The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II

by John E. Nevola

  The Last Jump

  A Novel of World War II

  John E. Nevola

  Copyright 2010 John E. Nevola

  Kindle Edition

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book. 10-23-2015 V6R4.2

  The Last Jump

  A Novel of World War II

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2010 John E. Nevola

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4327-5561-4

  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4327-5665-9

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-4524-3144-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010923837

  Copyright 2010 – Reg. Number TX 7-255-138

  Most men lead lives of quiet desperation

  and go to the grave with the song still in them.

  Henry David Thoreau (1817 – 1862)

  Dedicated to my mother who was my champion,

  my wife who is my miracle

  and

  my children who will always be my inspiration.

  Thank you all for helping me sing.

  With all my love,

  j.n.

  Preface

  I knew they were the “Greatest Generation” long before the Tom Brokaw book and well ahead of Saving Private Ryan and Band of Brothers. One only had to grow up with a father and nine uncles who served in World War II to realize how special these people were who served in “The War”.

  My father and his five brothers served in the United States Merchant Marine. My four uncles on my mother’s side were footslogging GIs in the United States Army, as were most of their friends. They were all just barely Americans, being the first American-born generation from Italian immigrants. Some were drafted, some volunteered, but they all served. They filled my head with their experiences and spurred my curiosity about the great adventure they had embarked upon. In all the stories they told, numbering in the dozens, they always left out the emotions of their fear and how they dealt with it. Also missing were the dangers they faced and how they survived.

  My indoctrination was sterile, devoid of all the barbaric savagery of war or accounts of men who never returned. These veterans were proud of their service but never boasted or bragged about themselves. They reserved that for others. To a man, they were modest about their own contribution. As a youngster I listened in awe of what they experienced and accomplished.

  It was only later in life, as I studied the conflict, did my aperture widen sufficiently to view this struggle on a global scale and understand how ubiquitous the contributions and sacrifices of all Americans were. The United States was spared the destruction seen by much of Europe and the world. Nevertheless, this conflict consumed America. The young men of this nation, many just boys, went off to the far-flung battlefields of the world for the duration, never knowing if and when they would ever see home again.

  They went to places they never heard of, couldn’t pronounce or even find on a map. Men and women from all social classes pitched in. The American military included the sons of Senators and Congressmen, movie stars, sports heroes, celebrities and men and women from all walks of life. Most Americans viewed this conflict as a fight for the survival of their country. They were fighting two of the most militaristic nations in history who had already built tremendous war machines and had been fighting for years. Germany and Japan seemed invincible and in the beginning of America’s involvement in the war, the outcome was seriously in doubt.

  Those who stayed behind went to work in the war factories and struggled to keep up with the incessant demand for war material and supplies. President Franklin D. Roosevelt called America the “Arsenal of Democracy” and the production might of this country went into overdrive. The women of America put down their aprons and picked up riveting guns and welding torches. These housewives built the fighting ships and sleek planes in unimaginable numbers. Massive shipyards and aircraft factories were constructed to build the ships and planes. An unprecedented effort to build an Atomic Bomb consumed immeasurable resources. And to tie all of this together, significant improvements were required to the nation’s roads, rail and communications infrastructure. It was a monumental conversion of peacetime manufacturing to urgent wartime production.

  Even the children became involved as they collected scrap metal, tin foil and rubber bands to help the war effort. Rationing of goods reached into every home. The lives of everyone in America were touched by this great world conflict. No one was spared from the storm of change. Almost as an afterthought, today’s generation began to realize and recognize the Greatest Generation. It may have started with the Brokaw books or Spielberg movies but I have a sense the veterans themselves began it. Dying at the rate of 1,500 per day, they realized time was running out and they had to tell their stories lest they be lost forever.

  Encouraged by Public Law 106-380, The Veteran’s Oral Histories Project Act of 2000, World War II veterans were moved to action. They began showing up in the classrooms of America, to relay and record their own oral histories. They consented to interviews that just a few years before would have been unthinkable. Veterans Associations reached out to them on the Internet and some published books of their wartime memoirs. These World War II veterans, motivated by their desire to pass on their truths to future generations and driven by their own mortality, finally stirred, awoke and broke their silence. Those personal accounts, the last parting gifts from the Greatest Generation, have had a profound affect on the people of this country.

  After years and years of controversy, the World War II Memorial was finally completed in Washington D.C. and opened to the public on 29 April 2004. Previously, the National D-Day Memorial, in Bedford, Virginia, was dedicated on 6 June 2001 and the National D-Day Museum in New Orleans was unveiled on 6 June 2000. Even these tributes do not adequately acknowledge the gift this generation has made to America and the future of the world.

