He did seem to know his medals. He lifted each from the box as if he and they were old friends. “Here’s three Purple Hearts. The folks who earned them either got wounded or killed.” Ignoring Katharine’s wince, he picked up the Bronze Star. “This one’s engraved on the back. See? Was that your friend’s dad?” He pointed to the name.
“Her brother. He was killed in Vietnam. One of the Purple Hearts is his, too, but I don’t know which one. The rest of the medals belonged to their daddy.”
“He must have fought in the Second World War. This one’s the Victory Medal they gave to all the folks who served.” Kenny showed her a big round disc with a woman’s figure on it and the words WORLD WAR II. It hung from a ribbon with a rainbow of colors on each side of a wide red stripe.
“It is certainly bright.” Katharine didn’t know what else to say.
“And here’s an Air Medal, a Presidential Unit Citation, and—whoa! Look at this!” He held up a blue circle with a gold border, golden wings joined by a white star, and the number 15 embroidered between the wings. “It’s a Fifteenth Air Force patch. I’ve never seen one of these.” He stroked it between his forefinger and thumb as he explained, “The Fifteenth was made up of heavy-bomber groups stationed in southern Italy during the last eighteen months of the war. Most of the fellows started out in Africa, but once southern Italy was taken, the army established the Fifteenth in the fall of ’forty-three and sent them in.”
He continued as if Katharine had objected. “I know we hear more about the Eighth Air Force, but that’s because they were stationed in England, where most of the reporters were. My Uncle Vik claims if it hadn’t been for the Fifteenth Air Force, our land troops could never have won the war. Their crews flew over enemy territory and blew up communications lines, oil refineries, major roads, and railroad yards—all sorts of infrastructure that Germany needed to win the war. Uncle Buddy agrees. He was in the air force during the first Gulf War, and he’s big into air-force history. He says folks make a lot of fuss over the infantry’s role in the invasion of Normandy, but they forget that the Fifteenth flew over enemy territory every single day, long before the ground troops got there. The Fifteenth also had a photo unit that flew unarmed over enemy territory, to shoot pictures for the bombers. Can you imagine the courage that took?”
He was so engrossed, he didn’t bother to wait for Katharine to nod. “And they had an amazing track record for rescuing air crews shot down in enemy territory. No other air force completed successful escape operations in as many countries.”
“Show-off.” Hollis drawled from the door to the library.
Kenny turned bright pink. Like Katharine, he seemed to be cursed with blushes that rose anytime he was embarrassed or annoyed.
“He is impressive,” Katharine chided her niece. “I didn’t know all that. Did you?”
“No,” Hollis admitted grudgingly.
“I probably was showing off,” Kenny admitted to Katharine, ignoring Hollis, “but military history is in my blood. Up where I was raised, practically every stream and hill was the site of some battle. If you dig much, you’re likely to uncover cannonballs and stuff. My granddaddy’s got such a big collection of old cannonballs and ammunition in his basement, the county fire department has a plaque on his house saying they will not come in case of fire.”
Hollis frowned. “You’re putting us on.”
“No-siree, it’s the gospel truth. He can’t get a speck of insurance, either. To hear him brag, you’d think that old collection was something worth having. He’s a real military buff. He was in the navy during Vietnam. Daddy and all my uncles, except Vik, served in some branch of the U.S. military.”
Hollis curled her lip. “Every man in the family but you?”
Katharine was surprised by her contemptuous tone. Hollis was vehemently opposed to war. Kenny, however, didn’t seem bothered. “Yep. Everybody but me. I don’t like fighting. I got licked when I fought kids at school. I figure I can do more for my country doing what I do best than shooting at somebody I never had a quarrel with. I can’t get real excited about re-enactments, either, but Granddaddy, Daddy, and all my uncles are involved in them. And almost every evening they sit around Granddaddy’s house re-hashing battles. To hear them tell it, if they’d of been the generals, the South would have won. When they aren’t talking about the War of Secession, they’re talking about World War II, Vietnam, or the Gulf Wars, figuring out how they would have done things different. You can’t grow up hearing war talk day and night without some of it sinking in.”
