The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II

by John E. Nevola

  Johnny took a seat by the window and continued his solitary gaze out into the scenic panoramic view as if the answers to his questions were written somewhere out there for him to find. He noticed a small sign propped up on the table. It politely exhorted diners to finish their meal quickly so as to make room for the next shift of diners. He smiled to himself. Every place he looked he could find evidence of how profoundly life in America had changed in just a few short months. An entire nation had been joined together with one purpose, one goal and one mind. Because America had been so far behind the rest of the world militarily, it had to be inventive and creative to overcome its many deficiencies. He wondered how long it would take his country to catch up and surpass its enemies in men and material. Not long, he concluded.

  The conductor seated a family at his table, a couple and their daughter who looked to be about ten years old. Introductions were brief and Johnny politely resisted the small talk the father was trying to engage in. Seeing he preferred not to engage in conversation, the parents stopped talking but the young girl continued to ask questions.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “South Carolina. A place called Fort Jackson.”

  “We’re going to Florida. Will you be going to fight overseas?”

  “Millie,” her mother interrupted. “Please leave the nice young man alone.”

  Johnny suddenly realized how rude he must have appeared and for the first time cracked a small smile. “It’s okay,” he said to the mother and then looked right at the young girl. “I don’t know where I’m going yet Millie, or what I am going to do. Today is my very first day.”

  Dinner was simple and served quickly. Rationing had already begun to take hold and various foods were hard to come by. They were served bean soup and roasted chicken with broccoli. Dessert consisted of a small slice of apple pie with ice cream. Millie devoured hers before Johnny was even served his piece and he graciously offered it to her. She accepted despite the frowns from her parents. As the family left the table the mother clutched his arm and said, “Good luck to you, son. God bless.”

  The dining car was emptying out. As Johnny made his way through the car he noticed a card game at the last table. The young men from New York City were playing poker. There was some money on the table. Vinny Larini noticed Johnny walking down the aisle and said to him, “Hey, Johnny. Can I borrow a sawbuck?”

  “For that?” Johnny replied pointing to the cards on the table. “Not a chance.”

  Johnny continued back to his compartment. He had brought twenty dollars with him. That was a whole month’s pay in the army. He decided he would use it only for essentials or emergencies. The card game was neither.

  When he returned to his compartment he decided not to take any more meals in the dining car. He fished out his Private Hargrove paperback and began reading. At midnight he finished the book and tried to get some sleep but he was too wound up to sleep for long.

  The train sped along through the night, stopping only in Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington D.C. At each stop more young men boarded. The stop in Washington D.C. was a long one. It was there the yardmen replaced the electrified locomotive with a steam-powered one. There were no electrified rails south of the nation’s capital. The rest of the journey would be just as harsh as crossing the Great Plains in the era of the Westward Expansion. After the train left Washington D.C. he tried unsuccessfully to sleep. He would doze off for an occasional catnap but never to a sound slumber.

  After a fitful night, the dark gave way to the dawn. He took a partially melted chocolate bar from his bag for breakfast and devoured it. Once they were beyond Washington, the view barely changed. He was traveling through the rural South and it reminded him of a jungle compared to the sparse vegetation of the North. As the train traveled deeper into the South, he would periodically see a shanty or shack alongside the tracks and was amazed to realize people actually lived in them. The structures were small, ramshackle and dirty. The roofs were made mostly of tin sheets cobbled together. Laundry hung from clotheslines and blew in the breeze like the surrender flags of the pitiable and the destitute. There were no windows, only openings and the brief glimpses he had of the interiors revealed more squalor than he had ever imagined. He wondered if most southerners lived like this or just the Negroes he saw living alongside the railroad tracks.

  The train moved on late into the afternoon. Finally, at dusk, the conductors began pounding on the doors of the compartments.

  “FORT JACKSON, FIVE MINUTES!” They yelled over and over as they walked the length of the train.

