The most prestigious and desirable assignment for an enlisted person was to be accepted as a Sentinel. Their ranks were commanded entirely by enlisted men and women.
The view past the Tomb was spectacular. Below and beyond, in the distance across the Potomac River, was the city of Washington D.C. with all of its dazzling white monuments and memorials glistening in the brilliant sunshine. On this bright and clear June day the visibility was virtually limitless but J.P. had difficulty looking past the engraving on the tomb.
HERE RESTS IN
HONORED GLORY
AN AMERICAN
SOLDIER
KNOWN BUT TO GOD
The entire scene before him was a moving experience and J.P. felt himself choke up as he observed the reverence and respect the Honor Guard displayed toward their fallen brethren. He once heard someone say that a soldier does not die until he is forgotten. If that were true, he concluded, the Sentinels would assure their comrades in arms would live forever.
At that moment J.P. felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned to meet the smiling gaze of Frank West. The old soldier was wearing his Screaming Eagle windbreaker and American Legion cap festooned with medals and patches. A digital camera hung around his neck. He held one finger to his lips while he grabbed a sleeve and led J.P. down the path out of the amphitheatre. Frank was spry for his age but his short choppy steps were now aided by a rather sturdy bamboo cane with a carved Eagle’s head for a handle. He looked older than the last time J.P. saw him. When they were out of earshot he grabbed J.P. and gave him a hug.
“It’s so good to see you again, young fella’. Thanks for meeting me here. How long has it been? Two years since Lincoln’s funeral?”
“Yes, Lincoln died in oh-two. Time flies. It seems like just yesterday that we met and talked in Bedford at the D-Day Memorial with Dad. September 11. I’ll never forget that day.”
“No one will.”
J.P. continued. “Why did you pick this place to meet? It’s a long walk up this hill.”
“I always enjoy watching the Honor Guard. I never miss a chance to see them. Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Very. I read somewhere that in order to serve in the Honor Guard a soldier must not speak to anyone for the first six months and swear to never drink or curse for the rest of his life.”
Frank smiled at J.P. “Not true. They can do whatever they choose in their off-duty hours. But obviously any disgraceful conduct unbecoming would result in forfeiting their Honor Guard badge. And since there are only about four hundred of them in existence, that’s a big deal. It’s the best deterrent against bringing dishonor to the group and the mission.”
J.P. looked confused. “What about the story that during Hurricane Isabelle last year the Sentinels were ordered to take shelter and not march but did so anyway?”
“It’s a great story but that’s not true either. They were never ordered to stand down but the safety of the troopers would override any ceremonial duties if it came to that.”
“How do you know all this?”
Frank chuckled. “My grandson is a Sentinel. You were watching him back there. I came up here to see him and to pay my respects. That’s why I called you.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Since I was in town anyway, I wanted to see you for two things, Mister Kilroy. First, I wanted to visit your father’s grave. I’m sorry I missed the funeral last year. I screwed up my back and was in traction for a few weeks.” Frank paused but got no reaction from J.P. “Would you show me where his grave site is?”
“Sure, it’s down this way.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes on a path named Wilson Drive until they came to a fork. The mature trees provided ample shade and the breeze seemed to pick up in the shadows.
J.P. led them to the right on Roosevelt Drive in front of, and well below, the Tomb. He couldn’t help but consider that Frank was the last person alive who knew the secret. While J.P. tried hard to let that whole affair slip quietly into his past, every time one of the men died the whole experience came swirling back into his mind. He never got validation of the secret from any of the old men and he never sought to identify his biological father. It was an effort he was not inclined to commit.
Ever since he found out that his dad was not his biological father, he assumed he already knew what the old men were trying to keep from him. But Frank said something at the D-Day Memorial in Bedford that made him question his conclusion. The shock of September 11, along with the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq that followed, were more than enough to occupy his mind to the exclusion of most anything else. Cynthia Powers occupied any spare moments left in his life. But every time he came in contact with any of the conspirators, the old curiosity was resurrected and he found himself questioning his conclusion that the secret was already revealed.
They made a left on Porter Drive adjacent to Section 3 of the cemetery. They walked for a few moments when Frank came to a sudden stop.
“It’s a little further up,” J.P. advised.
Frank slowly took off his hat. He was staring at a simple white marble gravestone. A small cross was inscribed at the top.
ANTHONY C
MC AULIFFE
GENERAL
US ARMY
WORLD WAR I
WORLD WAR II
KOREA
JUL 2 1898
AUG 22 1975
Frank slowly saluted the marker. “I heard he was buried at Arlington with his wife, son and daughter. This was one great man.”
“Who was he?”
“He took command of the division when we went into Bastogne. General Taylor was back in the States at the time. He gave the famous ‘NUTS’ reply when the Germans called for our surrender. It fired up all the troops.”
Frank snapped a picture of the headstone and they began walking again. “Bastogne was hell,” Frank continued. “That was where Lincoln won the Medal. I wrote the recommendations and got a bunch of eyewitness accounts, too. I told Lincoln about the all-black parachute battalion forming back in the States. I wrote a letter, got him in.” Frank was repeating what he had previously told him but J.P. just let him continue.