The term “War of Secession” wasn’t one Katharine used, but she had heard it somewhere recently. While she was trying to remember when or where, Hollis sauntered over and picked up a medal dangling from a blue–and-yellow ribbon. “What’s this one? It’s real pretty—looks like a sun or something with a bird of some sort in the middle.”
“It’s an Air Medal. The bird is an eagle with lightning in its talons. You had to fly a certain number of missions to earn one. Twenty-five or thirty, I think.” He turned it over and showed them the engraved name: WINSTON ARTHUR HOLCOMB.
“That’s not very many,” Hollis objected. “Uncle Tom flies that much every few months.” She laid the medal down as if it were unimportant.
Kenny cocked one eyebrow. “Does Uncle Tom fly with folks shooting flak up from the ground? And with fighter planes stuck on his tail?”
Katharine gave Hollis a warning look and answered for her. “No, he doesn’t, and you’re right. That would be a lot of missions to fly under those conditions.” She was not about to let World War III break out in her study.
“What’s this one?” Hollis lifted a plain blue ribbon framed in gold with raised leaves on it. “It doesn’t look like a medal at all.”
“It’s a Presidential Unit Citation. I’ll bet his unit got that for flying some of the Ploesti raids.”
Meeting blank stares from the women, he was delighted to elaborate. “Ploesti was a huge oil refinery in Romania. Germany took it over, and by 1943 had it producing something like a million tons of oil a month plus the highest-octane gasoline in Europe. The folks who would later be the Fifteenth Air Force started bombing it around August of ’forty-three, and they bombed that sucker for nearly a year. That earned the whole unit a citation.” He set it back on the table.
Katharine picked up the gold star Bara had loved. “What is this one?”
Kenny took it and held it reverently. “Whoa! This is the Medal of Honor, the highest honor the military can bestow. They almost never give one, and when they do, the person has to have done something spectacular. It’s so special that even if a private gets one, a general will salute him.”
“Or her,” Hollis added.
“Or her,” he conceded. “Your friend’s daddy must have been a hero of major proportions.”
Katharine nodded. “So I understand. But researching what he did to earn this many medals could take ages, couldn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. They give a citation with every medal. If your friend’s daddy kept his medals, he probably kept his citations.”
She was delighted it could be that simple. “I’ll tell her. Thanks so much.”
Getting rid of Kenny wasn’t so simple. He was still fingering the Medal of Honor.
“We can actually get the citation for the Medal of Honor online. Back in 1973, Congress decided they ought to collect the citations from all Medal of Honor recipients in one place, and that entire record is now available at www-dot-army-dot-mil. They have the recipients listed by name and the war they fought in.” He set down the medal and started typing. “What was his name, again?” In a very short time the printer spat out the results. Kenny handed Katharine the printout with the expression of a puppy presenting a slipper. “Here he is.”
Katharine thanked him, but made no move to read the paper. “Thanks. I’ll give this to Bara.”
Hollis reached for the sheets. “Aren’t you even going to read it? Mrs. Weidenauer won’t mind.” W
hen Katharine hesitated, Hollis began to read aloud.
Holcomb, Winston Arthur (Air Mission). Rank and organization: Captain, U.S. 15th Army Air Corps. Place and date: Blechhammer, Germany, 20 November 1944. For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty while serving as pilot of a B–24 aircraft on a heavy-bombardment mission to attack the South Synthetic Oil Refinery at Blechhammer, Germany, 20 November 1944. Before this mission, Captain Holcomb had already completed the required number of missions, but he unhesitatingly volunteered for this assignment. The mission was highly successful, but costly. Twenty-three of the twenty-six planes over the target were hit by flak. The plane which Captain Holcomb was flying was riddled from nose to tail by flak and knocked out of formation. A number of fighters followed it down, blasting it with cannon fire as it descended.
Hollis stopped and complained, “They make this sound like an action movie.”
