gold chain. At the end of it dangled René’s metal ring. “This,” he went on, “is your great-grandfather’s ring. I’ve kept it with me ever since the last time I was in Sainte-Régine. I can’t give you back your family, but you should have this.”

  Trevor watched in amazement as the old man hopped down from the stage. He’d been almost feeble in recent days, but all at once, he was himself again, back straight, full of vitality, no sign of the old limp. He made his way to the Lafleur cousins, pulled the chain over his head, and handed the ring to Juliette.

  She stared at him for a moment, her eyes filling with tears. Then she reached out tentatively and hugged him.

  Next, G.G. turned to the police officers who were holding Philippe. “How about you give the kid a break? We’re not pressing charges.”

  The mayor nodded down to the officers, who reluctantly released Philippe’s arms. The seventeen-year-old stood shamefaced next to his cousin.

  The applause began slowly, then swelled to a crescendo. Soon the central square echoed with the roar of cheering.

  Looking down at his great-grandfather as the ovation rolled on and on, Trevor felt his chest swelling with a kind of pride that he’d never experienced before. In that moment, he understood why it had been so important for G.G. to return to Sainte-Régine. Not to get a medal, or reminisce about blowing up a Tiger tank, but to face his past and make peace with it. The Lafleur cousins had created La Vérité to keep Private Jacob Firestone away. Yet they turned out to be the main reason he had to come. That brief embrace between G.G. and Juliette had been nothing less than a gigantic weight lifted from the old man’s shoulders—one that had been crushing him for most of his long life.

  Trevor shook his head in wonder. Despite its cool elements, this trip hadn’t been easy. It had been horrible watching G.G. as his memories started to overwhelm him. Still, Trevor was filled with gratitude to have been a part of it all.

  The mayor may have had more ceremony planned, but G.G. was already in the middle of the crowd. Hundreds of people waited patiently for the chance to shake his hand and thank the hero of Sainte-Régine. The interpreter joined him so she could translate the endless stori
es from the citizens—tales passed down through the generations of the Nazi occupation and the joy that liberation had brought.

  Dad sidled up to Trevor, who was still wiping at the red paint on his face with a towel. “Why didn’t you tell us what you knew about those two cousins?”

  Trevor shrugged. “I didn’t really understand until yesterday, when G.G. explained about René’s family. And the poor guy was so freaked out by being back in Sainte-Régine—he didn’t need to hear there was a random Lafleur out there somewhere, plotting against him. Anyway, Juliette and I thought we could handle it. I guess we were wrong about that.”

  Dad frowned. “You still could have told me.”

  Trevor was not ready to back down. “Like you told me about La Vérité?”

  His father studied his paint-spattered shoes. “I thought it might scare you. I wanted you to have fun on this trip. I know I give you a hard time over your fascination with war, but it’s a good thing to pursue your interests.”

  Trevor sighed. “I’m still into the war, but I’ve got a lot more information now. I’m not glamorizing it, to use your favorite word. I keep thinking about Freddie and Leland and René’s family. This whole country—I mean, we liberated it, but we also blew a heck of a lot of it to smithereens.”

  “War makes a better video game,” his father agreed. “But if you’re looking for a way to live, I’ll take peace every time. Now let’s rescue G.G. before the locals recruit him to run for town council.”

  The crowd had finally thinned and the day’s honoree was saying merci and adieu to the last few admirers. When they moved off, only one attendee remained—a very old man. Trevor had noticed him before, hanging back for over an hour as G.G. met with the citizens of Sainte-Régine. Now he stepped forward. He had to be about G.G.’s age, his shoulders stooped, the skin of his face wrinkled around pale blue eyes.

  He said, in German-accented English, “So it is you.”

  G.G. stared. “Do I know you?”

  “I would not recognize you today,” the old German replied. “But when I saw your photograph as a soldier, I knew you at once. How could I forget the American who spared my life?”

  “Holy—” G.G.’s jaw dropped. “You’re that guy? Do you know how close I came to killing you?”

  The man nodded fervently. “You called me ‘High School.’ I never forgot. I looked it up at the end of the war. You know what? You were right. I was in high school when they drafted me—seventeen years old!”

  “No way!” G.G. exclaimed. “Me too!”

  Trevor and his father watched in amazement as two mortal enemies from the deadliest conflict in human history shared a reunion as joyful as one between long-lost brothers. G.G. introduced Dad and Trevor, and the German showed photographs of his wife, their three children, seven grandchildren, and eleven great-grandchildren.

  G.G. lingered over the pictures for a long time, as if he couldn’t get enough of them. Trevor was confused at first. Why were these foreign strangers so important? When the answer came to him, it was like a sunrise bursting over the horizon. None of those people would have ever been born if G.G. had done his duty and killed this man so many years ago. A snap decision—a moment of mercy—and all those lives became suddenly possible.

  It would not bring back René’s family, but it was a miracle just the same.

  The rapid-fire clank of machine-gun bullets ricocheting off the armor of the Sherman tank filled the air. The driver peered through the viewfinder and located the sniper’s nest, dug into the earthen mound under the base of the next hedgerow.

  Trevor frowned at the video-game image on the screen in front of him. The hedgerow looked enough like the real thing. The problem was the Sherman. What was it doing here at all? Tanks were almost useless in hedgerow country. It hadn’t taken the Allied commanders very long to figure that out during World War II. But whoever had designed this game either didn’t know or didn’t care.

