My Honor Flight

by McCurrigan, Dan

  “He will probably get sick from the chocolate,” said the guard matter-of-factly. “It was a bad trade.”

  I mentioned before that all of us in Buzz Company had moments when we broke down, when we snapped. I’d had so many challenges throughout our tour, so many problems. Right then, anger surged through my entire body at the sound of that little midget kraut talking all smug about the human being he helped torture. I flashed back to the first person I’d killed—that German on D-Day. And Dieter, and the goddamn cold of Belgium. And the stench from the barracks was still on my clothes and in my nose. The stench of victims of the goddamn Nazis. And I thought right then that I would have that stench in my nose for the rest of my life—that I wouldn’t ever get rid of it. And every time I smelled it, I would see that tooth seller’s tearful gray eyes weeping. And it was all because of people like this guard standing there by me. He personified the whole German leadership, and he represented all that was wrong with humanity. I had come to Europe to free us from evil. And it stood before me right now.

  I took about three steps and pulled my sidearm from its holster in one fluid movement. The guard lost his smirk, and his eyes got really big. He didn’t move, and I brought the pistol right up under his chin, pushing it into the soft tissue of his gullet, up above the voicebox. With my left hand, I grabbed the back of his neck, using it as a backdrop as I jammed the pistol deep into the soft tissue. He made a gagging sound, and quickly fell to his knees.

  “Mack!” yelled Tinpan. “What the fuck’re you doin’?”

  I reached up to his hair with my left hand and jerked his head back so he was looking up at me. And I’d pushed the pistol as far into his gullet as it would go. I could feel the skin stretched tight. He struggled to breathe, and veins popped up around his temples. But he didn’t say anything.

  McGregor chimed in. “Soldier! Drop your weapon!” I heard the distinctive rattle of the rifle as he brought it up. I knew he’d aimed it at me. But I didn’t care. I thought back to when O’Halloran had died. And Paul Taylor. And Mike Franklin. Gunderson, Hillbilly, Kozlowski. Pete. So many others. I saw images from the disaster in Bastogne, and I pushed that pistol even further into his throat. I was probably killing him just by poking him. Then I released the safety on the pistol.

  “No!” yelled Tin. “Goddamn it, Mack, he ain’t armed, and we ain’t in combat. You cain’t shoot him like this!”

  I remember watching the little bastard’s eyes. Blue as a sunny day. First they showed surprise when I attacked him, then passive compliance as I pulled him to the ground. Then as he gasped for breath, fear and survival. But now his eyes were calm. Those pale blue eyes looked up at me, slowly blinking. Acceptance. He was ready to die. I think he WANTED to die. Was he acknowledging his hand in this atrocity? Was he guilty of evil? Did he want me to free him of his own memories?

  We were all frozen in our stances in the silence for what felt like an hour. At first, this huge wave of righteousness enveloped me. I was bringing justice to the Germans. I desperately wanted to pull the trigger. In fact, I started to squeeze it, just as Tin started talking in a real calm voice. At first, I didn’t understand his words. I just recognized his voice. But then he kept saying a word I did recognize. Debbie. After about the third time, he brought me out of my focus.

  “Mack, think about Debbie. If you do this, you’ll be a criminal. You’ll be arrested.”

  The guard’s blinks were getting longer. He was struggling to breathe as he was losing consciousness. Tin’s words were getting through my adrenaline. Debbie. My hands had been all tense on the guard’s hair and on the pistol grip. But when I pictured Debbie, it was like a slap to my face. I relaxed slightly. The guard gasped as I pulled back a little on the pistol, and air rushed in as he inhaled. At that moment I felt my face flush hot in a panic. I had actually crossed the line. I had intended to murder someone. It wasn’t combat. I was going to kill someone, not because we were in battle, but because I wanted to. What kind of monster had I become? Had the war turned me into a murderer?

  I stepped back and let the guard fall to the ground. With trembling hands, I struggled to get my sidearm back in the holster. I collapsed to my knees, and put my face in my hands. Then I started bawling like a baby. Tin made a few comments, but I didn’t hear him. Then I felt a firm grip on my shoulder.