“Go on,” J.P. kindly encouraged.
“The Jerrys threw everything they had at us. Surrounded us, cut us off and pounded the crap out of our perimeter and bombed the town. Four or five divisions at one time or another, maybe more, who knows, but we stopped them and stacked bodies. It was freezing cold, snowed every day; fog as thick as smoke, and they kept coming and we kept putting meat on the table. Around Christmas the Jerrys gave him,” Frank waved at the grave marker, “an ultimatum. Surrender or be destroyed. He answered with one word. ‘NUTS’!”
J.P. smiled. He had heard the account either on the History Channel or the National Geographic Channel. It was an inspirational story. They continued walking.
“That boost in morale came at the right time. We were low on everything and Jerry was pressing us really hard. It gave us a rallying cry and pumped up our spirits. McAuliffe basically told the Germans to ‘go to hell’ with that answer.”
As they walked, Frank was gazing into the distance as if trying to read the story from some far-away journal. “We held out for eight days. It was so cold. They say pain has no memory but I can still remember the cold and I get chills when I think of it. When the sun finally came out, we got supplies by air and our Thunderbolts and Mustangs gave the Jerrys hell, bombing and strafing their positions. Then we went on the offensive and kicked the crap out of whatever Jerrys were left. Kicked their asses all the way back to Germany. We lost a lot of guys in the Bulge. They were the bravest men I ever knew and they were mostly boys. By the spring of forty-five we were pretty much on occupation duty. After Hitler surrendered most of the high-point men were rotated back to the States. Jake and Johnny were a little short so they stayed on. We all expected to be fighting Japs by the summer.”
J.P. jumped in before Frank could continue. “So, sometime after the Wa
r in Europe ended, Jake died. I’m still trying to find out how that happened.” J.P. could not help himself. There were still some loose ends surrounding the conspiracy.
“Shit happens in the military, son. Let it go.”
“It’s something I really want to find out the truth about.” J.P. stopped walking. “Here we go.”
Frank stepped over the low chain and walked up to the headstone. He removed his hat and bowed his head. The top of the arched white stone had an engraved cross. The inscription read:
JOHN
KILROY
CORPORAL
US ARMY
WORLD WAR II
FEB 9 1924
OCT 15 2003
Frank handed his digital camera to J.P. “Would you mind?”
Frank walked up to the stone and struggled to kneel beside it. With his arm around the stone he motioned to J.P. “Get closer.” J.P. moved in a few steps, snapped a few pictures and helped Frank to his feet.
“Thank you, son. I just had to pay my respects.” They continued walking on Porter Drive.
“You said you were in town anyway. What for?” J.P. asked.
Frank looked at him as if he had three heads. “They dedicated the World War II Memorial this past Saturday. The place was packed with old veterans the whole Memorial Day weekend. I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. Not for anything!”
“Of course.” J.P. mentally slapped himself in the head. How could he have forgotten the official dedication this weekend even though the site had been open to the public since late April?
“You said you wanted to see me for two things. What was the other?”
Frank smiled. “I’m buying lunch today. It’s just me paying off an old debt.”
J.P. laughed. “There’s no need to…”
“I insist. Besides, you’ll be celebrating a birthday soon. Call it an early birthday present. How old? Of course, I know.” Frank did some mental math. “Born on D-Day. That would make you an even sixty this year. Congratulations, young man.”
J.P. smiled. To Frank he was a young man. Then why was he feeling so old? They came to another intersection and Frank led them left on Grant Drive. They continued walking.
“In that case, if you insist,” J.P. smiled. “But I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Big shot reporter like you can grab a long lunch hour occasionally, I’m pretty sure,” Frank stated emphatically.
“I suppose,” J.P. agreed. “Are we going now?”
“In a few minutes, Mister Kilroy. Right after we pay a short visit to my old friend, Lincoln.”
Chapter Seventy-One
Joigny, France - August 15, 1945
“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”
Plato (c. 428 BC – c. 347 BC)
Finally, there was something to celebrate.
July had been a depressing and frustrating month for Jake and Johnny. After being denied their appeal to be sent home, they had to incur the indignity of saying goodbye to friends and acquaintances on their way back to the States. Over 800 of their fellow paratroopers and over 500 officers were transferred to the 501st PIR, which was to serve as a vehicle to transport all high-point men back to America for discharge. These fortunate troopers were to be replaced by low point men from other airborne divisions and newly trained replacements.
The word had come down the 101st Airborne Division had been classified as Category II, which meant they would be redeployed to the Pacific to fight the Japanese. Soon after, General Taylor announced the division was going back to the States into Strategic Reserve. The first move would be back to France. The men considered the most recent plan good news but unreliable. Circumstances had a nasty habit of changing drastically and rapidly in the army.
At the end of July, most of the 101st Airborne loaded onto “forty and eight” railroad cars and left Austria. The rest left by truck convoy for the three-day trip to the ancient Roman towns of Auxerre, Sens and Joigny. After the relative comfort of the hotels and billets in private homes in Austria, the paratroopers were appalled by the squalid conditions in France.
