The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II

by John E. Nevola

  “In C-Stage every trainee will learn to pack his own parachute.” On the screen the trainees were folding the parachutes methodically into small bundles. First they folded the risers, then the shroud lines followed by the bottom of the silk chute and finally the apex. This package was then carefully packed into their canvas covered, metal-framed parachute pack tray.

  The scene then shifted to men jumping from a 250-foot tower and perfecting the landing rolls and tumbles necessary to break their fall. The drill always ended with boys on the ground struggling to collapse their parachutes as a wind machine blew and billowed the parachute. Some men were dragged along the ground as the narrator warned how dangerous it could be if the parachute was not brought under control immediately upon landing. A shaft of light from the door announced that more men had left the room.

  “And now the final exam,” the narrator exclaimed. “Everyone who has made it this far will complete their qualifications by making five parachute jumps from heights starting at 1,200 feet to 800 feet with the final jump being a night jump from 1,000 feet.” On the screen the men, all wearing their jump gear and football helmets, were filing out of a plane one at a time. The chutes popped opened in sequence as they descended slowly to earth.

  The next clip had the trainees standing proudly at attention in formation, having their jump wings pinned on. The narration concluded. “This is the moment you have worked so hard for, when your instructors and your officers recognize your accomplishment and present your jump wings which acknowledge you as a paratrooper in the United States Army Airborne.”

  The music faded and the screen turned white as the training film ran off the feed reel with a loud snapping sound. Sergeant Coleman switched on the room lights.

  There were only five soldiers left in the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  The White House East Room – January 13, 1997

  “In valor there is hope.”

  Cornelius Tacitus (c. AD 56 - c. AD 120), Annals

  When J.P. Kilroy entered the East Room of the White House there were already a sizeable number of dignitaries present. The room was more crowded than he expected. It was unusually full of energy as family members gathered in small groups and engaged in animated conversations with high-ranking military officers and politicians. At the west end of the room the television cameras were preparing for the broadcast. The media pool was managed by C-SPAN.

  At almost 2,900 square feet, the East Room was the largest room in the White House. Its twenty-foot ceilings and huge windows gave the room a capacious feel. In addition, the room was generously adorned with beautiful art and furnishings. The floor was oak Fontainebleau parquetry and partially covered by two large oriental rugs. The drapes that covered the large windows were gold colored silk. There were three large Bohemian crystal chandeliers and four magnificent marble fireplaces. Bronze light standards and upholstered benches dotted the periphery of the eighty by thirty-seven foot room. The walls were paneled in light colored wood with classical fluted pilasters and relief insets. A full-length portrait of George Washington, painted by Gilbert Stuart in 1797, hung on the east wall.

  J.P. Kilroy knew today would be a historic day as America endeavored to right the injustices of past generations. The East Room seemed like the perfect place to do just that. It had been used over its long history for both historic events as well as for some rather pedestrian purposes. When the White House was first built, Abigail Adams hung clothes on a rope line she strung in the East Room. Teddy Roosevelt’s children used it as a roller skating rink and Woodrow Wilson employed it as a theatre. Over the years the large room had been the site of weddings, funerals, press conferences, receptions and receiving lines. Seven Presidents, including Lincoln and Kennedy, were laid in state in this room. It had a rich history.

  In the center of the east wall, in front of a set of hanging silk gold drapes, was a temporary platform with seven chairs arranged next to a podium with the Presidential Seal. Further to the right, under the portrait of George Washington, was another podium. Behind this second podium was a table upon which the framed Medals of Honor were displayed.

  The rest of the East Room was crammed with folding chairs save for the open aisle in the center. The extended families and friends along with military dignitaries, Congressmen and the press composed the rest of the audience. There was an electric buzz in the room.

  J.P. meandered slowly through the crowd while looking for two people. One was Colonel Carlton Chase, whom he had spoken with just a few days before. After he refused the invitation back in December, J.P. was immediately filled with a healthy dose of guilt. When he reflected on the phone call, he really wasn’t sure why he declined other than he simply didn’t want anything to do with his father. After much agonizingly difficult reflection, he finally arrived at the conclusion that it no longer mattered. His father was dead. Gone! It was time he let go of the baggage. His mother’s last wish was that he reconcile with his father and he blew it! Since he could no longer do that, perhaps he might uncover the secret his mother wanted him to know from his father’s friends. It was a long shot but the colonel did mention that some of his father’s wartime buddies would be at the ceremony. It certainly was worth a try. He had procrastinated until the last minute and then finally called Colonel Chase who advised J.P. he would be allowed to accept the Medal in a separate ceremony. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Aaron Clayton, would be more than happy to present his father’s Medal of Honor to him immediately after the conclusion of the President’s presentations.

  As J.P. wandered through the crowded room he suddenly spied a group of men gathered under the portrait of Teddy Roosevelt in the far southeast corner of the room. They were engaged in a lively discussion. Among them, he assumed, was the second person he was looking for.

  Chapter Twelve

  Newport News, Virginia – June 28, 1942

  “Whether they give or refuse, it delights women just the same to have been asked.”