  “Get up, son,” came a familiar voice. It was full and deep. Cap.

  I stood up, but I was shaking my head, still crying. “Goddamn, Cap! This place turned me into a killer. I’m a fucking monster!” Cap grabbed me by the back of the neck, and pulled me into a hug. He held me real tight, and I just released on him. I was shaking as I cried, probably for five minutes. Nobody said anything. As I kind of let up, he released his hug on me. Our eyes met.

  “Doug, you’re a hell of a good man. Our whole platoon was full of good men. And we saw things that no one should see. We did things that no one should do. But we had a reason. We had a purpose. That purpose is done now. You won’t kill again. You’re going to go home, go back to Michigan. You’re going to get married and have a bunch of little shits running around your house. I’m not going to pretend that you’ll forget your time here. You won’t. Ever. But you know that you did the right thing, when it was needed. You sacrificed, so others could be FREE. You’re a hero, son. We all are. But the killing is done, and you won’t ever think of killing anyone again.”

  I sniffled and wiped the snot on the back of my hand. “This sure doesn’t feel like a hero,” I said, looking down.

  “Well, being a hero ain’t about parades. It’s about doing the shit work when no one else wants to.” He punched me in the chest with the heel of his palm. “So get to the hospital and do some more shit work. We ain’t payin’ you to stand around lollygagging.”

  We smiled at each other, and I turned with the others toward the hospital. They were still looking at me pretty wide-eyed. Later on, Tinpan said that the look on my face was the most intense thing he saw in the war. He said he didn’t think I’d even hear him, so all he could think to do was try to get the word Debbie into my mind. It worked. He saved me that day. So did she.

  We stayed at that camp for a week. Toward the end, there weren’t any prisoners left, and we were just staying there until we determined our next assignment. We walked through the buildings, and we found one of the barracks with the key still in the lock. Bill Stackhouse pulled the key out of the door, and stuck it in his pocket. “This door isn’t locking again. Ever.” I thought that was pretty powerful symbolism.

  Epilogue

  I sat next to Pops as the bus made its way from the airport to the memorial. After hearing his stories, I couldn’t help stealing glimpses of this little man, amazed at everything that he’d told me. During my whole life, he was just a friendly old guy who would give me candy when we visited his house in Michigan during the occasional holiday. In my teen years he would ask me about my girlfriends, and laugh as he’d tease me about them.

  Dad had instructed Pops to bring photos from the forties, and one souvenir from the war, to show to us at the memorial. I smiled at the photos as I paged through the old album. Pops looked tough back then. I had no image of him other than a shrunken old man with wispy white hair. The photos were a stark contrast—lean face, hollowed cheeks, muscular frame, bright eyes that peered right into the camera. And his hair really was crazy. Even with Brylcreem, he couldn’t keep it all down. Cowlicks in almost every photo. And Grandma Debbie was a hottie. I wished she were still alive to come with him.

  The plan for today was not as straightforward as it appeared. I knew that. Dad told us that he was going to take a commercial flight and meet us at the memorial. But Dad was always pulling pranks or setting up puzzles. I suspected there would be more to the day. Every Christmas, he would have some form of puzzle that my brother and sister would have to solve to get an extra Christmas present. It was a tradition in our house, and I think he enjoyed it more than we did.

  Today, he had arranged for us to fly
back with him on a commercial flight later. The Honor Flight folks didn’t like the approach, but when he’d told them more about his plans for the day, they let us make a one-way flight to the memorial.

  Pops knew that we were meeting Dad at the memorial. He thought I accompanied him so that he and I could spend some time together. Maybe to pass on some wisdom before I deploy. In three months, I was scheduled to leave for Afghanistan. Between stories, we talked about my assignment. As I heard more of his stories, I began to admit that I was scared. He convinced me that I wasn’t a chicken. That what I was feeling was normal.

  During the whole day, I was a big hit with the Honor Flight passengers. All the former soldiers admired my uniform and asked me about my outfit. They’d squeeze my shoulder or pat me on the back. “Go get ’em, son.” “You’ll do just fine.” “Make us proud!”

