Both young men had similar dark hair and facial features but they were standing far enough away from the camera to render specific details somewhat inscrutable. J.P. could not tell which one was his father. Neatly written on the back of the picture was, “Jake and I, Oujda, June 1943”. Every time he looked at this picture he wondered, where the hell is Oujda?
The other picture was of two soldiers standing on either side of his mother. He recognized his father but not the other soldier. There was a familiar looking bridge in the background. On the reverse side in faded blue ink was scrawled, “Jake, Johnny and me, September 1943”.
J.P. read the short letter again for what had to be the fiftieth time. It was obvious his mother had written it, but it raised more questions than it answered. Despite his ambivalent behavior, he knew what she wanted him to do.
What was it he told her? I’ll find out where he is and I’ll contact him. He never did it. Then, of course, there was that other reason why he dreaded confronting his father.
Chapter Six
New York City – March 31, 1942
“The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress,
and grows brave by reflection.”
Thomas Paine (1737 - 1808)
Johnny Kilroy looked in the mirror in the second floor men’s bathroom of the Armed Forces Induction Center in New York City. He repeatedly wet his hands with cold water and massaged his reddened face and back of his neck. He had smart-mouthed a gunnery sergeant and was about to be inducted into the United States Marine Corps.
He stepped outside the bathroom into the hallway and sat down on a thick, sturdy wooden bench along the wall. He needed a moment to collect himself and clear his head. The temptation to walk out the door and take the subway back to his apartment in Washington Heights was overwhelming. The physical act would be easy. Just walk out the door, down into the subway and take the train to his apartment on 165th Street and Fort Washington Avenue directly across from Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. He could be home in thirty minutes. As much as he wanted to stay out of the Marines, however, he could never willfully avoid serving his country in her time of need. But at that moment, the comfort of home was beckoning him.
Johnny grew up in “The Heights”. He was raised in a working class family of Irish immigrants from County Cavan, Ireland. His father held jobs as a bricklayer and a laborer while his mother worked for a doctor cleaning his office and house. Johnny helped by working a newspaper route after school.
Although the family struggled to make ends meet during the Great Depression, Johnny always felt well taken care of. His parents placed great emphasis on education and he was conditioned at an early age to attend college.
The neighborhood was as close-knit as it was diverse. The east side of Broadway, known as the “shanty” side, was a mixture of ethnic groups which included Irish, Italian, German, Eastern European and small but growing Hispanic and Black populations. All shared the same problems and challenges of survival and the same hopes and dreams of a better life for their children. Shared activities strengthened the already strong sense of community. Saturday afternoons were spent in the local movie theatres where a nickel would buy two B-Western movies, twenty-five cartoons and a cliffhanger serial which kept the kids coming back week after week. Among Johnny’s favorites were the Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon serials with Buster Crabbe. It was at one of these Saturday matinees he met Rose Scalise.
The west side of Broadway was an affluent middle-class Jewish community. Johnny’s mother often referred to it as the “lace” side of the tracks. Many of the residents on the “shanty” side aspired to someday move to the “lace” side. Someday.
The Heights was a thriving, bustling community. On any given day, trucks could be seen delivering coal on shiny chutes into the basements of the tenement buildings. Vendors in horse-drawn wagons flocked the crowded streets selling ice, vegetables and sharpening scissors and knives. The sounds of children playing were ever-present. It was a neighborhood where people watched out for each other and everyone felt safe.
Johnny’s parents were not thrilled when he married Rose but they eventually accepted it. In time they actually became quite fond of her even though she was of Italian decent at a time when Irish-Italian marriages were frowned upon. When his parents moved to New Jersey, Johnny and Rose took over their apartment. There they began their lives in earnest. Rose worked as a nurse’s aide at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital and Johnny attended CCNY while working part-time as a taxi cab driver. They were planning to start a family when he graduated. Like so many others, their plans went to hell when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.
Johnny and Rose often discussed the possibility of him joining the military. He gave the Army Air Corps serious consideration but Rose was not keen on him flying. To most, the navy seemed like a reasonable choice, but Johnny was prone to getting seasick and was not a good swimmer. Besides, if he were going to serve on ships, the Merchant Marine paid much better and he would be assured of getting back home to New York about every six to eight months. The army seemed like the logical choice. If only he could get into a specialty that took advantage of his intellect. They probably didn’t need a history major but he was conversant in French, fluent in Italian and could get by in German. Languages came easy to him because of his photographic memory. He was hopeful he might leverage those skills into a relevant military occupational specialty.
They discussed, contemplated and mulled over all these questions until finally time ran out. The orders for a pre-induction physical were followed by orders for induction by only a few months. And here he was, induction letter in hand and just a few minutes away from being impressed into the United States Marines.
As he sat on the bench, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, his hands on his temples and staring at the floor, a pair of boots stepped into his line of sight. Olive drab military trousers were tucked up into the boots, which were the shiniest he had ever seen. Johnny sat back to look up at an army officer standing above him. He was immediately impressed by the stature of the soldier. He was well over six feet tall with wide shoulders and a broad muscular chest. Johnny noticed the thick neck of a football player and the single silver bar of a first lieutenant on his collar.
