War Stories, Page 3

  The conductor read his mind. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “Someday you’ll probably wish you’d missed this train.”

  Still beyond speech, Jacob shook his head vehemently, imagining the adventure that lay ahead.

  The bag was ancient, faded khaki, the canvas reinforced by duct tape in several places. The ink had faded over the decades, but the message was still legible: FORT BENNING OR BUST.

  Daniel entered his grandfather’s apartment and gawked at the battered duffel, which was sitting on the hall table.

  “Grandpa, you’ve still got that old thing?”

  “We old things like to stick together,” Jacob replied, stubborn and a little proud. “This bag saw me through the whole war. I even zipped myself into it a few cold nights in the winter of forty-four. It earned the right to make this trip.”

  “You’re bringing it?” Daniel was horrified. “You have luggage.”

  “Not like this,” the old soldier shot back. “I could never zip myself into that newfangled nylon monstrosity with a separate compartment for every sock. And the wheels. That’s why they call it luggage. You lug it. You don’t roll it.”

  His grandson sighed. “And you don’t think it’ll fall apart halfway to France?”

  Jacob snorted. “This bag was in a transport truck that took a direct hit with an eighty-eight-millimeter shell. Look at it—not a scratch.”

  “And the duct tape?”

  “Marvelous stuff. Never could have won the war without it.” The old man stuck out his jaw. “Is that why you’re here—to criticize my packing?”

  “Sit down, Grandpa. I have to show you something.” Daniel followed his grandfather to the couch and settled himself beside him. He pulled out his phone. “I’ve been following the village of Sainte-Régine’s Facebook page—”

  “Let me tell you right now that I don’t do Facebook or Nosebook or any-other-part-of-the-body-book. And I don’t tweet. I’m not a bird. I don’t need any fancy gadget to know about Sainte-Régine.”

  “Here’s one thing you might not know about Sainte-Régine,” Daniel said seriously. “Not everybody there thinks you ought to be invited back for this ceremony.”

  The old man shrugged. “There are always a couple of cranks.”

  “I thought so too. At first. I’ve been following this page ever since we bought our plane tickets. Most of the town is excited to welcome you. But there’s this group. They call themselves La Vérité—it means The Truth.”

  “I know what it means,” his grandfather put in irritably. “I was in France, you know. I walked across most of it.”

  “But listen to this”—Daniel read from his phone screen—“ ‘Jacob Firestone does not deserve to be honored. He has French blood on his hands.’ Grandpa, what do they mean by that?”

  “It’s simple,” the old soldier explained. “France had already surrendered when the Germans walked into Sainte-Régine, so the occupation happened without a fight. But when we liberated it, we had to blast the Germans out. So they came in peacefully and we had to practically level the place. Is it really so surprising that a few wing nuts came to the conclusion that we were the bad guys? Especially since whoever’s writing these so-called comments probably wasn’t even born when our boys did what we had to do.”

  “Some of these posts are downright threatening,” Daniel persisted. “‘Stay in America, Jacob Firestone.’ Or this one: ‘Sainte-Régine will never forgive you.’ If you still want to go, I’ll go with you. But remember, we’re going to have Trevor with us. I’m worried about bringing him into this.”

  Jacob chuckled. “If you plan to tell Trev he can’t come on the trip, then you’re a braver man than I am. That’ll take more courage than I ever showed in Europe.”

  “Of course I don’t want to spoil this for Trevor. I’ve never seen him so excited about anything. But this sounds ugly. Maybe even dangerous.”

  The old man’s eyes took on a faraway expression. “If this is the past catching up to me, so be it. I’ve been carrying it around for seventy-five years.”

  His grandson was alarmed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re always accusing me of making war look too glamorous to the kid,” Jacob challenged. “Well, this is his chance to see exactly how glamorous it wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong—those experiences made me the man I am. A boy Trevor’s age can’t imagine the feeling that you’re a part of something so enormous—a whole world pulling out all the stops to save itself from disaster. Glamorous? Not even a little bit. But worthwhile? Ask anybody who was there.”