  Sixteen and a half million Americans served in the Armed Forces during the Second World War. While we owe them all an incalculable debt of gratitude, within this large group of individuals was a select group of men who served on a higher level. They were the men of the U.S. Marine Corps and U.S. Army Infantry. Many were just young boys not yet past their teens.

  Some volunteered for this dangerous duty but most were just assigned to the dubious distinction of becoming riflemen. It was a dangerous job few wanted and most successfully avoided. The relative few who became combat infantrymen did their job well enough to beat back some of the most highly trained, professional soldiers in the world. The American citizen-soldier faced hardships and depravations not seen since Valley Forge. To the infantryman, the fighting and killing was up close and personal. Close enough, at times, to smell an enemy’s breath or hear his last gasp as he died. The Infantry, “The Queen of Battle”, bore the brunt of the dirty fighting, endured the horrendous living conditions and suffered the preponderance of casualties. Out of the sixteen million who served in all the branches of the services, only about 800,000 were combat infantrymen.

  They were America’s spear.

  Within this group was a unique subset of men who stepped forward to volunteer for special training and hazardous duty. Their motivations ranged from a thirst for adventure to a desire to be part of an elite unit. Whatever their reasons, they would ultimately find themselves in the most crucial, dangerous, and sometimes hopeless situations throughout the war. Amo
ng the more celebrated special units were The 5307th Composite Unit (Provisional) codenamed “Galahad” but widely known as “Merrill’s Marauders”, the First Special Service Brigade, “The Devil’s Brigade”, the Marine Raider Battalions, the U.S. Army Rangers and the U.S. Army Airborne Infantry more commonly known as paratroopers.

  They were the best among America’s warriors. Their enemies knew them and feared them. After the early military setbacks at Pearl Harbor and the massive surrender of the American and Filipino forces in the Philippines, these superbly trained specimens of America’s youth inspired the people on the Homefront. They built and nurtured the reputation of being America’s toughest tough guys. In the dark days of 1942 they were this country’s most visible and tangible hope. In the years to follow they became the shining example of American courage and pride.

  These gallant men were the tip of the American spear.

  This story honors them and is a belated but heartfelt “thank you” to all Americans who contributed to the victory.

  Chapter One

  The White House – February 16, 1996

  “All I want is compliance with my wishes after reasonable discussion.”

  Winston Churchill (1874 - 1965)

  The President stood by the window of the Oval Office staring at Marine One, a Sikorsky VH-60N helicopter, squatting patiently on the helipad. The huge dark green craft with its long drooping rotor blades was crewed by the elite members of HMX-1, better known as Marine Helicopter Squadron One. The ungainly machine was poised and ready to carry him and the First Lady to their weekend retreat. It would be a relief to get away for a few days. But there was one last piece of unfinished business before he could leave.

  It had not been a particularly good week for him. His poll numbers were down and the news of the grounding of the oil tanker Sea Empress on the Welsh coast was particularly irksome as it spilled seventy thousand gallons of crude oil into the Atlantic Ocean. He looked forward to a working weekend at Camp David away from the press and the daily grind of the White House.

  “Mister President,” his personal secretary stepped through the door. “The Chairman and the Secretary are here.”

  “Send them in.”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretary of the Army filed into the Oval Office and the President motioned them to one of the two white facing sofas across from his desk. “Charlie, Aaron, please sit.”

  The President stood across from them, holding a piece of paper. He handed it to the Secretary of the Army, Charles Radcliffe, as they all sat down.

  “Charlie, this letter was given to me by Congressman Williams of the Congressional Black Caucus.” The meeting would assume an informal tone, at least to start.

  “He asked for a formal review and personal response from me. The Black Caucus is way up my ass on this issue and I really do not want to deal with this with the election coming up.” The President looked at both men.

  General Clayton raised his eyebrows. “Issue, Mister President?” The general was in his dress green uniform with a chest full of colorful ribbons and four shiny silver stars perched proudly on each collar.

  “This is a big issue for these people, Aaron,” replied the President pointing to the letter. “Do you know there was not a single Medal of Honor awarded to a black serviceman in World War II? There were four hundred and thirty two of them presented in that war and not a single one to an African-American!” He paused. “I did my homework.” The President stood up and walked to his desk. He picked up a small black cloth covered metal case about the size of an envelope and placed it on the glass coffee table between the two couches. “Open it, Aaron.”

  Clayton reached down and flipped open the lid revealing a Medal of Honor. He carefully lifted the Medal by the dark blue eight-sided pad, adorned with thirteen small white stars. It was a tremendous honor to hold it, even for a moment. All three men stared intently at it. It was the Air Force version, the largest of all the services, featuring the head of the Statue of Liberty in the center.