“I overheard your little chat with the sergeant,” said the officer. “Maybe I can help.”
Johnny was about to stand up when the officer sat down beside him. “I can get you into the army.”
“What?” Johnny was surprised by this unexpected turn of events. “How can you?”
“My name is Lieutenant Wolff, and I have priority here,” he replied. “Just sign this form and I’ll walk you up to the desk and you’ll be inducted into the army. Just like that!” The lieutenant snapped his fingers and smiled.
“What am I signing?” asked Johnny.
“It doesn’t matter, you’ll be out of the Marines,” replied Wolff holding out a piece of paper. “Just sign it.”
Johnny hesitated for a moment. “I just need to know what I’m getting into. If you wouldn’t mind taking a minute to explain, I’d appreciate it.”
Wolff let out an impatient sigh. “I’m a recruiter for Army Airborne Command. My job is to recruit volunteers for the paratroopers.” Wolff pointed to the jump wings pinned above his pocket. “The reason I can get you into the army is simple. Volunteers for the airborne have priority over every other branch. The reason I can’t spend all day answering your questions is I’m about to leave New York for my next recruiting assignment.” Wolff glanced at his watch. “But I have about five minutes so you have that much time to decide. Even though it really doesn’t matter.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Johnny replied. “I read an article in LIFE Magazine about this experimental outfit of parachutists. I’m not so sure I want to jump out of a plane and I’m pretty damn sure I don’t want to be in the infantry so why would I sign up?”
“As I said, it doesn’t matter but let me tell you a few reasons why th
is is a good deal for you.” Wolff again glanced at his watch and went into abbreviated sales mode. He held up one finger. “There’s jump pay. An extra fifty bucks a month.” He held up two fingers. “All paratroopers are trained as combat infantrymen but we also have medics, combat engineers, signalmen and artillerymen. You seem like a smart guy so perhaps your primary job won’t be as a rifleman. Finally,” he held up three fingers, “I don’t think you really want to go to Parris Island with that gunnery sergeant. I don’t know what you said but you managed to really piss him off. You sent him into a rage in just a few seconds. I think he hates your guts.” Wolff smiled and held out the form.
“What’s in this for you?” Johnny asked.
“I told you, I’m a recruiter. I have a quota.”
Johnny had to think quickly. If he did nothing he was sure to be drafted into the Marines. That meant he would be a rifleman for sure. If he signed the form and volunteered for this new airborne outfit, there seemed to be some slight chance he might do something other than just haul a rifle around. However, if he had to become a rifleman, he might as well take the extra pay. The additional money would help in supporting Rose and justifying the decision to her. Finally, Lieutenant Wolff was right. That sergeant definitely hated his guts.
“Let’s do it,” he said and took the form and scribbled his signature. Both men got up and walked up the stairs to the fourth floor. The line was still queued up in front of the main desk and the gunnery sergeant was standing a short distance away.
Johnny stopped at the end of the line but Wolff grabbed his arm and led him to the front. “I told you son, I have priority.”
Lieutenant Wolff took the brown envelope with Johnny’s orders and the form he just signed and placed it on the desk in front of the army clerk. “Yes, sir,” the corporal began collating, stapling and stamping the various forms.
The sergeant glared at both of them. “Sorry, Gunny,” smiled Wolff. “This one’s mine! Better luck next time.”
The clerk handed the forms back to Johnny. “Right through there,” he pointed to a doorway. Johnny took the papers, avoiding the eyes of the sergeant and walked toward the door.
“Thank you,” Johnny whispered. “But just one more question before you go?” Wolff nodded. “When you asked me to sign the form, you said a number of times, ‘it doesn’t matter’. What did you mean?”
Wolff hesitated for a moment. He put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder and leaned over so only Johnny could hear his answer. “The paratroopers are an elite and a very selective outfit.”
“And?” Johnny asked.
“And you won’t make it.”
Chapter Seven
The Pentagon – September 23, 1996
“It is not the titles that honor men, but men that honor titles.”
Niccolo Machiavelli (1469 - 1527), Discourses, 1517
Colonel Carlton Chase arrived in the 1E801 Conference Complex, Room 3, in the Pentagon’s outermost E-Ring a good fifteen minutes before the scheduled start of the meeting. Arriving early gave him the opportunity to make and place the seating name cards in the configuration of his choice. It always amazed him how people, regardless of their position or rank, went immediately to the seat with their name card, usually without protest.
After placing his presentation foils and a stack of handouts at the front end of the rectangular polished oak wood conference table, he switched on the overhead projector. Nothing! He fished a spare bulb out of his uniform pocket, flipped over the projector and replaced the bulb.
