The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II

by John E. Nevola

  Cynthia placed the cover on the box. “Okay. Let’s go over it again when you get back from Bedford.”

  There was a large group of cars parked on the grass and two volunteer firemen directing traffic. He parked next to a Ford pickup and walked toward the large tent and temporary platform. From this vantage point the background of the Blue Ridge Mountains was breathtaking. It was a wonderful, reflective and inspiring location to honor the fallen.

  Inside the tent was an artist’s conception of the finished memorial. He spent a few minutes studying it. It was both compelling and unique. A large drawing of a thermometer on an easel marked the level of funds raised for the memorial. The red line was filled in up to the four and a quarter million dollar mark and the thermometer topped out at fourteen million. The table next to the easel contained a pile of programs and a large glass jar filled with green bills. J.P. added a twenty-dollar bill. He picked up a program and meandered toward the stage.

  The crowd numbered about 1,000 and he mingled freely among them looking for familiar faces. There were some dignitaries on the stage and a number of older veterans. J.P. recognized Harley. He was wearing his Stonewaller windbreaker and a dark blue overseas cap with the American Legion Post 54 designation on it. The other older veterans wore an assortment of uniforms, brightly decorated caps and medals.

  After a time, Governor Allen was introduced. He made a short but heart-rending speech. He ended it by saying, “Time has washed away the blood of our fallen heroes from the beaches of Omaha and the cliffs of Normandy, but time has not washed away, and must not dim, our memories of those horrific and heroic events. By breaking ground for this National D-Day Memorial, each of us is doing our duty to help insure that the eternal flame of freedom will never be extinguished by force from without or neglect from within.”

  J.P. recognized Charles M. Shultz, the creator of the popular comic strip Peanuts. He was sitting on the platform. The program said Shultz, a World War II veteran, was to head up national fundraising efforts for the memorial. It also said he personally donated one million dollars.

  Finally, Senator Warner took the microphone. He was the second ranking Republican on the Senate Armed Services Committee and a veteran of World War II and the Korean War. His speech was a little longer. "This event marks a milestone in what has become a final campaign for the surviving veterans of the greatest military operation of all time," concluded Senator Warner. "The National D-Day Memorial will ensure that the lessons of that historic event will never be forgotten by future generations."

  When the speeches were concluded, the dignitaries took turns being photographed pushing a silver shovel into the soft earth. After the symbolic groundbreaking, the crowd began to disburse. J.P. stood in the field, taking in the moment when he saw Harley heading his way. As frustrated as he might become, J.P. promised himself to always treat these men with respect. All the cards were on the table now. They pledged to keep a secret he was determined to uncover and he would engage them politely though firmly in an effort to trip them up. He had to remind himself these were fine men and whatever their reason to keep their oath, it must be a good one.

  J.P. extended his hand as Harley approached. Harley shook it vigorously. “Well, kid, we’re finally going to get the memorial we deserve.” There were tears in his eyes.

  “Congratulations,” J.P. smiled. “This is a wonderful spot.”

  Harley took a deep breath and seemed to compose himself. He leaned over toward J.P. “I know why you’re here. I got a call from Lincoln. I expected you sooner.”

  “I had to decide if I really wanted to do this,” J.P. confided. “My life is a bit more complicated than I’d like and my job keeps me hopping. I had to figure out if I really wanted to jump into this right now.” J.P. was unconsciously making excuses for not coming sooner.

  “No need to explain, kid. We haven’t exactly welcomed you with open arms.”

  J.P. nodded in affirmation. “Tell me one thing, Harley. Why did you tell Colonel Chase my father was dead and then tell him about me?”

  Harley looked around and whispered, “That’s the way your father wanted it. He didn’t want the notoriety or the publicity and he wanted you to have the Medal.”

  “I get that. I got the Medal. But why was it you? As far as I can tell you only met my father a few times.”