  Ovid, (Publius Ovidius Naso) (43 BC - 17 AD)

  Macie Vance stepped off the bus and walked tentatively toward one of the access gates to the Newport News Shipyard and Dry Dock Company. The huge sign overhead read:

  Gate 4 - Main Entrance

  She followed the surge of shipyard workers flowing toward the gate and noticed an almost equal number emerging from the huge shipyard facility. People young and old, mostly men but some women, moved quickly with a sense of purpose. They were the shipwrights, welders, electricians, pipe fitters and machinists who toiled long and hard to give America a new navy to defend her shores and defeat her evil enemies.

  As Macie approached the gate she stepped to the side and allowed others to pass so she could gather herself before approaching the guard shack. Her clothes were glaringly out of place compared to the dungarees and coveralls the women workers were wearing. Most wore colorful bandanas rolled up and knotted in the front to keep their hair out of the way.

  Macie, on the other hand, wore a pink flowered print dress and black high-heeled shoes with ankle straps. Her long black hair was neatly rolled up in a hairnet and she held her clutch bag in white-gloved hands. This was her best Sunday outfit and she decided to travel to Newport News dressed ‘to the nines’. Compared to the men and women walking by, she felt conspicuous. She was too well dressed, too tall and too young.

  Her first stop upon arrival was her assigned apartment in Hilton Village, three miles north of the shipyard in Warwick County. Hilton Village was the nation's first Federal War Housing project; a planned community sponsored by the U. S. Shipping Board and the Newport News Shipyard. Upon arrival at her apartment she met her roommate Nora Lee.

  Nora was an ex-telephone operator and a sassy blond from Richmond. She was one of the first women employed at the shipyard. She was shorter and a year older than Macie. Her job in the Electricians Department was wiring instrument panels and switchboards. This complex work was done in the shops and the finished components installed on the s
hips as they were completed. Nora liked the work but was hoping to get promoted to the Joiners Department as a drill press operator with a higher rate of pay.

  “This place isn’t all that great but it’s cozy and it’s close to the yard,” Nora explained as she walked a slightly nervous Macie quickly through the tiny apartment. “This whole complex was built by the shipyard during the first war for the workers and they’re out of space already. That’s why we have to share the place. Everyone’s doubling up. I don’t know where they’re going to put all the workers they have to hire but that’s not my problem.” Nora walked through a doorway and pointed into a small room with a bed, chest of drawers, nightstand and a lamp. “This is your bedroom.”

  Macie nodded and put her suitcase on the bed. “I’ve seen worse,” she said with a look that Nora realized was not an exaggeration.

  “It’s not that bad. We work ten-hour shifts, six days a week. We’ll rarely see each other. And most people work the seventh day as overtime because there is nothing else to do,” Nora explained. “The money is great but with rationing and shortages, there’s not much to buy.” Nora reflected for a second. “Except bonds. You have to buy war bonds. Everybody does.”

  “Okay,” Macie smiled. Nora had a way of quickly making people like her.

  “What did they hire you to do, Sweetie?” asked Nora.

  Macie reached into her handbag and pulled out her offer letter. “I’m going to welding school.” The letter assigned her to Welding School Number 2 with nineteen other young women.

  “That’s great,” Nora commented. “You know, the men here haven’t really accepted us yet. Some of them can be real bastards with their smart remarks. I don’t take their shit. I just give it back to them in spades.”

  “Well, the men will just have to get used to us,” Macie replied with just a touch of attitude. “We’re here to stay until we win this war. The world is changing and people will just have to change with it.” She immediately recalled her last conversation with Jake, which did not go that well. “Of course,” she continued almost absent-mindedly, “that includes my boyfriend who’s not at all too happy right now that I’m doing this.”

  “Where is he? What does he do?” asked Nora.

  “He’s in the army soon to be a paratrooper.”

  “Oh, I love their uniforms.” Nora’s mood suddenly turned glum as if she suddenly remembered something she wanted to forget. “My boyfriend is in the army too. He’s in the Thirty-first Infantry Regiment in the Philippines. I haven’t heard from him since the surrenders.” She was referring to the surrender of the Bataan Peninsula to the Japanese on 9 April and the adjoining island of Corregidor on 10 May 1942. Those surrenders ended effective American resistance in the Philippines with almost 100,000 Filipino and American soldiers becoming prisoners-of-war. To make matters worse for Americans back home, there were rampant rumors of ruthless and cruel treatment and atrocities being committed by the Japanese. “I just pray every night that Butch is safe, wherever he is.”

  Macie was at a loss for words. She was instantly sorry she had brought up the subject. “The faster we build these ships, the faster we can get our boys back home,” was the best she could think of.

  “Right, girl!” Nora finally smiled again. “That’s the spirit. Screw them all! The Japs, the Germans and those small-minded bastards who are scared we women are going to take their precious jobs.” Nora seemed to recover. Macie could tell Nora was summoning up some inner reserve of strength to get herself past this awkward moment. Nora glanced at her wristwatch. “I’d love to chat, Sweetie, but I have to leave now. I’m working the swing shift this week.”

