The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II

by John E. Nevola

  “Look what we got here!” One of the Rangers was escorting a single German prisoner at the point of his M-1. “Found him hiding out in the weeds.”

  The soldier pushed the prisoner down to the ground in a sitting position. He aimed his M-1 at the prisoner’s genitals and started asking him questions in English.

  Harley and Johnny walked over to the prisoner near to where a medic was treating a nearby wounded GI. The German looked defiantly at his captor. He pointed to his genitals at the end of barrel of the rifle and shouted loudly in a high-pitched gravel-like voice, “Nicht hier, nicht hier.” He then pointed to his own forehead. “Hier!”

  Harley and Johnny looked at each other. It was the same voice that had betrayed the Ranger positions the night before last. It was just as arrogant and defiant as it had sounded in the blackness of the night.

  The medic spoke. “Jesus Mac, don’t wound him. I don’t have enough supplies to treat them all. If you’re gonna shoot him, kill the bastard!” The medic turned to treat his casualty.

  The German continued to stare defiantly at the soldier, pointing to his forehead. His steel-blue eyes were piercing and insolent. The soldier lowered his M-1. Just then Harley stepped in and nudged the soldier aside. He pointed his own M-1 at the prisoner and shot him through the forehead, exactly where he was pointing. The prisoner’s eyes held the insolent glare until the instant the back of his head exploded in a bloody gore of bone and red fleshy pulp.

  The medic was shocked! “Holy shit, Mac. I wasn’t serious. I was just fucking with you.”

  Lieutenant Kerchner and Colonel Canham came running over. Kerchner saw the dead German and spoke first. “What happened here?” The Ranger who captured the prisoner had already walked away and the medic, busy dressing a leg wound, never looked up.

  “What happened here, men?” Canham asked again. There was a moment of cold silence before Johnny spoke up. “The prisoner made a move, sir. We thought he was armed.”

  Canham looked at Johnny suspiciously, then to Harley and back to Johnny before staring at the wide-eyed prisoner lying on his back. “All right, men, just calm down. We need prisoners.”

  Abusing prisoners was not condoned and soldiers were constantly reminded to adhere to the Geneva Convention. Officers, however, were aware of the strain mortal combat placed on a human being. Some GIs momentarily lost control in a frightful moment of intense anger. The stress of seeing one’s buddies torn up by enemy fire and the anxiety of surviving a firefight placed a huge emotional burden on young boys barely out of their teens. Sleep deprivation and combat fatigue also contributed to a loss of composure. Those factors contributed mightily to a normally disciplined soldier committing a rare repugnant act against a helpless enemy prisoner. The trauma and chaos of D-Day saw an unusual rash of such incidents. American officers used scrupulous discretion and prudent judgment when adjudicating cases of prisoner abuse that came before them.

  Canham chose to accept the explanation of the airborne paratrooper and ignore the incident. He also noticed the Blue and Gray patch of the 29th Division on Harley’s shoulder.

  “Twenty-niner? What regiment, son?”

  “Your regiment, sir. Stonewallers. Sergeant Tidrick, Able Company.” Harley snapped a proud salute.

  Canham raised his eyebrows. He knew Able Company had been nearly wiped out on Dog Green Beach. He placed his arm around Harley’s shoulder. “First Battalion is down the line.” Canham pointed to the rear of the column. “Go join them. You’re home now, son.”

  Canham turned to Kerchner. “Lieutenant, you take your Rangers to the Pointe. I’m going inland to hunt Krauts.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kerchner replied. He marched his ragtag unit toward the exit road

  Harley walked over to Johnny. “Thanks for covering for me.”

  “No problem, Harley, but if you don’t mind my saying so, you need to get under control.”

  “That bastard gave away our positions last night when he was a prisoner the first time.”

  Johnny took a deep breath and looked away. “I just don’t want to see you get into hot water because of scum like that.”

  Harley nodded and touched Johnny’s shoulder. “Thanks. Where are you headed?”