As he worked on the projector, Cynthia Powers walked into the conference room. She was a civilian who worked in the Public Affairs Office of the U.S. Army Military District of Washington. She was currently assigned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Colonel Chase looked up at her and smiled, then lowered his head to continue what he was doing. Cynthia was an extremely competent, attractive brunette with a killer body.
“Hi, Colonel,” she began. “Looks like we’re a bit early.”
“Hello Cynthia,” he answered without lifting his head. “Good thing, too. Darn bulb burned out.” He turned the projector to its upright position and flipped on the switch. It worked.
He reached for the name cards and marker. “Where would you like to sit?”
“Next to General Clayton,” she smiled. “Where is he sitting?”
“I’ll sit him next to you. He’ll probably have a lot of takeaways for you, anyway.” He handed her a neatly printed tent card with her name on it.
“Who’s coming to this meeting?” she asked.
“General Clayton, Secretary Radcliffe and his aide Francis Blossom.” He was writing out the other name cards as he spoke. He handed her the name cards and indicated where he wanted them placed. Chase just finished placing a thick handout in front of each seat as General Aaron Clayton walked into the room
“Good morning, everyone,” he greeted pleasantly, glanced at the name cards and slid into his seat at the head of the conference table. “Are we ready, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll start as soon as the Secretary arrives.”
“He was right behind me in the hallway.” Just then Secretary Radcliffe walked into the room with Francis Blossom in tow. Chase smiled to himself as they both went immediately to their assigned seats.
After greetings were exchanged, Chase stood up on one side of the screen. He reached for the wall switch and lowered the room lights. With his wire-rimmed glasses and intelligent deep-set gray eyes, he easily assumed a professorial persona. The room suddenly seemed smaller and more confining with two of the most powerful men in the Department of Defense sitting at the table. He took a deep breath to help shake off the butterflies. He moved to the side of the table that would allow an unobstructed view for Secretary Radcliffe, thereby partially blocking the view of Francis Blossom. Chase switched on the overhead projector, which already held the title page of the presentation in focus.
World War II Medal of Honor Reevaluation
Analysis and Recommendations
“The objective of this meeting,” began Chase looking directly at Radcliffe, “is to secure your approval for our recommendations. Let’s get right to the bottom line. After six months of intensive review and analysis by my team, we recommend awarding Medals of Honor to seven African-Americans who served in our Armed Forces in World War II.”
“Is that all?” interrupted Blossom. “Why so few? How many were considered? How did you come to these conclusions?” The meeting was only a few seconds old and Blossom was already disrupting it, as was his reputation. Chase remained calm.
“Those questions will be answered during the course of the presentation and all the background material to support the conclusions are in your handout packets,” answered Chase. He paused for a moment while Blossom began flipping through his handout.
Radcliffe reached across the table. “Not now, Francis.” Radcliffe turned to Chase. “I have only one question at this time, Colonel, if I may. Are any of these gentlemen still alive?”
“Yes, sir. One of the men is presently still living.” Chase had the feeling he had just answered the only question of importance to Radcliffe. “However, I do believe it’s important that you understand and agree with how this process unfolded and how we reached the conclusions we came to, before you endorse our findings.”
“I agree. Please proceed.” Radcliffe was not a novice to politics and realized he may someday have to explain his decision at a press conference or a Sunday morning news program.
“Let me begin with a brief history of the Medal for background, then I’ll discuss the process and finally the results and recommendations.” Chase flipped to the next foil. “I’ll move quickly so please stop me if you have any questions.” Chase paused for a moment and then continued. “The Medal of Honor has a somewhat checkered history and endured many growing pains before it became the revered sacred icon it is today. Only a little more than thirty-four hundred were ever awarded and only about one hundred and fifty rec
ipients are still alive. The Medal of Honor was first authorized by Congress and approved by President Lincoln in 1862 during the Civil War. Up until that time, there were no medals or awards in existence to recognize individual military gallantry, to speak of.”
“None at all?” asked Powers.
“You’re a good straight man, Cynthia,” Chase said as he slipped another foil onto the projector. “During the Revolutionary War, General Washington authorized the Badge of Military Merit in 1782. It was intended to recognize the lower ranks for acts of unusual gallantry. All recipients were permitted to wear the badge over their left breast. The actual badge device was a cloth or silk figure of a purple heart. Only three were awarded near the waning days of the Revolution and the Badge of Merit fell into disuse and was never awarded again until 1932. At that time the award was revived and redefined by then Chief of Staff General Douglas MacArthur into what we know today as the Purple Heart.” Chase changed the foil.
“The Certificate of Merit was introduced by Congress for enlisted men during the Mexican-American War of 1847,” Chase continued. “There was no badge or other medal device to be worn, just a certificate and an extra two dollars a month in pay. This award was unpopular because it was abused, misused and eventually discredited and also fell into disuse.”
“Question,” Cynthia called out. “Why no medals?”
“It appears the military at that time considered medals to be associated with European nobility and those symbols of aristocracy had no place in a new democracy,” answered Chase. “As we will see, all that changed in the Civil War.” He flipped another foil.
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 4