  But now, Pops and I sat together on the bus, and I watched him watch out the window. I wondered what Dad had in store for us at the memorial. I wondered what Pops was thinking. The bus rolled to a stop, and we sat for about ten minutes as the geriatric crowd slowly, one by one, stood up and shuffled out of the bus. No one was in a hurry. They all understood that they were moving as fast as they could. I stood up and backed up, and helped Pops to his feet. I watched him as we walked down the aisle. He kept bending down to look out the windows, trying to get a better view of the memorial. Like a little kid on a school field trip.

  As we made our way down the bus steps, the June sky was blinding. I blinked a few times as my eyes adjusted, and then stood for a minute taking in the sight. The memorial was up ahead, but to our left the Washington Monument pierced a brilliant blue sky. It was the perfect day. We walked slowly toward the entrance. Honor Flight staffers gave us instructions and handed us pamphlets.

  Dad appeared, smiling a mischievous goofy grin. He WAS up to something.

  “Hey guys, good to see you!” he said.

  “Hi, Petey,” said Pops. Petey. Grandpa’s name too. I had never had any idea.

  “Did you bring the souvenir?” asked Dad.

  Pops patted his jacket pocket. “Yep. Did you bring what I asked?”

  “Yep,” said Dad, patting HIS jacket pocket. “But first, let’s go in.”

  We headed to the Atlantic side of the memorial first. Pops slowly studied the bas-relief panels, spending an especially long time staring at the Battle of the Bulge panel. His eyes moistened. I wondered if he was replaying the bloodbath in his mind.

  “Hey, Pops,” said Dad. “Turn around here, I want you to see something.”

  We both turned, and I looked right at my brother! And then Mom, and Grandpa and Grandma, and my sister. Uncle Dan was here too, with his wife Rachel and their two daughters, Steph and Katie.

  “What in the world?” stammered Pops. A tear trickled down his cheek. I held my breath and bit my lip, fighting back tears myself.

  Grandpa stepped forward and hugged Pops. “We wanted to share this experience with you, Pops.” He cried too. Everyone was crying.

  After a few minutes of hugging and smiling, we started to wipe our tears away.

  “So what do you say, Pops, should we keep looking around?” I asked.

  “Not quite yet,” said Dad. He was grinning again. “We’ve got one more little surprise for you.”

  No one said anything. But they all had goofy grins like Dad, and they started crying again.

  “Hey goomba,” a voice croaked from behind the line of relatives.

  Pops stiffened, and then he smiled. “There’s only one S-O-B with that voice!” he said.

  The family parted to show three men behind them. Two were in wheelchairs, and one stood behind them.

  “Hey there, Light Bulb!” exclaimed a shrunken, bald-headed man in the left wheelchair. The lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses had to be an inch thick. “Looks like Buzz Company is back together!”

  Pops slowly walked to the men, his lips trembling. The men in the wheelchairs stood up, and joined the one behind them. They met in a circle of our family, and hugged each other, crying and laughing. Oily Chartelli, Big Swede Torgeson, and Bill Stackhouse. The last of the Ninth Platoon, Buzz Company.

  Dad had arranged it all. He used last year’s Christmas bonus to pay for everyone in the family to come to the memorial at the same time as the Honor Flight. There were conversations everywhere—people talking to Dad about how he did this, the veterans talking with each other, telling old inside jokes and stories. Some of the veterans’ family members also arranged to come along. We had about thirty people in our group. Finally after about a half hour, the old men started to get tired. They all sat down in wheelchairs, and we were ready to begin the solemn trip around the memorial.

  The four wheelchairs were side by side, and if one of the men wanted to stop, they would all stop and talk. As they passed the columns, they would ask each other questions.

  “Oklahoma? Who in the outfit was from Oklahoma?”

  “Tinpan Jones was from Oklahoma. I think he was the only one.”

  “Ole Tin. He was a hell of a good man.”

  “Yeah, he was. Hey, Mack, you remember that barn in France?” said Torgeson.

  Pops smiled, and looked back at me as I pushed his wheelchair. “Yeah, I remember it like it was today. That guy was crazy!”