  “I’ll stay with the Rangers for now until I can locate my outfit.”

  “Good luck!”

  They parted. Johnny slung his M-1 over his shoulder and marched away with the Rangers toward the Pointe.

  History would record that of the 230 Rangers who assaulted the cliffs of Pointe-du-Hoc, plus the twenty-three reinforcements from Lieutenant Parker’s platoon, barely fifty men survived unscathed. Despite heavy casualties, the Rangers had accomplished their mission. The big guns were never fired onto Utah or Omaha Beaches. They cut the paved Vierville-Grandcamp Highway for a time and denied its use to the Germans for all of D-Day. They drew German forces into mortal combat that would have otherwise been sent to either of the two invasion beaches.

  In spite of heavy casualties, they never surrendered Pointe-du-Hoc to the enemy. The Rangers of the relief force would eventually make their way to the enclave at Pointe-du-Hoc that was doggedly guarded by the paltry survivors of Rudder’s Rangers. There they would relieve the desperate men who held on stubbornly for two days and nights without much hope or reinforcement. But the history of Pointe-du-Hoc would be written at some future time. For the present, the young boys who kicked open the door to occupied Europe were still in grave danger.

  After a few minutes Johnny turned to see Harley marching away. From a great distance their eyes met. Harley nodded his understanding of a bond forged and of a debt owed. Johnny nodded back.

  Suddenly a single shot broke the morning silence. Johnny Kilroy spun around from the impact and crumpled to the ground.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  New York City - June 6, 1944

  “There should be weeping at a man's birth, not at his death.”

  Charles Louis de Secondat Montesquieu (1689 - 1755)

  June 6, 1944

  Dear Johnny,

  Earlier today we got the news that the invasion of Europe had begun. I can’t help but worry about you and pray that you’re okay. Eeverything here at the hospital stopped as nurses and doctors gathered around the radio to listen to Ike. He announced the invasion had begun. The only thing he said was “the French Coast”. There was no word on casualties or the units involved. This is what everyone wants to know, as we all worry about our loved ones.

  The feeling in the country is unbelievable. It’s hard to describe in words but even though this is a troubled time of great worry and fear, that burden seems easier to bear because everyone is sharing it. It’s also a time of great hope. We all hope that this invasion is the beginning of the end to this War.

  Just to give you an idea of what’s going on in New York, people were standing around the electric news bulletin sign in Times Square all day just reading the latest. Broadway plays have shut down for the day. The actors are going to USO Clubs and canteens to perform parts of their plays for servicemen for free. All of baseball and horse racing cancelled their games. In the late edition of the Daily News, the paper printed the Lord’s Prayer instead of its headline articles. Big name stores like Lord and Taylor stayed closed. Macy’s closed at noon. Small shops turned to selling war bonds instead of their regular goods.

  All of the churches and synagogues are holding special services and their pews are packed with folks praying for relatives or friends or just for the country. Tonight President Roosevelt came on the radio and prayed. The words of his prayer were reported in the newspapers and America joined him late tonight as he prayed over the radio. Imagine a President on his knees praying to God along with millions of Americans for the safety of their sons. I know you have your doubts about the existence of God but if you were here and saw what I saw and felt what I feel, the emotions would overwhelm you, too. It would be hard to deny God in the face of all the prayer and faith that is happening all over America today.

&nb
sp; One last thing before I turn off the lights and end this hectic and wonderful day with some sorely needed sleep.

  You have a son. Or should I say we have a son?

  He was born today. I named him John Patrick Kilroy, Jr. as we discussed. He is 7 pounds, 11 ounces and looks so much like you. We’re both doing fine and we can’t wait for you to come home and put your arms around both of us. Until that wonderful day, may God take you in his hands and hold you and protect you. (Just because you have your doubts doesn’t mean I can’t throw a prayer or two in there every once in a while – smile).

  Please take care and write back soon.

  With All My Love,

  Rose

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Washington, D.C - January 14, 1997

  “Duty is the sublimest word in the English language.”