  “Let me explain, kid. Your dad’s records were lost in the big fire. Colonel Chase contacted all of the veterans’ associations for units your father served in. The colonel was asking if anyone had any information about his whereabouts. Sky is on the Board of Trustees of the Eighty-second Airborne Division Association and got the request. He called your father who asked me to call Colonel Chase and tell him what I told him.”

  J.P. nodded. “I hear what you’re telling me but faking being dead is kind of extreme. It makes no sense to me. Why would he do that?”

  “Well, kid, you probably came all this way to ask him that question.” With that Harley raised his arm and looked at J.P. “Are you ready for this?”

  J.P. sighed. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He felt like a kid again, about to be spanked.

  Harley waved and a man came out from behind the platform. At the sight of his father, his knees buckled slightly. J.P. touched Harley’s sleeve for balance.

  His father walked slowly with a slight limp. He had an unlit pipe in his tightly clenched jaw. His hair was all gray and short cropped. He wore no unit insignia or association cap, his collar was upturned against the breeze and his hands were stuffed deeply into his coat pockets. There was no discernable expression on his face as he averted his son’s eyes. J.P. would have recognized him anywhere even though his features had aged considerably after thirty years.

  J.P. swallowed hard. What was it about the relationship between a father and son that drove a son to seek his father’s approval? It was more than seek, J.P. thought. More like a psychological imperative. J.P. dreaded this moment and had often prayed he would be fortunate to pass from this earth without ever having to see or confront his father again.

  His father stopped a few feet away and stared blankly at him. J.P. simply looked at him. It was an awkward moment.

  Harley coughed, “I’ll leave you two alone,” and walked away.

  The two men looked at each other for a time, neither wanting to break the silence. Finally, his father said, “You come all this way just to stand there and stare at me. I knew this was a bad idea.” He turned to walk away.

  “No, please wait,” J.P. pleaded. “It’s just…well, it’s just hard after all these years.”

  “On both of us.”

  “Of course. Can we walk and talk a little?”

  His father nodded and they began walking slowly, aimlessly toward the open field where the cars were parked. J.P. broke the silence. “You look well.”

  “I’ve been better. How are you doing, Son?”

  “It’s all good.” J.P. suddenly stopped. “I have a million questions.”

  “A million, huh?” the old man smiled. “Okay. Let’s take them one at a time.”

  J.P. began walking again. “I know why you left. You left because I disappointed you.”

  “That’s not a question.”

  “Is that why you left? Because I took off for Canada rather than be drafted and go to Vietnam?” He turned to look directly into his father’s eyes. He finally summoned the courage to confront his nightmare and needed to know the truth.

  “You’ve got it all wrong!” His father took out a package of nicotine gum and popped two chiclets into his mouth. “Trying to quit,” he muttered by way of explanation.

  “C’mon Dad, you being a war hero and all. I’m sure you were angry and disappointed that I chose not to serve.”

  “I didn’t agree with your decision, Son, but I fought for your right to make it.” He was looking directly into his son’s eyes. His gaze was firm and truthful. “I served with wonderful, honorable guys. In our darkest hours when we had no hope and we despaired for our lives
, we all agreed it would be worth every drop of our blood if our children didn’t have to fight in another war.” He paused. “If there be trouble, let it be in our time, so that our children will have peace.”

  “Thomas Paine.” J.P. remembered the paraphrased quote.

  “So you see, I fought so you wouldn’t have to. So why would I be angry?”

  J.P. considered the logic. “It’s hard to believe you’re not holding me accountable.”

  He smiled again. “It would have been better for you if you felt the obligation to serve your country. But you have to deal with that within yourself. President Carter gave you amnesty. I long ago forgave you if there was ever anything to forgive. Like I said, I fought so you wouldn’t have to. It’s time you let it go!”

  They walked on a bit further. J.P. felt the weight of the past gently lifting from his shoulders. This brief conversation expunged demons that he rarely acknowledged. “So, if not because of me, why did you leave?” he found himself asking.