  Daniel took a deep breath. “All right, Grandpa. I’m going to trust you that everything’s under control. You’ve never steered me wrong. When Dad died and Mom and I moved in with you and Grandma, you kept me focused and got me through high school and college. I know you’ve got Trevor’s best interests at heart too.”

  As usual, Jacob had no interest in the emotional side of things. World War II had squeezed that out of him. “Let’s just enjoy this trip,” he said gruffly. “It’s going to be a hoot!”

  The flight was delayed due to thunderstorms, but nothing could spoil this trip for Trevor. All his friends were stuck in school, but he was free for three glorious weeks.

  When the weather cleared and the plane finally took off, they were headed not for Europe but for Georgia.

  “Fort Benning’s where I went through basic training in 1943,” G.G. told the flight attendant.

  “Thank you for your service,” the woman replied.

  “We didn’t call it service back then,” the old soldier said. “We called it busting Hitler in the chops.”

  “Grandpa,” Trevor’s dad said patiently, “she’s got a lot of other passengers to see to.”

  “Don’t be a wet blanket,” G.G. told him.

  “We’re retracing my great-grandfather’s steps through the war,” Trevor explained to the flight attendant, “finishing up in the French village he helped liberate. He’s getting a medal there.”

  “Better late than never,” G.G. added.

  She smiled. “I know you all must be very proud.”

  When they landed in Atlanta, the airline made the mistake of offering them an electric cart ride through the sprawling terminal to the baggage claim.

  G.G.’s eyes flashed. “I hoofed it across Europe and I can make it around your fool airport.”

  Dad translated: “He says thanks but no thanks.”

  They reached the baggage carousel just as their flight number was posted on the electronic board. Trevor’s suitcase appeared first, followed a few minutes later by Dad’s garment bag. What came next caused a stir among the assembled passengers: a pile of underwear, at least two dozen pairs of socks, a battered shaving kit, and assorted shoes and articles of clothing. Behind this came the remains of G.G.’s duffel bag, broken open in three places where the duct tape had given way.

  “Wouldn’t you know it?” The old soldier shook his head in disgust. “That thing survived a whole war. But one little domestic flight and kablooey.”

  “Oh, so it’s the airline’s fault,” Dad said sarcastically. “Silly me, I thought it had something to do with all that duct tape.”

  His grandfather glared at him. “If there’d been enough duct tape, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  The old man stepped up onto the carousel, placing his feet astride the moving belt, plucking up his belongings as they passed between his long legs.

  “Grandpa!” Dad choked.

  “I’ll help!” Cackling with glee, Trevor leaped onto the conveyor and began scooping up articles of clothing. “Hey, G.G., how come you packed so many socks?”

  “I got trench foot after Sainte-Régine,” his great-grandfather replied, rescuing a well-worn suit jacket. “I promised myself if I ever went back to France I’d bring plenty of dry socks.”

  Daniel Firestone lost it completely. “Grandpa! Trevor! Get down from there!”

  Finally, security shut down the carousel and the Firestone
s were able to recover all of G.G.’s property. Dad bought a suitcase from an airport luggage shop, and with much complaining, Jacob Firestone’s World War II duffel bag reached the end of its life in a trash can at the car rental center.

  “Should we salute it?” Trevor asked as they stood over the mass of canvas and duct tape.

  “No need,” G.G. told him solemnly. “You can’t look back. You’ve got to keep going.”

  A few minutes later, the three were in a rented Mazda driving south on Interstate 185 toward Fort Benning, the first stop on Jacob Firestone’s journey to Sainte-Régine.

  “I can’t stand the paratroopers,” Jacob panted, sidestepping a white birch tree. “They think they own the world.”

  Jacob first became a member of Bravo Company at Fort Benning, and many of the men he went to France with started out right there with him, in basic training.

  “Never trust a man who spends his time folding silk,” added Leland Estrada, gasping at his side on the long run.