  Robert E. Lee. (1807-1870)

  The dining room at Kinkeads Brasserie was nearly empty during the lull hours between lunch and dinner. Andrew stood alone near the entrance to the kitchen. He was within eyesight of J.P. Kilroy in the event his sole remaining lunch customer required additional service.

  A few waiters were rearranging tables for the dinner reservations under the faint, soft room lighting. The gentle chink of silverware and the brush of busy feet were the only background sounds to the muted voices of J.P. and Frank.

  Frank was dipping a biscotti into his black espresso coffee. He had long ago emptied the snifter of black Sambuca into his cup. The brew tasted warm and sweet. The coffee was getting cold so he warmed it up from the steaming pot Andrew left on the table. Frank chomped on the softened biscotti as he spoke.

  “D-Day was an ungodly mess. Our guys were dropped all over France. Some planes went down in the channel. Some troopers landed in the swamps and were swallowed up. Landing craft were sunk in the English Channel. Bodies were blown to bits.” Frank paused. “All this on a huge scale. Remains unidentifiable. People missing. It was impossible to know exactly what happened to everybody that day and the days that followed.”

  J.P. nodded and Frank continued. “Your father and his buddy Jake were separated on D-Day. Jake wound up in Sainte-Mere-Eglise with the All-Americans. He didn’t rejoin us until Carentan a few days later. Your father landed on Pointe-du-Hoc and fought with the Second Rangers. He never rejoined our outfit in Normandy. He was wounded and evacuated. There was tremendous confusion. Many telegrams were sent out to next of kin by the War Department that were flat out mistakes.”

  “He obviously didn’t die,” J.P. smiled. “He raised me.”

  “No, of course he didn’t die in Normandy. But he was severely wounded and evacuated to the First Army Hospital in St. Albans just outside of London.”

  “Funny, Dad never mentioned or spoke about his wounds,” J.P. answered.

  Frank smiled. “He was shot in the ass. One bullet, four holes. Two on the outside, two in the crack. Missed the spine by an inch or so. Not exactly the kind of war wound one would talk about or show off.”

  J.P. smiled. “It’s just that he never spoke about that or much of anything else.”

  Frank took a sip of his coffee. “When we got home, nobody wanted to talk. It was over, we won and that was good enough. The most rehab I got was a smile from the Red Cross doughnut honey and a hug from my wife. That was the drill for everyone else, too. We didn’t have the time for therapy back in the day. We had a country to rebuild.”

  J.P. nodded. “I guess today’s society seems pretty soft to you guys. You had it much tougher back then.”

  Frank stared hard at J.P. “I’m not judging this generation. All I know is when it counted, we had the grit to deal with the Depression and a World War one after the other. Not just the guys who fought, but the whole damn country.” Frank waved an unconscious finger at J.P. “We played the cards we were dealt without whining, took our lumps, mourned our dead, came home, went to school and went back to work.” Frank paused. “And we didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I get that part. Dad was a prime example.”

  “But then we got older. A lot of us started to die off, their memories and stories lost forever. So we started talking. People began putting tape recorders in our faces and we talked some more. More and more of us attended reunions and there was always some local reporter or aspiring author to tell our story to.” Frank wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Most of us who survived came back with a heavy dose of survivor’s guilt. And, as I got older, I realized I was not so much afraid of dying as I was of not being remembered. So, we owed it to those guys who never came back to tell their stories and make sure they were never forgotten.”

  J.P. reached slowly for the coffee pot. Frank reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “Please understand. We can never break faith with those who didn’t come back. Never!”

  J.P. didn’t understand the point. Before he could pursue it, Andrew came over to the table. “Is there anything else, Mister Kilroy?”

  They had overstayed the lunch hour by a considerable amount of time. “Check, please.”

  Frank drained the last drops from his demitasse cup. “A history professor from the University of New Orleans wrote a book in ninety-three about Easy Company called Easy Does It. It recounts the history of the company from training to the end of the War. You should read it.”