  His father seemed to struggle for words. “I’m not going to make any excuses. It’s way past that point. What’s done is done. But I will say this. I made sure you got your education including law school and that your mother was taken care of financially. I sent her money regularly until she told me she didn’t need it anymore.”

  “She never remarried,” J.P. volunteered.

  “I know. We stayed in touch.”

  “And I still don’t know how you paid all that tuition on a teacher’s salary,” J.P. said referring to college and law school.

  The old man smiled. “I just finished paying off the loans a few years ago.”

  J.P. was stunned. He always thought of his father as a selfish man who just decided one day that he didn’t like his life and quit. His assumptions about his father were totally wrong.

  “Why did you leave?” The question was serious and direct.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters. Please, I really need to know.”

  His father stopped, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and shuffled his feet. “When a man gives his word, makes a promise, he has to keep it…even if it’s hard…especially if it’s hard. You can only become free of a pledge once you’ve kept it.”

  J.P. shook his head. It wasn’t making sense to him. His father continued.

  “When you take on obligations, you have to fulfill them. It doesn’t matter how long it takes or even if others get hurt. A man is only as good as his word.”

  J.P. tried to finish the thought. “So you left us and came here to fulfill a promise you made involving who…Harley? Macie? Did it have anything to do with this memorial?”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say about that. Just know it was nothing you or your mom did. That’s all you really need to know.” The old man started walking again.

  J.P. took a deep breath. It was exasperating trying to get these old veterans to give him a straight answer. He would have to get more creative to try to figure out this mystery. No matter how much his father skirted the issue, his gut told him to keep pushing. He caught up to his father and steered him toward a mobile canteen truck parked at the edge of the parking lot.

  “How about a cup of coffee, Dad?”

  “Sure, Son,” he agreed.

  J.P. looked up into the side window of the truck. “Two coffees, please.” He looked at his father. “Still black?”

  “Black. No sugar.”

  “One black, one regular with milk and sugar.”

  After a moment J.P. handed his father the coffee in a cardboard cup. It was hot and steaming. They walked along together, sipping their coffee.

  “Mom sent me all your old war mementos before she passed,” J.P. broke the silence.

  “Keep them. They’re supposed to be passed on.” He paused. “Any more questions?”

  “I believed you were dead. What was that all about?”

  His father stopped again, spit out his gum and took a sip of coffee. It was cooling off a little and he took longer slugs. “I didn’t ask for the Medal, I didn’t want the Medal and I felt foolish accepting the Medal in a ceremony for African-Americans who got screwed during the War. I got the Silver Star for that day and Lincoln got shit. The only reason I got the Medal of Honor after all these years was because they gave one to Lincoln…after all these years.” There was an edge in his voice. “I thought it was best not to rain on Lincoln’s parade and let him have his day in the sun. He damn well earned it! The only way I could think of to do that gracefully was to be dead. So I told Harley to tell them I passed away.”

  J.P. nodded. “I understand now.” They walked a little further, almost to where J.P. had parked his car. “And this secret that mom wanted me to find out from you? She pleaded with me to work things out with you and find out about a family secret you were supposed to tell me.”

  His father stared at him blankly, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

  “Come on, Dad. Mom told me to seek you out. I’ve been speaking to all of your old buddies. They already admitted to me they’re hiding something.”

  His father averted his eyes and then looked squarely at him. “If your mother thought I knew something that you should know, she never told me about it. It went with her to her grave. Perhaps it was her devious little plan to get you and I together.” He shook his head. “I’m really sorry, Son, but you’ve come a long way for nothing.”

  J.P. let out a huge sigh. His father was part of the conspiracy! But there was one more thing he had to do so he decided to play along. “I wouldn’t call it a wasted trip, Dad. If you and I are speaking again then mom’s last wish would be fulfilled.”