  Though it was Sunday and she was not to report until the following day, Macie decided she would take a dry run to the shipyard to be sure she would not get lost on her first day on the job. “Can I tag along?” she asked. “ So I know my way tomorrow?”

  “Sure, Macie. It looks like we’ll be working different shifts anyway so we probably won’t be seeing much of each other. That makes this small apartment a little more livable.”

  “That’s too bad,” answered Macie. “I think I’m going to like having you as a roommate, Nora.”

  Nora got off the bus at Gate 3 and explained to Macie where to go and what bus to take back. The busses ran continuously so getting back should be easy, Macie thought.

  Macie took off her gloves and put them in her handbag. She took off her shoes and immediately felt less noticeable. Walking barefoot did not present a problem, as her feet were thick with calluses. With her offer letter in hand, she took a deep breath and approached the security shack.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The White House East Room – January 13, 1997

  “A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon.”

  Napoleon Bonaparte (1769 - 1821)

  J.P. Kilroy threaded his way through and around the swarm of people crowding the East Room of the White House. He was working his way toward the southeast corner to a group of older men he presumed to be wartime friends of his late father. As he stood on his toes and inched his way toward the group he saw a black man dressed neatly in a dark blue suit talking with three elderly white men. The black man, he assumed, was Lincoln Abraham. He didn’t know the other three but he certainly intended to meet them. He anxiously inched closer through the crowd.

  “Excuse me, Mister Kilroy.” The woman’s voice took him by surprise as a beautiful brunette sidled up to him through the crowd and hooked her right arm tightly around his left arm. “My name is Cynthia Powers. I’m with the Army Public Affairs Office. Colonel Chase asked me to find you and take care of you.” She smiled broadly as she spoke.

  J.P. was momentarily taken off guard. She was in her early forties, he guessed, extremely attractive and well endowed. She was wearing a smart black business suit with a white silk blouse. She was nearly his height. He mustered a few words. “Well hello, Cynthia. How did you know it was me?”

  “Ve have our methods,” she replied in a thick mock Russian accent as she continued to smile at him. “Besides, your picture next to your newspaper column is a dead giveaway.” She was referring to the political column he wrote twice weekly for the Washington Times.

  “Where is the colonel?” he asked looking around. “We haven’t actually met face-to-face and I’d really like to …”

  “Oh, he’s getting ready for the ceremony,” she interrupted. “That man is intense when it comes to preparation. He’ll be reading the citations from that other podium,” she nodded toward the second podium under the portrait of George Washington as they moved through the crowd. “I have reserved seats for us over there,” she pointed toward the end seats of the first row on the far right directly opposite the portrait of Theodore Roosevelt.

  “Good. There are some people right near there I’d like to talk to first,” he gestured toward the group of men and noticed they were moving away toward the back of the room.

  “No time right now. The ceremony starts in a minute.” She pulled his arm tightly against the side of her breast and turned him toward their seats. “We’ll find them after,” she smiled again. He submissively let her guide him to their seats.

  The muted strains of music slowly grew louder. It was classical music that he heard before but could not place. The people in the room took the cue to find their seats. The music became louder after all the guests had been seated and then changed to “God Bless America”. All of the participants stood up and applauded as Lincoln was escorted onto the podium. The military escort was a sharp looking young soldier in dress blues, complete with full ribbons and a golden colored shoulder braid known as a fourragere. There were seven padded ornate chairs on the stage in front of the gold silk draperies. Lincoln remained standing with his hands crossed in front of him as the escort did an about face and retreated down the stairs.

  The music continued and the clapping became progressively louder as two female escorts quickly brought two well-dressed older women up onto th
e platform and positioned them in front of their seats. The procession continued until the Sergeant-Major-of-the-Army was finally escorted to the last seat. All of them, with the exception of Lincoln and the sergeant major, were surviving relatives of the Medal honorees. They all stood respectfully with quiet pride, their faces etched with deep emotion. They were all African-American.

  As soon as the clapping ceased, the sound of “Ruffles and Flourishes” filled the room. The voice over the loudspeaker said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States.” The room was then filled with the familiar chords of “Hail to the Chief”. The clapping began once again as the President entered. He strode down the aisle, took his position at the podium and raised his hands in a polite signal to stop the applause and then gestured for everyone to be seated.

  The benediction followed. J.P. was impressed by the solemnity of the proceeding and the dignified grace of the people on the platform. He let his mind wander a bit and imagined himself sitting up there. There certainly was room for one more chair. Not that he felt any pressing obligation to accept the Medal of Honor for his late father, but he could have. Of course, his would have been the only white face up there beside the President’s. He found that notion somehow trivially amusing. After the benediction the President rose to the podium.

  “Secretary of the Army, Secretary of Defense, General Clayton and the members of the Joint Chiefs, Congressman Williams, families and friends of the Medal recipients and Mister Lincoln Abraham, I’d like to begin by thanking Colonel Carlton Chase of the Army Awards Branch and the members of his Process Team for the nomination of outstanding African-American soldiers for the Medal of Honor during World War II.”