  The Chairman was again the first to speak. “As you know, Mister President, this Medal is sacred to everyone in the military. Officers of every rank salute the bearer. Most of the roughly thirty-four hundred Medals awarded were done posthumously.”

  “But none to African-Americans, dead or alive,” responded the President.

  “Mister President,” Secretary Radcliffe chimed in, “As you know there have been Medals of Honor awarded to black Americans in the Civil War, World War I, Korea, Vietnam…”

  “But none to the black servicemen of World War II, Charlie,” the President interrupted. “And the World War I Medal was just awarded a few years ago to, what was his name…Stover?”

  “That would be Corporal Freddie Stowers, sir,” General Clayton corrected, “in 1991. President Bush presented that Medal to his surviving sisters.”

  “Right,” said the President with an edge in his voice. “Imagine that! A Republican president remedied that injustice and it was over seventy years after the fact. So tell me why we can’t fix this World War II problem?”

  Radcliffe handed the letter to General Clayton and continued, “We’ve been reviewing this, sir. We have a study team already in place doing the research and combing the National Archives but it’s a delicate and difficult issue. There were few black combat troops in that war and therefore, fewer opportunities.”

  “Fewer, perhaps,” the President again interrupted, “but I cannot accept the suggestion there were none!”

  “But we all know there was a good deal of institutional racism in the military back then,” Radcliffe continued ignoring the interruption. “So I’m sure there were some acts of valor that were, shall we say, intentionally overlooked.”

  “Like that one?” the President asked pointing to the letter.

  “Sir, we don’t know if this letter is accurate,” said a skeptical General Clayton after reading it. “There were no black GIs in the paratroopers and the Eighty-second Airborne wasn’t even at Bastogne. This letter was written by the granddaughter of a black soldier who supposedly participated in this action.” General Clayton shook his head negatively. “The battle history and the facts don’t support this claim. It simply cannot be accurate.”

  The room fell silent for a moment while the President stood, walked to his desk and sat down behind it. He had thought this through. He was about to order a delicate maneuver that had to be done perfectly. If he was successful, he could lock up the African-American vote for the Democratic Party for years to come. The rest of the discussion would be more formal.

  “Mister Secretary…General…here is what I need you to do,” the President began while he ran a hand through his thick gray hair. “It is my fervent belief there has been a great injustice done to black American servicemen during World War II. I want you to rectify that.”

  “Yes sir, Mister President,” Radcliffe replied.

  “Continue with whatever you’ve been working on but the process must withstand the greatest scrutiny. The last thing I want is to be accused of doing this for political reasons. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir,” both men responded.

  “Therefore, I would like your recommendations. As long as I can demonstrate the awards are deserved.” The President stood up, signaling the end of the meeting.

  “Understood, Mister President,” General Clayton replied. The Secretary and the General stood up to leave. The general placed the Medal back in its case and handed it back to the President along with the letter.

  The President smiled slightly. “It’s important to do this thing right, gentlemen. Find a way!” He handed the letter back to the general. “Start with this!”

  “Yes sir,” said Radcliffe. “We’ll get it done right, sir.”

  The two men made their way toward the door.

  “One more thing,” called out the President.

  “Sir?”

  “When President Bush awarded that Medal of Honor, it was to surviving relati
ves. When you complete your work I don’t want to be handing out Medals to someone’s son or daughter because their father or grandfather died getting the damn thing…or because they survived the war but didn’t live long enough to accept it. That is not exactly the front page photo I’m looking for,” the President said tapping the case on his desk.

  “Sir?” asked Secretary Radcliffe.

  “Find me a live one!”

  Chapter Two

  Bedford, Virginia – February 2, 1941

  “A good and faithful judge ever prefers the honorable to the expedient.”

  Horace, (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) (65 BC - 8 BC)

  “I know you came up hard, Jake,” Judge Frank Draper admonished as he addressed a youthful Jake Kilroy in the Bedford County Courthouse. “But you have been before me too many times and I have just about lost my patience with you, son.”

  Jake stood handcuffed in silence alongside Sheriff Leslie Abbott, directly in front of the judge’s bench. He was born John Kilroy and like so many boys named John; he quickly became Jack, ultimately corrupted to Jake. He was born in Bedford in 1923, an only child of Margaret and Clyde Kilroy who were both killed in an automobile accident when Jake was nine years old. Martha Tidrick, his mother’s sister, tried her best to raise him but times were tough as the Great Depression gripped America. Eventually, Jake had to be given up to the County Orphanage followed by a series of foster homes administered by the First Baptist Church of Bedford.

  Jake was industrious and hard working but grew up with a huge chip on his shoulder and was quick to settle disagreements with his fists. Everyone who met him liked him at first but only had to see his hair-trigger temper once before they decided it was prudent to steer clear of him.