Johnny recognized the words. He studied the guard’s face. He was a replacement but Johnny suddenly recognized the harelip.
“Didn’t we meet in Bastogne?” Johnny asked.
The guard stepped back a half step to look at the paratroopers’ faces. “Maybe.”
“We know this guy?” Jake asked.
“Yeah, we do. Bastogne.” Johnny kept his gaze on the guard. “He was going in the other direction. From the Golden Lions. Took off and ran out as I remember. Tom, isn’t it?”
Tom English became indignant. “No I didn’t. My regiment surrendered. Everybody knows that.”
Jake answered. “Yeah, everybody knows they surrendered at noon on 19 December. But not everybody knows you were already in Bastogne with us at noon on 19 December.” Jake was making quick calculations in his head. “So it seems like you had a pretty good head start getting back. Maybe you left the day before?”
English began to sweat nervously. “Yeah, maybe, but I stayed in Bastogne and fought. And I joined the paratroopers and that proves I’m no coward.”
Jake became angry. “It proves nothing, you stupid one-day wonder. The bravest men I ever knew worked for months to earn that patch and jump wings and you sneak in the back door and get it all in one day? That’s bullshit. And you think you’re equal to us? You may wear the patch but you’ll never be airborne to me, you candy-ass little pussy!”
Tom English raised the pistol but it was not the deterrent he had hoped for. He had angered Jake far too much. “And another thing you chickenshit, rat-bastard coward. Why the hell are you playing cop and hassling real paratroopers? I’m going to my captain and report what a sorry son of a bitch you are for drinking on duty. We’ll see how long you keep that patch!”
Tom English raised the pistol and Jake lunged to disarm him. Before they came together, Johnny saw what was about to happen and leaped in for the pistol. The three struggled for a moment, twisting and turning in a tight scrum until the deafening crack of a pistol shot stilled the night.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Washington D.C. - June 6, 2007
“In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons.”
Herodotus (c. 484 BC - c. 425 BC)
“Happy Birthday!”
Cynthia Powers brought the small cake into the dining room of the condo. Two small number-shaped candles adorned the top, a six and a three. J.P. was already sitting at the table gathering up the dinner plates and silverware. He smiled as she approached.
“Where’s my present?”
“Later,” she nodded toward the bedroom.
“In that case…” he got up and quickly cleared the table.
After the dishes were in the dishwasher and Cynthia had poured two cups of steaming hot black decaf coffee, they sat down to enjoy thin slices of his birthday cake.
“I can’t ever enjoy my birthday without thinking of my father,” he hesitated. “I mean the man who raised me. D-Day, the sixth of June.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” She hopped off her chair and grabbed the pile of mail she hastily dropped on the hallway table. She flipped through it quickly until she found one particular manila envelope. It was addressed to J.P. She brought it to the table.
“I was so anxious to get the cake into the freezer I forget this was there.”
J.P. looked at the return address. It was from Frank West’s widow. J.P. had attended the funeral just two weeks prior. It was another touching ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery with full honors. He tore open the envelope. There was a handwritten note along with a picture.
Thank you for attending the burial Mr. Kilroy. Frank always spoke well of you. He asked me to send this to you after he passed. He said you would understand. I wish I could be more helpful but Frank didn’t share much with me regarding you or your situation.
Respectfully,
Gilda West
J.P. held the picture. It was one he took a few years ago at Arlington National Cemetery. Frank was kneeling at his father’s gravestone. His right arm was on top of the stone. His left hand was gripping the side of the stone. J.P. studied it for a moment and handed it to Cynthia.
“Do you see anything here?”
She looked at it for a moment. “Just a man kneeling by a grave.” She handed it back.
J.P. kept looking at the picture as he spoke. “Every time I feel like I got this behind me, something happens to stir it up again. More than once I was determined to let it go but Frank kept hinting I still didn’t get it. Of all the guys, he seemed like the only one who really wanted me to know the truth. Even from beyond the grave he won’t give it up but keeps sending me clues.” J.P. shook his head in curious disbelief as he propped the picture up against the sugar bowl and continued to study it. “I’m getting too old to worry about this shit!”