The 506th PIR was assigned to garrison the town of Joigny, the smallest of the three towns situated on the Yonne River between Sen and Auxerre. They bivouacked in abandoned French barracks and did their best to repair the broken windows and doors and clean up the area to make it passably livable. Their barracks were run down and the plumbing was inadequate and unsanitary. The impatient airborne troopers were already in a resentful mood and the living conditions did not help. Their officers initiated a stepped-up training regimen and an accelerated organized sports program but could not completely remedy the anxiety and disappointment of their men. They had survived the War thus far and just wanted to get home.
Given the circumstances, there was bound to be trouble and it manifested itself mostly in brawls in taverns in the towns. There were frequent fights among troopers and between the military and civilians. Divisional command acted promptly to squash the unruly violence. Passes were restricted and additional Military Police were assigned to patrol the towns. Airborne paratroopers were conscripted into military police duties, as rowdy paratroopers were slightly less likely to pick a fight with one of their own. It was not unusual for the number of duty MPs to be equal to the number of passes issued on any given night. Predictably, the violence subsided.
The news on 7 August garnered the attention of the world. A new super weapon, an Atomic Bomb, was dropped on Japan. The entire city of Hiroshima was destroyed. This news did not elicit any sympathy from the paratroopers. They had passed through Munich on their trip back and it was nothing more than one huge bombed-out ruin. There was no compassion for the foe who started the War and who killed so many of their friends. There was only astonishment that one bomb could demolish an entire city and thankfulness that America alone had it. When a second bomb destroyed the city of Nagasaki, the veteran paratroopers were confident they would never have to invade Japan. The survivors of North Africa, Sicily, Italy, Normandy, Holland, Bastogne, Alsace and Germany had no way of knowing America had already used all the special bombs it had manufactured. When news of the Japanese surrender circulated through the ranks, the mood of the troopers was pure euphoria. They had survived the damn War and would make it safely home. Letters were hastily written, plans were solidified and celebrations abounded.
Jake and Johnny were drinking cognac as they celebrated the end of the War. Johnny was more enthusiastic. He had a family waiting but he tempered his delight so as not to make Jake feel any worse. Jake had been more subdued since Macie left him but appeared much happier tonight. Johnny assumed Jake feigned a measure of cheerfulness so as not to spoil the celebration.
Johnny tapped the bar and ordered two more cognacs. They already had too much. “I can’t wait to get home to see my kid.”
Jake downed the last of his drink and slammed the empty glass on the bar. “We made it, Yank. There were times I wasn’t so sure.”
“Yeah, we had some close calls, brother. But I think I’m going home the same guy who came into this War.”
“You think so? Because I’m sure not the same,” Jake disagreed.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t let anything I saw or did change me a whole lot.”
“Well, Johnny, you’re a better man than me. I can’t wait to get back home and start over. There is way too much I don’t know or understand so, like I said, I’m going back to school on that GI Bill.”
“Good for you, Jake. You’ll do great!”
The bartender poured two glasses. Jake picked up his. “Here’s to all the guys who won’t be going home.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
They downed their shots and both slammed their glasses down. After paying the bill they headed back toward the barracks. It was a warm night and they were in no hurry. They talked about things soldiers talked about since the beginning of warfare. They talked about the chow, they talked about their friends and they talked about home.
John
ny noticed Jake was in an exceptionally good mood. Gone were the mood swings that dominated his personality since Macie left him. Whatever it was that changed his outlook and attitude, Johnny was confident he would hear about it soon enough.
As they neared the barracks compound, a paratrooper MP stepped out of the guardhouse.
“Let’s see your identification and passes!”
Both paratroopers were taken by surprise. “Hey Mac,” Johnny answered. “Aren’t you supposed to keep guys from getting out? Not prevent us from getting back in?” He laughed at his own joke. Jake giggled along with him. They made a move to walk around the guard.
“Hey, I gave you an order. Show me your ID.” The guard stepped in front of them.
“Okay General Patton, let me see what I can find,” Johnny joked while he fumbled around with his pockets on unsteady feet.
Jake held Johnny up. “I’m with him.” There were childish grins on both their faces.
After a moment Johnny turned to the guard. “Nope, I seem to have misplaced all my shit.” He turned to Jake. “Do you have any shit to prove who we are?”
Jake shook his head vigorously. “We just need to get some sack. Check us in the morning.” He took another step and the guard blocked him, placing his hand on the flap over his pistol.
Both paratroopers stopped laughing and tried to gather themselves. Jake noticed the guard was wobbling a bit. “Have you been drinking soldier?” Jake asked.
“You guys are drunk,” the guard exclaimed.
“We’re supposed to be drunk,” Jake shot back. “But you’re supposed to be sober.” He pointed a finger in his chest. “Now get the fuck out of the way before I rip your arm off and shove it up your ass.”
The guard stepped back and pulled out his .45.
“Whoa, slow down,” Johnny pleaded. “No need for that shit. Call the duty sergeant. He can vouch for us.”
The .45 was pointed down. The guard looked nervous and confused. He got himself into something he didn’t know how to get out of. “You guys think you’re so damn tough? You’re not all that tough! You’ll see. I’ll show you!”
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 68