  Basic training was like gym class times infinity, if you added in guns, grenades, and hand-to-hand combat. Also, gym class ended. This never did. No weekends, no days off, not even any breaks. Everything here was a rush, a hurry—you knew that because there was a drill sergeant every three feet yelling at you to do it faster.

  Jacob had already lost sight of the fact that the whole purpose of this was to serve his country. At Fort Benning, there was no time for thinking—only for staying conscious and putting one foot in front of the other at top speed on this twelve-kilometer loop through the woods (timed, of course, carrying rifles and full packs).

  It was pure misery. But instead of beating Jacob down, the way it did some of the recruits, it made him stubborn. He was going to get through this because he refused to give the army the satisfaction of defeating him. There were only two ways to come out of basic training—tough or dead. Not dying was the closest he was ever going to get to revenge on the drill instructors.

  The instructors worked hard to be hated, and they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. But they were only third on the enemies list. Number two was Adolf Hitler and the German army. And number one was the paratroopers. Or, as they preferred to be called, the airborne infantry. Big fat hairy deal.

  They weren’t even paratroopers yet. After basic, they would have to make it through jump school, just like Jacob and the rest of Bravo would go on to infantry training. But even here, where everybody was sort of equal, those future airborne units were considered the crème de la crème.

  “What’s so bad about paratroopers?” asked Freddie Altman, the third recruit running with them.

  “Don’t you see them strutting around the post, looking down on the rest of us?” Jacob snorted. “Calling us mud-eaters.”

  “Just because they get paid an extra fifty bucks a month,” Leland put in. “And for what? Jumping out of airplanes. Everybody knows infantry does the real fighting in this army.”

  At that moment, a group of five airborne recruits loped past them, not even breathing hard.

  The lead runner looked back and grinned into Jacob’s face. “If you haven’t turned up by midnight, we’ll send out a search party.”

  Another kicked Freddie’s heel as he jogged by, sending him sprawling in a heap.

  The last of the paratroopers, a big Texan named Beau Howell, stopped and helped Freddie up. “Sorry, fellas. I swear we’re not all jerks.” He sprinted off to join his team.

  “Beau’s not so terrible,” Leland pointed out once the three were moving again.

  “He’s not a real paratrooper,” Jacob explained. “Word around the post is he’s only doing it for the extra pay so he can afford to marry his girl back home after the war. He’s not a stuck-up silk jockey like the rest of the ‘elite.’ ”

  “Well, you have to admit they really are elite,” Freddie conceded. “They win everything. Marksmanship, parade, obstacle course, maneuvers, weapons. They even post the best times running the loop. Face it—they’re better than us.”

  For Jacob, those were fighting words. “I’ll bet you a month’s pay that Bravo beats the airborne at inter-squad next week.”

  “Then you’re going to be a poor man,” Leland replied readily, “because I don’t know a guy on post who wouldn’t take a piece of that action. How are we going to make that happen? Draft Jesse Owens?”

  Jacob didn’t have the faintest idea. But he had complete confidence that he could work it out. “There’s always a way.”

  The smell of basic training was a tug-of-war between gunpowder, diesel fuel, shoe polish, and sweat. Sweat always won, because every activity had perspiration pouring off the recruits. In 1943, there were almost a hundred thousand of them on the post. It added up to an ocean of sweat.

  It was that observation that led Jacob to what he called his “glorious plan to restore honor to the infantry” by knocking the paratroopers down a few pegs. The weapon: salt.

  He went into action two days before the inter-squad competitions. He bribed, cajoled, and called in favors with the kitchen staff at the airborne’s mess hall to begin oversalting the food. It required a fine hand. The meals had to be salty, but not inedible. That went for the eggs at breakfast, the chipped beef at lunch, and the stew at dinner. Even the coffee was a target, where salty passed for sweet.

  “You’ll never get away with it,” Leland warned. “They’re going to notice.”

  And the paratroopers did notice, but in a way that not even Jacob had anticipated. They liked it. Instead of being bland and awful, the food was tasty. After weeks of mass-produced military cooking, anything that added flavor was an improvement. The cooks were amazed. The complaints had stopped. Even some actual compliments were coming their way.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the cooks were saving the good stuff for them,” Freddie commented. “I’ve got half a mind to sneak into their mess hall just to see what all the fuss is about.”

