My Honor Flight (13 page)

The medic
patched up Butler as best he could, and we waited for a jeep to take him to a
field hospital.  We stepped out into the street.  There were civilians all
around.  But there was no celebrating.  Just the opposite.  People were crying
everywhere.  Some stood in the streets staring at the church.  There were about
a dozen people stepping among the wreckage, picking up pieces that might be
salvaged.  It was real quiet, so we could hear people murmuring as they mourned
the loss of their church.  I’d never seen anyone so attached to a place.  I
wished we could have taken the Germans some other way, but we did what had to
be done. 

The jeep
pulled up, and we put Butler in the back.  He was unconscious.  The medic
climbed in, and he said he thought Butler would make it, but he was done with
Buzz Company.  I wished he were conscious.  I wanted to say goodbye and wish
him good luck in the future.

Pearson and I
turned to meet up with the rest of the platoon.  Joanie leaned in the hotel
lobby’s doorway, her arms crossed.  I was still mad at her for comparing us to
the goddamn krauts.  Our eyes met for a moment.  She had a cold-steel stare,
and her eyes drilled into me.  I nodded and touched my helmet as a gesture of
goodbye, and turned to leave.

 “There were
twenty Germans in there,” she called to us.

We kept
walking.

 “Wait!” she
called.

We turned to
face her as she approached us.  I really didn’t want to talk to her.  I was
afraid I would say something that wasn’t very gentlemanly.  She was frowning,
and walked up real close to me.  Then she grabbed my face, pulled me down, and
kissed me full on the lips!  For a long time.  When we finished, she looked up
at me and cracked a smile.

 “I was
wrong.  Churches can be rebuilt.  But if it was not for you Americans, the
Germans would still be here.”  She paused and then grabbed my arm.  “Thank
you.  Thank all of you.”

Pearson and I
both smiled.  I felt a really warm rush, both from the kiss and the fact that
we hadn’t lost a friend.  She stepped up to Pearson and kissed him on both
cheeks, and hugged him.

We wished
each other well and told her to look us up if she ever visited America.  Back
in the camp, I was the hero of the platoon.  Pearson dogged me for days about
getting a full kiss from Joanie, while he only got pecks on the cheeks.

A few years
ago, the mayor of Lansing gave this fella a community award.  The man created a
charity for poor kids—getting them gifts at Christmas every year.  He was a
real hero in town.  When he got the award, he gave an acceptance speech. 
During that speech, he said, “This is the best day of my life.”

I’ve thought
about that many times.  If you ask someone about the best day in their life,
they are probably going to say their wedding day, or when their kids were
born.  Pretty standard answers, and all true.  But for me, nothing will ever
compare to the week we were in Paris after its liberation. 

We didn’t
fight at all in Paris.  We were just headed east at the time, and we arrived
the week after the official German surrender in the city.  We’d been pushing
hard since we arrived in France, and Brass gave us a week off in the city.  Our
timing was perfect.

I’ve tried to
think about how to explain this before, and I’ve never done it justice. 
Imagine, if you can, that your country—your city, your neighborhood—are all
overridden by an invading army.  A third of the city evacuated during the
invasion.  Of those that are left, the enemy brings bullying and brutality.  The
enemy takes whatever it wants.  There is always a risk of rape.  If you knew
any Jewish people, they may have been shipped off.  To Auschwitz.

Now, imagine
living like that for years.  I think people SAY they can imagine it.  But most
people have never seen a man shoot someone right in front of them.  They
haven’t had someone take bread away from them.  They haven’t walked city
streets for years, avoiding eye contact with the enemy forces that stole their
city.  For years!  I can tell you these things, and you can think that you
understand what life would be like.  But unless you experienced it, I don’t
think anybody can really comprehend how bad that would be.

Paris endured
this for four years.  And when we came through there, we had been flushing
krauts out of their country for months.  Everywhere we went, the civilians were
grateful to Americans.  We were heroes!  But we didn’t let it go to our heads. 
I have to tell you though, getting those hugs and pats on the arms sure helped
us realize that we were making a difference.

So, when the
liberation of Paris was officially recognized, Buzz Company was right in the
thick of the city.  All that oppression had been lifted off the people, and
there was complete and total joy.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  It wasn’t
just the French folks.  We felt it too.  For me, it really felt like my feet
weren’t touching the ground.  There was wine and food and music and laughter. 
Women kissed us as we walked by.  Children came up and touched us.  Men hugged
us.  We didn’t feel any different than the French.  We had all just vanquished
evil, and all that remained was hope and peace.