  “Anything in there about my dad?” J.P. asked.

  “No,” Frank answered quickly. “There were about a hundred and fifty men in the company and many of them are not mentioned. Your dad and Jake joined that company later, just before the Bulge at the same time I got transferred to Easy.”

  “What’s the point in reading it?”

  “Well, for one thing, it may help you understand your father better. More importantly, it will help you understand the strong bonds of loyalty that tie all of us together and the solidarity we share about this secret.” Frank nervously clinked his empty cup on its saucer. “There. I said it!”

  J.P. nodded. What Frank was telling him was J.P. would never learn the secret from any of his father’s friends. No matter how hard he cajoled or pleaded, no one would willingly tell him. J.P. had already come to that conclusion. If he were going to find out, it would have to be by trickery or deception.

  Andrew brought the check and J.P. began to sign it.

  “Thank you for lunch, Mister Kilroy. I’m sorry it was not very productive for you.”

  “It was my pleasure, Frank. And be assured that I have not given up my quest.” J.P. handed the leather check-holder back to Andrew who thanked him and slipped quietly away.

  “I suggest you read some books, especially the one I recommended. Also, attend the reunions and meet the men who knew your father best. Get to know them, to understand them. Listen to their stories and let them introduce you to the ghosts that haunt them and the memories of those friends they left behind. Maybe then you’ll come to understand.”

  J.P. was about to rise from the table but the gravity of what Frank was saying along with how he was saying it froze him in his seat. It was as if Frank was trying to tell him, without actually telling him.

  Frank continued. “You may not ever learn the specific secret you seek, Mister Kilroy, but you might come to understand the greater meaning of the special connection between warriors …which is stronger than steel or family. It’s all about the binding promises and sacred oaths that supercede everything else in life.”

  J.P. Kilroy gave Frank a quizzical look.

  “And that, my son, may be as close as you will ever get to unraveling the secret.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chilton Foliat, England - August 28, 1944

  “My wounded are behind me and I will never pass them (in retreat) alive.”

  Major General Zachary Taylor (1784 – 1850) at Buena Vista, 22 Feb 1847

  The paratrooper standing at parade-rest in front of Corporal Jake Kilroy fainted. The medics quickly bore him out of the regimental formation on a litter. They did so unobtrusively so as not to disrupt th
e speaker facing the men of the 506th PIR. General Eisenhower didn’t seem to notice.

  It was Sunday, a customary day off for American soldiers not in combat. The morning broke with a typical misty rain from a cloud-shrouded sky. Some of the men complained when they were ordered to attend a service in Class-A uniform. The men who did most of the grousing were replacements. They were young, wet-behind-the-ears, green nobodies who the veterans disdained from the moment they arrived. They had not tasted blood and didn’t count for much. Besides, the veterans had their own problems and their own nightmares to deal with.

  Sergeant Bill Christian woke the men early enough to be on time. He was bumped to three stripes after he rejoined the Screaming Eagles at Sainte-Marie-du-Mont. The 2nd Platoon was decimated and the just-promoted First Lieutenant Frank West went about the gruesome task of assessing his losses. Stockett and Sosa were confirmed dead. Goldbacher and Smith were in a field hospital recovering from wounds received at Neuville-au-Plain and Zebrosky was still missing. There would be many letters to write once the confusion had been sorted out but for the moment West had to focus on the task at hand. He had to rebuild his command structure.

  The 2,000 men of the 506th were herded onto freshly cleaned trucks and busses in Aldebourne for the short trip to regimental headquarters outside of Chilton Foliat. Christian gathered his squad and loaded them up. When the trucks arrived, the troops stepped off and formed up. The foggy mist gave way to an unusually bright sun, which soon poured blinding heat onto the overdressed soldiers from a bright blue cloudless sky. They marched crisply but slowly to the subdued melancholy strains of the “Death March” played by an army band. What were the words, again? Jake thought to himself. Once in the dear, dead, days beyond recall.