Cynthia saw the writing on the back of the photo, reached across the table and read the comment. “When you see it, find Macie Vance. Frank.”
“See what?” he said aloud.
Cynthia studied the picture of a white marble gravestone.
JOHN
KILROY
CORPORAL
US ARMY
WORLD WAR II
FEB 9 1924
OCT 15 2003
“Who is Macie Vance?” she asked.
“I believe she was Jake’s girlfriend or fiancée before she sent him a Dear John.”
Cynthia studied the picture. “It’s got to be here. We’re both staring at it. Whatever it is.”
J.P. picked up the picture and held it up. Nothing! Then he flipped it upside down, still nothing. “At least he could have pointed me in the right direction,” he finally said in desperation.
Cynthia took the picture. “Pointed? I think he did,” she said. “Look at his index finger on the hand gripping the side of the stone. It’s pointing between John and Kilroy.”
J.P. studied the picture from that perspective. He let out a deep sigh. “Oh, my God!”
“You see something?” she asked.
“I think I do and I can’t believe it.” He leaned back in his chair, looked up and tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Can you pull some strings for me and find Macie Vance?”
Chapter Seventy-Three
Charleston, South Carolina – June 20, 2007
“Women who stepped up were measured as citizens of the nation,
not as women…this was a people’s war and everyone was in it.”
Colonel Oveta Culp Hobby (1905 - 1995)
J.P. Kilroy walked stiffly into a salty, brisk wind coming off a restless Charleston Harbor. The numerous American flags that flanked both sides of the concrete causeway snapped and fluttered in the vigorous, humid breeze. The walkway was about 700 feet long and led from the parking lot of the welcome pavilion directly to the wharfs and the ships. He walked inside the painted yellow line that separated the narrow walkway from the wider driveway. At the end of the causeway was the massive bulk of the aircraft carrier USS Yorktown (CV-10). She was the 900-foot long centerpiece of the Patriot’s Point Naval and Maritime Museum. What he had come specifically to see was situated on the hangar deck of the vintage World War II aircraft carrier.
J.P. Kilroy followed the signs that led to a series of switchback metal stairs. He ascended to a platform level with the hangar deck and stepped inside the cavernous space. The breeze was less forceful within the ship even though some of the sliding shutters that adorned both sides were raised open. In front of him was the visitor’s Information Desk, a long counter staffed by three people, one elderly man, a middle aged man and an elderly woman.
While he waited his turn, J.P. stared off to his right down the huge hangar deck. There were numerous World War II aircraft on display as well as many exhibits and memorials with period pictures. There were tributes to the heroes of carrier aviation as well as aviation and space flight. He could barely see the theater at the bow and concluded it showed continuous documentaries of the ship and its collection o
f artifacts.
It was a weekday and there were not many people in attendance. Most of the tourists were older couples. Some of the men were very old, a few in wheelchairs. He observed them as they explored the ship and their own frail memories with obvious emotion.
When his turn came, J.P. stepped up to the man in the middle. The man wore a Vietnam Veteran baseball cap with a Military Police designation. J.P. did not recognize the four ribbons embroidered on the peak of the cap. While the man was sliding over a pamphlet, J.P. snuck a look at the baseball caps on the man and woman on either side. Both caps were black and simply said USS Yorktown (CV-10) in bright yellow letters. They looked old enough to have actually served aboard the ship in wartime except one was a woman.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” the man broke J.P.’s concentration on the other hats. “We have six self-guided tours here on the Yorktown but if you don’t have time for them all, I recommend tours number three and six, along with the hangar deck.” He opened the pamphlet and pointed to the small map, which showed the starting places for all the tours.