  “That’s fine with me. I always wanted to remain close to you. I followed your career and read all the stuff you published.” He drained the coffee cup and looked around for a garbage can.

  “I’ll take it,” J.P. extended his hand. “I have a trash bag in my car.”

  “Then we’ll stay in touch?” he asked as he handed J.P. his empty cup.

  “Of course.” They hugged briefly and J.P. got into his car, started it, strapped on his seat belt and drove slowly down the road. He left his father standing alone at the top of the hill. Through his rearview mirror he noticed Harley walk up alongside him. J.P. could barely make out the Cheshire cat-like grins on their faces as they faded into the distance. Soon, only the animation of their gestures was visible.

  J.P. pulled up to a stoplight, opened his glove compartment and pulled out a plastic bag. He carefully slipped his father’s cup into the bag and gently placed it back into the glove box.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Bastogne, Belgium - December 18, 1944

  “I always make it a rule to get there first with the most men.”

  Lieutenant General Nathan Bedford Forrest (1821-1877)

  “Tailgate jump! Currahee!” one of the paratroopers yelled as another lifted the four-by-four foot gate from the straw-covered trailer bed from which the men began jumping. It was dark, damp and chilly as the troopers scurried off the flatbed and onto the roadside.

  “Shush,” admonished Captain Frank West in a loud whisper as he walked up and down the line of troopers forming alongside the truck. “Why not just yell out your regiment and division while you’re at it? The Krauts would love to know who you are.”

  West lent a hand to the last few men off the flatbed. They complained, stretched and relieved themselves on the side of the road. When the trailer was empty, West walked to the cab and banged on the door. The truck pulled the tandem cattle-trailer a few yards up the road, made a wide u-turn and headed back the way it came.

  The men of Easy Company gathered up in a loose formation on the side of the road. They were a ragged looking bunch. Some had overcoats while others wore jumpsuits and field jackets. There were even some men in dress uniforms having been plucked from leave with no time to change into combat gear. Most had some sort of weapon but some had none. Not a single soldier had sufficient ammo or grenades.
Their pockets were stuffed with K-rations and D-bars, the only commodities that were in plentiful supply in their encampment.

  The headgear ran the gamut from standard issue GI steel helmets to woolen under caps. If they were on a jump mission they would have all been wearing jump boots but in their haste to depart Mourmelon, many had still been wearing dress shoes or tennis shoes. They came with whatever they were wearing and looked like a rag tag collection of itinerant hobos.

  It was just before midnight. The troopers watched with great interest all along the horizon as the flashing lights were followed by deep rumbles of distant thunder. Somewhere over the horizon a huge battle was raging. They were marching to the sound and fury of a thousand guns.

  “Move out, hubba-hubba, one time, follow me,” West whispered and the men began shuffling their feet and marching. The captain marched his company toward the town of Bastogne. This is where the Screaming Eagles would make their stand.

  On 16 December 1944 at 0530 hours, the Germans launched a surprisingly powerful attack across an eighty-five mile front through the Ardennes Forest on the border of Belgium and Germany. A force of nearly 300,000 men, 2,000 artillery pieces and 1,000 tanks attacked the weakest section of the American line whose troops were outnumbered by ten to one in places.

  This section of the American front line came under the command of the United States First Army and was thinly manned by only three infantry and one armored division. Major General Troy H. Middleton’s VIII Corps consisted of the 9th “Phantom” Armored Division, the 106th “Golden Lion” Infantry Division just recently arrived from the States and the 4th “Ivy” and 28th “Keystone” Infantry Divisions. The latter two veteran divisions had been recently chewed up and worn out in the Hurtgen Forest campaign. They were assigned to a “quiet” sector to rest, refit and absorb replacements. The northern boundary of VIII Corps linked up with the southern edge of V Corps within which both the 99th “Checkerboard” and 2nd “Indian Head” Infantry Divisions manned positions in the Ardennes.