Kenny took the papers from her. “Let me read it if you can’t show the proper respect.”
“I can show respect.” She snatched back the sheets and kept reading.
A cannon shell hit the craft, blowing out the windshield, killing the copilot and wrecking the instruments. Captain Holcomb’s left leg was struck above the knee. However, none of the other members of the crew knew how to pilot the plane, so he asked his crew to apply a tourniquet to his leg while he continued to fly.
Again Hollis stopped. “Do you think this is really true?”
“Of course it’s true,” Kenny declared. “They verify it very carefully.”
“Whew!” Hollis took a deep breath before continuing.
The controls failed to respond and 2,000 feet were lost before he succeeded in leveling off. The radio operator informed him that the bomb bay was in flames as a result of the explosion of cannon shells, which had ignited the incendiaries. With a full load of incendiaries in the bomb bay and a considerable gas load in the tanks, the danger of fire enveloping the plane and tanks exploding seemed imminent. When the emergency release lever failed to function, Captain Holcomb gave the order to bail out. Four of five surviving crewmembers left the plane. The waist gunner’s parachute, however, was on fire. He beat out the flames and continued firing at the enemy while Captain Holcomb, thinking only of saving his crewman, continued to fly.
“He must have been in excruciating pain,” Katharine exclaimed.
“At least,” Hollis agreed, “but the style still leaves something to be desired.”
“Keep reading,” Kenny commanded.
The plane was under enemy attack for another half hour before Captain Holcomb lost the fighters. Flying his crippled bomber over peaks as high as 14,000 feet, Captain Holcomb informed the gunner that a crash landing was imminent. He ordered the gunner to take his own parachute and exit the plane, to lighten the load. From the ground, the gunner watched the plane land in a distant upland meadow. When it burst into flames moments later, the gunner believed the captain had perished. Local residents assisted the gunner to return to base, where he reported Captain Holcomb’s bravery and death.
Kenny interrupted, surprised. “He died?”
“No,” Hollis told him. “It was like Mark Twain—the rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated. I’ve known this man all my life. Hush and listen!”
Six weeks later, Captain Holcomb rejoined his unit. He stated that he had been pulled from the plane by local residents who informed him he was in Yugoslavia. His wounds were treated by a local nurse, whose family cared for him until he was able to travel, then they assisted him to rejoin Allied forces. Although Captain Holcomb had received excellent care, his leg could not be saved. He returned state-side 15 February 1945.
They stood in silence for several minutes. Katharine had no idea what the others were thinking, but a searing conviction was burning itself into her brain: The man who endured that flight would never have killed himself.
That’s as far as she had gotten when her thoughts were interrupted by Hollis. “Why have you got these things, Aunt Kat?”
“Bara asked if I could find out what each medal was for.”
Hollis rolled her eyes at Kenny. “Aunt Kat takes on some of the dumbest projects. Why couldn’t Mrs. Weidenauer do her own research?”
“Your mother volunteered me, so don’t ask why I didn’t say no. You’ve lived with Posey all your life. But at least, thanks to Kenny, it won’t take as long as I had feared. All I have to do is ask Bara to look through her father’s files for citations to go with the other medals, right?”
He nodded.
Hollis slid a glance Kenny’s way, then strolled over to the computer. “I see you got it up and working again.”
“Yeah. That’s what I do.” He started to put the medals back in the box, but Katharine touched his hand to stop him.
“What are all the little stars at the bottom?”
“Battle stars awarded to his heavy-bomber group during the war. Do you know what bomber group he was in?”
“No idea.”
“If you can find out, you could Google it. A lot of them have Web sites, with pictures and memoirs. Some also list missions they flew, and citations and stars awarded to the whole group. As for the medals, like I said, each one comes with a citation stating what was done to earn it. Tell your friend to look for the citations.”
“What if she can’t find them?” Hollis made it sound like a test.