  Johnny began to collect his belongings. Everything went back into his gym bag except the paperbacks. No reason to let on he was a reader. He stashed the books under his bed. Just as he finished, the train began to slow and pull into a station. As the train crept to a stop, what he saw out the window shot a bolt of fear through his stomach.

  About a dozen NCOs were standing, waiting, hands on hips, staring up at the slowing train. They were spread out across the length of the train platform. They all had the cocky swagger of men with the authority to hand out mischief and mayhem. Near the center of the platform was a group of white circles painted on the ground, four deep and half the length of the train. Stark, bare floodlights illuminated the whole scene. They were inside Fort Jackson.

  The train stopped and the boys began to get off. The NCOs immediately began yelling and screaming at the recruits as they directed them onto the white circles. Johnny couldn’t hear much through the window of his compartment but it was obvious all hell was breaking loose outside. Satisfied he had a sneak peek at what was going on, he left the room and stepped off the train and into the pandemonium. Boys were shuffling around trying to find an open white circle as the NCOs screamed insults and obscenities at everyone. The circles were filling up fast, but not fast enough for the agitated NCOs. It wouldn’t be a good thing to be milling about after everyone else had found a spot. Johnny saw an open circle just a few feet away inside the ranks and made a move toward it. Suddenly, a large foot from an adjacent circle stepped over and covered the open spot.

  “Reserved for a friend,” said Vinny Larini as he leaned toward Johnny and blocked him.

  Johnny was surprised. “I thought we were friends,” was the only thing he could think of in reply.

  “If you want to have a friend, you need to be a friend,” answered Vinny obviously referring to the fact Johnny didn’t lend him money back on the train.

  Johnny just nodded. He was angry but certainly didn’t want to do or say anything to attract attention. He stepped away just as another soldier stepped in to take the spot. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said to Larini as he stepped toward the back of the rapidly forming ranks.

  The stream of recruits pouring from the train had slowed to a trickle. Two NCOs on either end of the group began closing down on both ends. They quickly compressed the formation by squeezing out empty spaces. Johnny worked his way along the back of the formation, closest to the train. He found an empty circle and quickly hopped on it.

  Once the NCOs had tightened up the formation, they signaled to the NCO in charge. There were roughly 200 recruits in the formation.

  “Do not speak and do not move,” he yelled at the assembled boys. He signaled to the conductor and the train hissed, bucked and pulled out of the station through a cloud of steam.

  “We lost a few yesterday because they didn’t listen to orders,” he barked at the formation. “Running around like chickens without heads and went right under the train’s wheels. Crushed ‘em so bad there was hardly enough to send home to Mama.” Johnny didn’t believe him but it was a good attention getter.

  “Listen up, ladies,” the chief NCO continued. “I’m Sergeant Lupton and I own all of you sorry swinging dicks! When I give the order we’ll move out. Then, we’re going to feed you, because we have to. After that, we will issue you GI gear, skivvies and sheets and find you a rack. Pay attention and we’ll get this over with bef
ore dawn. Left face!”

  Most of the men turned to their left but a few turned to the right and quickly corrected themselves. “I see we have a bunch of goddamn idiots in this train load,” screamed Lupton. “You all must be from New York or Philly. Only Yankees can be that stupid.” Lupton was on a roll. “It’s getting dark and I know y’all are afraid of the dark so let’s all hold hands as we march to the mess tent.” Some of the men were reluctant to reach for the hand of the man next to him. Lupton went apoplectic. “If I catch anyone not holding hands, I will make him sorry he was ever born.” All the men quickly grabbed a hand.

  The formation walked, rather than marched, despite the “left-right” cadence being called out by one of the NCOs. After a few minutes, they were ordered to halt. Then the ranks formed a single file that wound its way into a large mess tent.