Unfortunately,
there is a downside to all that joy.  I’ve never told anyone this before.  During
that week, I had an affair with a young woman named Claire.  It happened by
accident.  I wasn’t looking to fool around.  But with the celebration, and the
euphoria, it just happened. 

I’ve always admired
architecture.  So one day, I wanted to go to the Eiffel Tower.  None of the
other guys were interested.  It was late afternoon, and they wanted to get
ready to go drinking.  So I just lit out on my own.  We were bunked up about four
or five miles from the tower, and I walked to it. 

I found this
wonderful little cafe about a hundred yards from the tower.   The metal
gridwork loomed large above me as I sat at a small outdoor table in front of
the cafe.  The waitress and I had been talking for a few minutes.  Well, not
really talking.  I was talking in English and she was talking in French, as I
tried to order something to eat.  We’d gotten coffee figured out.  But
regarding food, she would nod as I talked and gestured, and then say something
soft as she tilted her head and blinked slowly.  Suddenly she snapped to
attention, held up a finger indicating I should wait, and went into the cafe.

 “Are you
having troubles?” a woman’s voice behind me asked.

I turned to
see a stunning woman standing behind me.  She was a redhead, and her wavy hair
cascaded around her face and onto her shoulders.  Her eyes were crystal blue. 
I blushed.  Then I fumbled with my napkin, trying to look nonchalant.

 “Yes, uhh,
I’m afraid I don’t speak French.”

 “May I help
you?”

I nodded. 
Then in a brief moment of bravado, I took a chance.  I looked at her and tilted
my head.  “Would you care to join me?”

 “I would
like that very much.”

The waitress
returned with a cook, but she sighed in relief as my new companion started
talking in French.  She ordered our meals. 

There are
certain people in your life that you just click with.  There’s a natural
connection.  I had it with Petey Anderson.  We just knew we had each others’
backs.  I had that connection with this woman.  But in a way different than
Petey.  I was drawn to her, wanting to know everything about her.  Her face
glowed in the summer evening light, and we talked at that table nonstop for three
hours.  Suddenly we looked up, and dusk was upon us. 

 “We should
get going,” I said, and I left a huge tip for the waitress.  We’d taken one of
her tables for far too long.

 “Yes, let’s
go,” said Claire.

We stood and
started walking down the sidewalk.  She reached over and held my hand.  I
hesitated briefly.  That touch was a shock, a reminder of Debbie back home.  I
thought I did a good job of hiding my apprehension.

 “I offend
you?” she asked.

 “Oh, no, not
at all,” I smiled and gently squeezed her hand.  But Debbie’s face loomed in my
mind.  I shouldn’t be there.

We walked all
around the tower, talking about its history, and the history of Paris, and
other historic sites in the city.  She told me she would show me the city for
the next three evenings if I desired.  By the time our walk had ended, I was so
drawn to this woman that I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could.  She
overpowered my faithfulness to Debbie.

I actually
loved Claire.  I loved Debbie too.  I think it’s a pile of BS when anyone says
you can only love one woman.  I rationalized it that Debbie and I weren’t
married yet, and given the hell I’d been through, surely she would understand
if I stayed with this woman during my stay in Paris.  It was an escape for me. 
Just talking about her city and her life, and not thinking about killing, and
mud, and always wondering when a bullet was going to find me.

I spent the
rest of my leave with her.  Day and night.  It lasted three days, and then Buzz
Company had to move out.  We both knew we would only know each other for a few
days, and we didn’t care.  We just wanted to forget the reality of war for a
while.  We both cried when I started to leave her apartment to return to Buzz
Company.  We knew we would never see each other again.  As I turned to leave
her for the last time, she spoke.

 “Wait, I
have something for you.”

I turned
back.  She held out her hand in a fist.  I put my hand under hers, and she
released her fingers.  It was a simple metal key ring.  Sturdy and surprisingly
heavy.

I frowned at
it, then at her, gently shaking my head.

 “I don’t
understand?”

 “I would
hope that you will carry this with you, for every day, to remember me.”

I nodded, the
tears streaming down my cheeks.  Hers too. 

 “I will carry
this.  But I won’t need this to remember you every day.” I said.  “I have
nothing for you...”