  “Crazy like a fox!” said Torgeson. “Saved our rear ends that day!”

  “Alabama. Anyone from Alabama.”

  “Yeah, Hillbilly was from Alabama. What was his name?”

  “Hillbilly Jackson. But he wasn’t from Alabama. He was from Tennessee.”

  “Maybe Paul Taylor?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  I cleared my throat. “Taylor was from St. Louis.”

  Stackhouse looked at me. Even in his old age, he seemed solid. “How do you know that, son?”

  “Pops told me some of the stories from back then,” I said.

  Stackhouse nodded. “Paul Taylor was a hell of a man.” The others nodded in agreement.

  “You remember our first battle in Normandy?” said Chartelli. “Paul saw us get our cherries busted—uhh, I’m sorry, ladies, I don’t mean to be rude.” The women in the group just shook their heads and smiled.

  “That was where we got our first taste of combat.” They all nodded, and I noticed their lips tightened. For a brief instant, I saw that battle-hardened grimness in their faces.

  The tour went on like that for another hour, mixing stories and laughter and jokes. No one talked when we went to the Freedom Wall—4,048 gold stars, representing the 404,800 Americans killed during the war. When they reached the Eisenhower quote, they all stood to read it. D-Day June 6, 1944. You are about to embark upon the great crusade toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you... I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle.

  They stood in front of that quote, not talking for several minutes. Each was in his own thoughts. One by one they turned and went back to their wheelchairs. No one said anything. And no one moved. It felt like we were in church, praying for our own intentions. Eventually we started moving again.

  One of them spotted a Kilroy was here inscription in the wall, and they all guffawed about that.

  “I haven’t seen that in years and years,” said Pops.

  “Ya, me neither,” said Torgeson.

  “Pops,” said Dad. “Would it be all right if you all showed your souvenirs now?”

  “What do you mean ‘you all’?” asked Pops.

  “Well, I asked everyone to bring a souvenir,” said Dad.

  The men were all in a circle facing each other now, and they looked around at each other in anticipation, like little kids at Christmas. The family members were all gathered around in a circle, and some of them handed items to the veterans. They put the things in their laps.

  “Is that it?” Chartelli asked Pops, nodding at a felt-covered jewelry box on Pops’s lap.

  “No, this isn’t what you’re thin
king it is,” said Pops.

  “You were always embarrassed by it,” said Chartelli. “You should be proud of it, Mack. You earned it. You saved our asses.”

  “Earned what?” I asked. Then I felt a little self-conscious about breaking into the conversation.

  “Jesus,” said Chartelli, slapping his forehead in slow motion. “You mean this kid don’t even know?”

  Pops looked down and shook his head. “I never wanted a reward for killing.”

  “Look here, young fella,” said Chartelli, motioning me closer. “You going to combat and all, you need to know this. Your old great-grandpa here won the Medal of Honor. Without him, the whole damn platoon would have been wiped out in Belgium.” The entire crowd murmured in admiration and surprise.

  “That’s not true,” said Pops, nodding to Torgeson. “We had a whole group of us, didn’t we, Swede?”

  Torgeson nodded. “Ya, but Mack, you led us. If you hadn’t been there, we wouldn’t have survived.”

  “Was this the old watermill in Belgium?” I asked.

  They all nodded, but looked at me quizzically.

  “Hey, kid,” asked Stackhouse. “What DON’T you know about Buzz Company? I hope he didn’t tell you about all my girlfriends over there!”

  Everyone laughed, but Pops and I snuck a knowing glance at each other. I know we were both thinking about his affair in Paris. But he wasn’t embarrassed. He just kind of nodded at me in acknowledgement.

  “So, who starts?” asked Torgeson.

  “I’ll go,” replied Stackhouse. “That young fella over there told us to all bring any souvenir we had that the others might appreciate. Well, I got this.”

  He had a little black velvet bag on his lap, and he loosened the drawstring with shaking hands. Slowly he reached into the bag, and pulled out a rusted cast-iron key. He held it up for all to see. The other three men nodded silently and got really quiet as it was passed around among family members and the men from Buzz Company. Their eyes moistened again.