  Inside the tent was a long table behind which were soldiers with large shiny stainless steel pots containing the ingredients of the meal. The first item each man took was a steel tray with shaped food compartments, then a spoon and fork. As they filed by the long table, the servers would ladle the food into the tray. At the first station a server dropped a piece of toast onto the tray and then ladled a creamy glutinous mixture on top of it.

  “What’s this?” asked one boy.

  “Chipped beef,” barked the server.

  “Looks like shit”, answered the same boy.

  “Funny you should say that,” laughed one of the cooks. “The unofficial, official name of this meal is SOS. ‘Shit on a Shingle’. Enjoy.”

  “I can’t eat this crap.”

  Sergeant Lupton was observing this scene. He stepped in at that moment and turned the soldier around. “You’re right, girlie. You can’t eat this.” He grabbed the tray and flung it across the mess tent. “You go hungry tonight.” The recruit proceeded without saying another word.

  After that, everyone else took his chipped beef, peas and carrots, and mashed potatoes without protest. Johnny gulped down his meal. At least it was hot. If one could ignore the metaphor, he concluded, it wasn’t all that bad. He ate standing up or walking as everyone else did. There was no place to stop and sit. After just a few bites, the order was given. “Move out!”

  The line quickly exited the mess tent. Once outside the men disposed of their steel food trays and whatever morsels of food might be left in appropriately marked cans. Johnny wiped his mouth of the last vestiges of food just as he noticed the first lightning bolt in a deep, dark sky. A thunderstorm was brewing and it was not far off.

  The line of men then snaked into a long warehouse. Again, there were long tables with army personnel lined up on the other side. At each station, the recruit would be issued some element of military gear. The first few stations were easy. The men were issued folded sheets, pillowcases, blankets, a poncho and a barracks bag. They all were folded flat and the bundle formed a foundation for what was to come next. Then it got harder.

  The next station doled out fatigue shirts and pants. A sergeant would eyeball the recruit and say “small, medium or large” to a private who would reach into a stack and pull out shirts, pants and a web belt. The next soldier would pile underwear and undershirts onto the rapidly mounting pile of gear. A field jacket would come next. By now the pile was agonizingly clumsy as the men would have to support the weight with one arm, contain and balance the pile with the other arm all the while not being able to easily see in front of themselves. Almost everyone had a small personal travel bag they had to support as well.

  At the final station each recruit was issued socks and a pair of boots. Another sergeant would ask the recruit, “What size shoe?” and proceed to issue a different size boot. That any boot fit any soldier at all was a minor miracle. Johnny began to experience the sinking feeling of the abandoned. He didn’t like it one bit.

  Once he was issued his socks and boots, Johnny made his way out of the building along a blacktop path marked by overhead lights. It was pouring rain under a black sky filled with thunder and flashes of lightning. The raindrops were thick and heavy and he was soaked to the skin within seconds. The next stop would be the barracks and he could not get there soon enough. He struggled with his load as he strained to see where he was going.

  The line of GIs went off into the distance. To the right of the path was a series of buildings lined up side by side as far as he could see in the dark. It appeared the line of men was entering the fifth or sixth building ahead. At least he would be reunited with his buddies from New York. Although already drenched, it would not be long now.

  Johnny noticed a soldier dressed in a poncho standing in front of him alongside the path. The soldier said something to the GI in front of Johnny but he could not hear what was said. Then the soldier addressed Johnny. “Where y’all from?” he asked.

  “New York,” answered Johnny still moving clumsily along.

  “Come with me,” the soldier, whose rank Johnny could not see because of the poncho, grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the first barracks building, almost spilling his delicately balanced load of equipment. “I have one open bunk in here.”

  “But…” Johnny decided not to continue his objection as he assumed this voice of authority was probably an NCO.