J.P. lifted his head toward the area behind the Information Desk. “I’d like to start there,” he said referring to the light blue structure trimmed in white stripes. The name over the entrance said simply, “Medal of Honor Museum”.
“Of course,” the man agreed. “It just opened last month. Very popular although you’ll have it all to yourself today.”
The museum was about a hundred feet wide and took up half the width of the huge hangar deck. J.P. pushed the entrance door open and stepped into the dark. The warm, moist air gave way to a dark, cool and dry space. It surprised him. He blinked to adjust his eyes. On the near right wall of this first room was a floor to ceiling rendition of the Tomb of the Unknown. The scene was comfortably familiar to him. A soldier facing the Tomb was holding a salute. The left wall revealed the history of the Medal of Honor. Continuing on the right wall were randomly placed flat screen televisions showing various pictures of Americana. The pictures were accompanied by a continual audio track of what it means to be free in America. There were many voices but J.P. recognized Tom Brokaw’s voice immediately.
The next room was small and circular. Across the top of the room, close to the ceiling was a metal banner, which read “Medal of Honor Society”. This society of living recipients was the curator of the Medal of Honor museum. On the right were replicas of the Medals of Honor for the three armed services of the United States. They all shared the common ribbon scheme of white stars on a blue field and differed only slightly in the design of the medal itself. Above the replicas was a quote from President John F. Kennedy.
A nation reveals itself not only by the men it produces,
but also by the men it honors, the men it remembers.
J.P. turned to exit this room and stepped into a corridor he would later learn was called the Combat Tunnel. It was a long darkened enclosed walkway with handrails on each side. Beyond the rails and at angles above and below the walkway were darkened battle scenes from a number of wars.
For the second time, J.P. was startled as a motion activated sensor lit up the screens on each side of him. As he walked, the sounds changed to match the pictures of that particular conflict. The noises ranged from musket and machine gun fire to aircraft engines and bomb explosions. The walkway was about thirty feet long and each panel lit up in turn with the accompanying audio sounds as J.P. made his way along. At the end of the Combat Tunnel was an exhibit honoring the youngest Medal of Honor winner, twelve year old William “Willie” Johnston in the Civil War.
J.P. then entered the Hall of Heroes with alcoves alternating left and right. He went from exhibit to exhibit, each one emphasizing a different conflict. He noticed the name Dr. Mary E. Walker who won her Medal during the Civil War, the only woman ever so honored. He recognized some household names as he passed through the various alcoves; names like Sergeant Alvin York, Audie Murphy, Eddie Rickenbacker, Teddy Roosevelt and Senator Daniel Inouye.
He finally found what he was looking for in the next room. It was a large round room with kiosks containing four touch screens encased in plastic and metal. They were obviously designed for rough use. He stepped up to one of the screens and touched it. It immediately lit up. On the left side of the screen was a list of search filters. He selected CONFLICT and then SECOND WORLD WAR. The next filter was BIRTHPLACE. He scrolled and selected NEW YORK. A list of names appeared and he used the touch screen to scroll to K. There was no Kilroy. He reset the screen and started over. Same result. He moved to another touch screen and repeated the process more deliberately. There was nothing between KIDD and KIMBRO. He stared at the screen, nodding his head. Then he reset the criteria by touching NEW SEARCH and repeated all the previous criteria. When he selected BIRTHPLACE, instead of selecting NEW YORK, his fingers hovered above VIRGINIA. He hesitated.
“Having difficulty? Maybe I can help.” The woman’s soft voice startled him. It was the elderly woman he had seen at the information desk; the one with the Yorktown baseball cap. She was tall, slim and rather striking for her age, which J.P. figured to be between seventy and eighty. Her hair was silver-white and well manicured. She carried a walking cane. There was a small mole on her upper lip.
“Ah…I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t think so…”
“Move over,” she interrupted with a smile and nudged him over with her hip and shoulder. She then selected VIRGINIA.
“No, no,” he corrected her.