  “Don’t do it,” Jacob warned. “Salt dehydrates you. We’ve got a twelve-klick race to win tomorrow.”

  The morning of the competition, the paratroopers’ oatmeal was especially delicious, with heaps of brown sugar covering up the fact that it was 30 percent salt.

  When the race began, the airborne jumped out to their usual lead. But as the tough course took its toll, their bodies began to sweat out moisture they didn’t have. Within the first few kilometers, their canteens were empty and most of the challenging course still lay ahead.

  Running steadily, Jacob and his squad passed the first exhausted paratrooper, doubled over by a tree, clinging to a low branch and sucking air.

  “You know the motto of the infantry?” Jacob called as he and his group jogged past. “It’s Follow me!”

  One by one, Jacob ran by every single oversalted airborne recruit. Beau was the last, the iron man. He made it more than eight kilometers in before dehydration, exhaustion, and stomach cramps reduced his progress to a stagger.

  Out of compassion and friendship, Bravo left him with a canteen and galloped on to victory.

  The satisfaction spilled out of ninety-three-year-old Jacob Firestone as he gestured toward some woods in a distant portion of the sprawling property of Fort Benning. “The finish line was right around there, I think. We busted across it like conquering heroes, let me tell you. They had to send jeeps to pick up most of the paratroopers.”

  The Firestones had arrived at the post’s visitor center in the early afternoon, and were enjoying Jacob’s memories of basic training.

  Trevor was wide-eyed. “Did you ever get caught?”

  G.G. shrugged. “Who was going to turn me in? The mess staff? The civilians would have gotten fired, and the GIs would have been court-martialed along with me. I was safe as houses.”

  “So the moral of the story is crime pays,” Trevor’s dad put in disapprovingly. “That’s an excellent message for your twelve-year-old great-grandson.”

  The old soldier glared at him. “That’s what you got out of this?
The kid knows exactly what the moral is. Tell him, Trev.”

  “That lots of salt makes crummy food taste okay?” Trevor ventured.

  “Ha! That too!” G.G. beamed. “The lesson is you don’t let any high and mighty jerks treat you like a second-class citizen.”

  “I guess that is a pretty good lesson,” Dad admitted.

  “What happened to Beau?” Trevor asked. “You said he was a paratrooper. But he was your best friend in the war, right?”

  “He washed out of jump school, so they sent him back to Bravo. Fear of heights—who knew? The pay cut didn’t hold him back. He married that girl anyway. Nice lady.” Jacob’s eyes took on a sad, faraway look.

  “Beau passed away a few years ago,” Dad explained to Trevor.

  G.G. made a face. “He didn’t pass anything; he died. Why do we have to soft-pedal it? It works that way for everybody. First you’re alive and then you’re not.”

  As an alumnus of the infantry and a World War II vet, the old soldier was treated with a lot of respect on the post. They even assigned a jeep and driver to give him and his party a tour of the more than eight hundred square kilometers that made up Fort Benning. G.G. tried to send the man away, saying he didn’t need a ride, having run the length and breadth of this place fifty times over. But Dad insisted, and Trevor was grateful. He’d never driven in a real army vehicle before.

  Fort Benning had changed a lot since G.G.’s time there, and the old man took it personally. “Those aren’t barracks—not my barracks anyway. How are you supposed to toughen up soldiers when they live in a five-star hotel?”

  The obstacles on the obstacle course weren’t high enough; the climbing ropes were too low; the shooting range was manicured like a golf course; the recruits looked like fifth graders who thought they were at Club Med; and the drill instructors barely raised their voices.

  “Are you kidding?” Trevor protested. “They’re yelling their heads off!”

  “That’s not yelling,” G.G. scoffed. “In my day, if your eardrum wasn’t rattling against your brain stem, you couldn’t hear what it was they wanted you to do.”