  The soldier all but dragged him into the dimly lit barracks. It was after curfew and the main lights were out. They walked past the stairs that led to the upper floor of the barracks. There was no noise except for the rain pelting the windows. On the lower level the double bunks were lined up side-by-side pointing inward from the windows. They ran along both sides of the barracks. The space between the two lines of bunks created an open corridor, which ran down the center of the barracks. On the near side, to the right of the entrance hallway, was a single double bunk nestled against the end wall perpendicular to the length of the barracks. It was obvious this placement was not normal but rather a function of trying to squeeze more recruits into an already overcrowded situation.

  The soldier pushed Johnny toward that bunk and said, “Bottom rack,” turned on his heels and abruptly walked back out of the barracks area.

  Johnny Kilroy shook his head in disgust. How the hell did he wind up in here? He was drenched to the skin. His hair was matted from the rain and partially covered his eyes. He was still hungry and dog-tired. When he carefully placed his pile of clothes on the bare mattress of the bottom bunk, he noticed the upper bunk was occupied. A young soldier in a white T-shirt was lying on top of the covers writing a letter in the dim light. His face was friendly despite his bushy eyebrows and lantern jaw. He put down his pen and reached out his hand. “Hi, my name is Tom Swanson. Where you from?”

  Johnny detected a slight Midwestern accent. He swept the wet from his eyes with his forearm, blinked a few times and squinted. He wiped his hand on his bunk and shook the outstretched hand. “Johnny Kilroy, New York City,” he sighed.

  Tom Swanson let out a big smile and a small laugh. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself.

  “You too?” asked Johnny hopefully.

  “Oh, no,” answered Tom. “I’m from Idaho…Boise.” Tom picked up his pen and continued writing. “Welcome.”

  Johnny sat down on his bare mattress. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and began to sort through his pile of clothes. First he would find his bedding and try to make up his bunk. Then he would shove everything else into his barracks bag, shed his wet civilian clothes, dry off and hit the sack. Reveille, he knew, would come early and he was beat. In the morning, he would try to fit into his misfit uniform the best he could.

  Suddenly, through the faint light of the barracks came a sharp high-pitched voice in a deep southern drawl. It pierced the shadows like a knife. “Like ah was sayin’, I was up there in New York once and them boys up there are all pussies.” There was a smattering of quiet laughs and chuckles. “Why, they would even try to fight dirty, just break off a car antenna and try to use it on you. I would take it away from them and whip those poor boys like their Pa taking em’ to the woodshed.
” More snickers and laughter followed.

  Johnny was sitting on his bunk and looking down the length of the corridor in the center of the barracks. Shafts of moonlight slipped through the windows and crossed the corridor floor providing just a flicker of illumination. The voice was moving along the far wall, crossing back and forth from one side of the central corridor to the other. A bolt of lightning lit up the room and then another. Johnny saw a young soldier of medium height with blazing bright red hair. He could see the brightness of the hair even in the faint light. The redheaded soldier continued to talk to his buddies but in a voice intentionally loud enough for everyone in the barracks to hear. The thunder drowned out his words but not the laughter from the rest of the barracks. He was walking back and forth, into and out of the flashing glow of the lightning, talking and laughing in a scene, which was both macabre and surreal.

  “So, ah must say,” he continued, “if a New Yorker ever showed up in this barracks, ah would have to spank his ass and send him back home to his Mama.” Some boys in the barracks were laughing loudly and making exaggerated sounds of rebel yells.

  At first, Johnny assumed this just might be a silly coincidence. He figured it was just some goober popping off for the benefit of his redneck friends. He was about to let it all pass but that last comment seemed to be directed at him. In fact, there was something about this bizarre scene that convinced him all the remarks were aimed directly at him.

  Johnny was not a tough kid as tough New York City kids went. Nevertheless, he learned how to fight at a young age and was capable, if not proficient at it. But there were other lessons he learned on the streets of Washington Heights that transcended the ability to fight. He easily remembered those hard-earned lessons. Never show fear! Never back down! If you sense fear in the other guy, be aggressive! Swing first while everyone else is talking! If any situation in his entire life screamed out for him to apply those lessons, this was it.