“Shush,” she answered and started scrolling down the names. She came to the name John Kilroy and pressed it. Up on the screen flashed a picture of his father. He stood there in silent bewilderment. Next to the picture was information on Birthplace, Rank in Action, Service Branch, Conflict, Unit and Occupation. He read the Citation quickly. Everything matched what he knew about his father except Birthplace. His suspicion was starting to gain traction.
“What just happened here?” he asked the woman.
“You probably never read your father’s citation carefully enough or you would have found out years ago. They were all afraid you would.” She appeared relaxed and confident.
“Found out what?” he asked, still totally in the dark. “Who are they?”
“All in good time, John.” She slid her right arm under his left and clutched it with her free arm. “If you might help an old lady to a seat, I’ll explain everything to you. You’ve traveled a long way and it’s long past time you knew the truth.”
“How did you know my name?”
“I was expecting you, John. I recognized you from your father’s funeral although I had to lay low for the short time you were there. I’m Macie Vance.”
J.P. was stunned. His knees buckled slightly and he dropped his pamphlet. He smiled sheepishly as he bent to retrieve it. “Nice to meet you.”
She led him through the last few rooms of the museum, past the video testimonials of living Medal recipients and the large bronze memorial wreath and guided him out the exit and toward the stern of the big ship’s hangar deck. They walked slowly in silence, her steps matching his. They headed toward the snack bar where there were a dozen large round wooden tables. She took a seat at one of them.
“You need to get me a nice hot tea, John,” she smiled at him. “They don’t like it when you just sit here and not buy anything.”
“Of course,” he sprang up to the counter and ordered two.
At last, after years of probing and searching, interviewing and interrogating, he would finally get some answers. He had buried his mother and his father and everyone else who knew his father in wartime and had all but lost hope he would ever get to the bottom of it all. After ten fast years in which he alternated between his own life and the search, he had metaphorically thrown in the towel after Frank West died. When they all passed on, all hope of fulfilling his mother’s last wish was dashed. Now, at least, he just might find out what so many people conspired to keep from him. He would finally learn the truth. And then, perhaps, final
ly find peace.
He brought the two cups of steaming tea back to the table. He took a seat right beside her. Macie was waiting patiently.
“The Hall of Heroes is my favorite,” she whispered as she tested the hot tea with a small sip. “Last month on May twenty-third they cut the ribbon, opened the new museum…forty live Medal recipients. NBC News and that Williams guy were here. Then we had a gala party on the flight deck. Quite a show.”
”Yes, ma’am, I imagine it was quite a show.” His impatience was tearing at him. He put some sugar in his tea and a dash of milk. He smiled at her and waited for her to continue. J.P. glanced up and noticed they were sitting directly underneath a B-25 Mitchell Medium Bomber hung from the hangar deck ceiling by thick cables. It was part of the Doolittle Raid exhibit. Were bombs about to drop? He watched her sip her tea. “You had something to tell me?”
She looked at him. “The man you knew as your father, the man who raised you was…John Kilroy of Bedford, Virginia. We all called him Jake.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
Joigny, France - August 15, 1945
“Whom the gods love dies young.”
Menander (342 BC - 291 BC)
The single shot echoed loudly through the night. For a few seconds everything was quiet. Johnny screamed and fell to the ground while Jake shoved Tom English violently out of the way. Johnny was holding the barrel of the .45, still pointing toward his stomach, his thumb stuck in the slide.
Paratroopers came running over from all directions. Jake knelt down beside Johnny and pulled the slide back on the pistol, releasing his thumb. He felt for the wound around Johnny’s stomach and his hand came back covered in blood.
“I got ya buddy. You’re gonna be all right.” Jake took off his jacket and rolled it quickly into a pillow for Johnny’s head. He then applied pressure to the hole in Johnny’s jacket where he thought the wound would be. “Medic,” he instinctively yelled. “Somebody call a medic!”
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 69