Kenny passed. “She could go to www-dot-national archives-dot-gov and click on the veterans pages. They should be able to help her figure out what the medals were for. She’d need to do it herself, though, as next of kin. They don’t release those records to just anybody. And they had a fire back in 1973 that destroyed a number of records. Still, they can usually reconstruct a good bit of a man’s service record—or a woman’s,” he added before Hollis could protest, “if the next of kin requests it.”
“I’ll bet we could get most of the information by searching for Winnie’s name.” Hollis leaned toward the keyboard.
“Not now,” Katharine protested as the hall clock chimed seven.
Kenny verified the time with his watch. “I didn’t know it was so late. I ought to be getting home, I reckon.”
“I reckon so,” Hollis mimicked his accent.
To Katharine’s surprise, he grinned. “A little more practice and you might learn to talk right.”
Hollis grinned in spite of herself.
“Would you like to stay for supper—both of you?” Until the words were out of her mouth, Katharine hadn’t known she was going to utter them. Immediately she regretted the invitation. How pathetic was that, inviting young adults who had millions of interesting things to do to stay and eat with somebody as old as their mothers?
To her surprise, Kenny accepted at once. “If you’re sure you don’t mind. A home-cooked meal would beat a fast-food hamburger, which is what I eat most nights on my way home.”
“I’d like a home-cooked meal for a change, too,” said Hollis—as if she couldn’t go downstairs any night of the week and eat one that Julia, her mother’s cook, had prepared.
“Fine.” Katharine tried to conceal her chagrin. What was she going to feed them? This habit she was developing of inviting strangers to dinner on the spur of the moment was getting out of hand. Still, she did have shrimp in the freezer and pasta in the pantry. “Shrimp fettuccine okay with you? With salad and rolls?”
“Sounds great,” Kenny told her. “Do you need any help?” He picked up his glass from the floor and looked with dismay at a small puddle left by condensation. He whipped out a clean handkerchief—a handkerchief? Hollis asked Katharine silently over his head—and wiped up the water, then drained the glass and held it up. “Shall I set this by the sink?”
“I’ll get it,” Katharine offered, but he shook his head.
“My mama would have a fit if I let you wait on me.”
She led them toward the kitchen, wondering what she’d do with them while she prepared the meal.
Cha
pter 13
She had an inspiration.
“Those bookshelves I ordered for Jon’s room were delivered this afternoon,” she told Hollis. “Kenny put them in my study. Think you all could assemble them?”
“Sure.” Kenny flexed his hands like he couldn’t wait to get started. “Do you have a couple of screwdrivers?”
Katharine fetched the screwdrivers and abandoned the two of them to the job. “Supper in forty-five minutes.”
In the kitchen, she put on water for pasta and shrimp. She was tearing romaine when Kenny joined her. “Do you need any help, ma’am? Hollis says she has the bookshelves under control.” His gaze wandered through the bay window, where the afternoon had become a soft, diffused yellow. A couple of butterflies were playing together above the purple buddleia and a sparrow was having an evening bath. “You’ve got a gorgeous yard.”
“Why don’t you go walk around a little? You’ve been cooped up inside all day.”
His face lit up. “I’d like that. Living in an apartment, I don’t get outdoors much, but my grandma loved flowers, and I used to help her out in the yard.”
She waved him toward the door. “Enjoy.”
Hollis came into the kitchen a few minutes later, disgusted. “I finally pried the box open, but I think the instructions are translated from Chinese. They don’t make a speck of sense.” Before Katharine could reply, Hollis glanced out the window. “What is he doing?”
Kenny had his nose buried in a yellow rose.
“A man who loves roses can’t be all bad,” Katharine told her. She stepped to the door and called, “Kenny? Would you come get a knife and cut a few flowers for the table?”
“I got a knife.” He pulled out a pocketknife. “Will daisies and liriope be okay? They look pretty together, and you got some healthy-looking liriope.”
“I sure do. It would take over the place if I’d let it. Cut as much as you like.”
“Of course he has a ni-i-ife,” Hollis said under her breath as Katharine rejoined her. “He probably has a plastic pocket liner, too.”
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