  Undaunted, Trevor aimed the tank’s cannon at the sniper and took out the nest in a single blast. Very cool. But as he put the Sherman back in gear, he understood what was supposed to come next, and it bugged him. He was supposed to plow straight through that hedgerow into the next field. Everybody knew that the dense vegetation and root systems were too massively strong for even a Sherman to get through. He could practically hear G.G.’s voice telling the story: “The tank’s stuck!”

  On the other hand, this was Trevor’s favorite game. He had played this map hundreds of times. He crashed through—although he couldn’t keep himself from looking away as the hedgerow disintegrated. Fat chance.

  In the next field, he came under heavy fire from a German platoon. Right—like they’d just stand there in the open shooting at him when there was all this natural cover around. Didn’t these game designers do research?

  Suddenly, an enormous Tiger tank bulldozed through the opposite hedgerow, sixty meters away. Trevor rolled his eyes. Tigers were bigger than Shermans, but they couldn’t get through hedgerows either. Still, Trevor had played this game so often that he reacted instantly. He fired two shells and watched as the enemy exploded into a million pieces. He brimmed with satisfaction, but it didn’t last long. A Tiger tank wouldn’t just blow apart like that. You could knock it out if the blast reached the fuel tank, but the heavy armored body would stay together.

  Abandoning the tank controls, Trevor popped the hatch, took hold of the Sherman’s fixed machine gun, and fired furiously down at the Germans on the ground. The room reverberated with the noise of bullets singing past his ears, some of them grazing his helmet.

  The door was thrown open and Trevor’s six-year-old twin half sisters stormed into the room, whooping war cries. Each brandished a Barbie doll like a submachine gun, holding on to one leg and “shooting” through the other at the video-game image on Trevor’s TV screen.

  “Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat!” sang Kira.

  Kelsey opted for “Blam! Blam! Blam!”

  Trevor paused the game and leaped out of the beanbag chair to turn on the twins. “Whoa, you guys!”

  “We’re helping,” Kira told him.

  “Helping what?”

  “Helping you win the war,” Kelsey explained reasonably.

  Trevor powered off the console, and the girls howled in protest as the image of Normandy disappeared from the TV screen.

  “Listen,” he said, “that’s not the war. That’s a video game based on the war. Loosely based,” he added, picturing the Tiger tank blasting apart like a water balloon hitting the sidewalk. “It’s fun to play, but it’s not the real thing.”

  “But you love war,” Kira protested.

  The twins motioned around the room—the posters, the models of tanks and fighter planes, the action figures, the books, the school projects on every conceivable war-related subject. It certainly looked like Trevor loved war. Did he?

  He definitely loved the topic. He would always read the books and watch the movies. He’d continue to play the video games, flaws and all. But now that he’d seen the battlefields of World War II through his great-grandfather’s eyes, he knew that he didn’t love war itself. It was just too awful.

  His gaze found the newest picture on the wall—the one in the place of honor directly over his bed. It was a photograph Dad had taken at the last stop on their European trip. After Sainte-Régine, the Firestones had traveled to the city of Reims to attend the official ceremony marking the seventy-fifth anniversary of V-E Day—victory in Europe.

  Private First Class Jacob Firestone was a guest of honor at this event too, but he was far from alone. In the picture, he stood near the front of a distinguished group of hundreds of elderly figures of all shapes, sizes, and colors who had fought together to save the world from the greatest threat it had ever faced.

  Dad had always nagged Trevor about glamorizing war. But how could you not glamorize these veterans and what they had accomplished so long ago with their courage and sacrifice?

  At that moment, the familiar tone of an i
ncoming Skype call filled the room, and the TV screen displayed a photograph of a blond teenager identified as: JULIETTE L.

  For more than seventy-five years, there had been zero contact between the Firestones and the Lafleurs, but a lot had changed in that time. Trevor and Juliette had cell phones and technology. Their long-distance friendship was off to a good start.

  Kira squinted at the screen. “Who’s Juliette?”

  “Someone I met in France,” Trevor mumbled uncomfortably.

  Kelsey wouldn’t leave it alone. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  “Of course not! We just—had a connection.”

  “A love connection?” Kira probed.

  Six wasn’t as innocent as it used to be, Trevor reflected. “G.G. and her great-grandfather worked together during the war. Some bad things happened, but thanks to them, a whole town got saved.”

  It was a lousy explanation, but no words could ever really describe what people like G.G. had gone through during the war. Trevor had set out on this trip believing he knew it all. Now that he’d been there and seen so much, the only thing he was sure of was that he knew nothing.

  He reached for the button to accept the call. “Say hello to Juliette,” he told his sisters. “She’s—a friend of the family.”

  The three overstuffed duffel bags stood beside the bunks, waiting for the truck to come and collect them.

  “Who’s got a pen?” Jacob asked.

  Freddie yawned. “Do I look like Ernest Hemingway to you?”

  “What do you need a pen for?” Leland added.

  Jacob slapped his duffel. On the canvas was written, in blotchy ink, FORT BENNING OR BUST. Now they were leaving the post, their only home for months of training, shipping out for England.

  “I want to cross out Fort Benning and write Berlin,” Jacob explained.

  Leland patted himself down. “No pen. Sorry.”

  Jacob shook his head sadly. “I hate to show up on Hitler’s doorstep unannounced.”

  The barracks door flew open and another duffel was tossed inside. A second later, none other than Beau Howell ambled into the room. “Gents,” he greeted the three of them.

 

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