I ran down a
mental checklist of my belongings, trying to think of something I could give to
her.  Then it hit me.  I dug into my pocket.

 “Please,
take this,” I said, as I handed her the gold piece.  My lucky gold piece.

She knew the
significance of the gold piece.  We’d talked about it as I’d shared some of the
things that had happened during our fighting.  She held her hand to her chest,
and brought her other hand to her mouth.  She shook her head.  Then she grabbed
with both hands at the gold piece, forcing it into my palm and squeezing my
fingers around it.

 “No!  You
are not done with fighting.  You will need anything that can help you!”

I nodded, and
we hugged, and gave one long, final kiss.  Then we stared into each other’s
eyes for a very, very long time.  I wanted to stay there with her.

Then I
turned, and never saw her again.

I never told
your great-grandmother about all that.  Even though I had been unfaithful, I
think she would have understood if I’d told her.  But I couldn’t see that it
would do any good to bring it up.  I’ve wondered over the years where Claire
ended up.  Did she have a family?  Did she ever think of those days and me?

Anyway, if someone
were to ask me what the best day of my life was, I would have to say it was
being in Paris when they were liberated, and seeing the resulting true joy of
humanity.  And I still carry that key ring in my pocket.  I’ll be buried with
two rings, from the women I love—my wedding ring from Debbie and the key ring
from Claire.

After Paris,
the Ninth fell into a funk.  We’d gotten a taste of life away from battle and
camps and GI ration food.  We didn’t want to go back into combat.  Buzz
Company’s first assignment after Paris was to work with another company to clear
some villages some two hundred miles southeast of Paris.  We didn’t understand
why we were headed that direction, but it wasn’t our job to question the
assignments.

The company
met light resistance in the village.  Our platoon didn’t have any casualties. 
On the outskirts of the village was a big mansion, built around 1830.  The
krauts didn’t wreck it because they used it for their field headquarters.  We
set up camp there.  Ivy grew on all the buildings’ stone walls, and the
surrounding land looked like a park, with plenty of trees and a creek wandering
through a clearing.  It was really nice.   

The civilians
were grateful for us chasing off the krauts, and they gave us plenty of food
and wine.  We got two days off, which was a surprise to us because we’d just
had a week off in Paris.  Apparently it was a logistics issue as they figured
out where to send us. 

So we were
sitting around playing cards under the shade trees.  The day was a sleepy one. 
About mid-afternoon, a curious French kid came up and watched us play cards. 
He was probably about eight or ten years old.  He was trying to figure out the
rules of the card game as he sat next to me, looking at my cards.  I was having
some good-natured fun with him, even though we didn’t speak each other’s
language.  I’d tussle his hair or poke him in the ribs.  Or I’d show him my
cards and ask him to pick which one to play.  He’d point at one and look at me
questioningly.  I’d shake my head.  Then he’d look back at the cards, and pick
another.  If I nodded, he’d beam.  Then he’d pick the card and lay it on the
table.  And then if it was a winner, the rest of the men would groan, and that
boy would just giggle like all get out.  We were having a great time.

Chartelli was
cooking up another scam.  He was trying to arrange a stickball tournament for
the next day.

 “See, we can
have nine teams, and have everybody face each other.  Work our way up to a
championship.  Everybody put a buck in, and then the winning team wins the
money!”

We continued
to play cards, didn’t say anything.

 “Come on! 
Hey fellas, this is an easy way to pick up some scratch!  And you know I’m the
stickball champ.  This is almost guaranteed—”

He stopped talking
as a jeep pulled up to the mansion.  We watched as the passenger talked with a
GI up by the stables and pointed the visitor to us.

He was a
sergeant.  He walked into the shade.

 “The guy up
there says you guys are the Ninth Platoon, Buzz Company?”

 “All damn
day!” said Chartelli.

 “I’ve got
something for you,” said the sergeant, reaching into a breast pocket.  He
dangled something from a chain.  It was one of the medals from the Buzz Company
Olympics.

 “Guy who had
this said that no matter what, he wanted this to go back to the Ninth Platoon
of Buzz Company.  He said you would know what to do with it.”

 “The guy
bought it back in that village?” someone asked.

The sergeant
nodded. “The only casualty from that fight.”

Chartelli
gulped hard, and took the medal. He turned it over and examined it.  “Chinups.”

Nobody said
anything.  I thought back to that day in England so long ago.  Then I thought
about how Trumbull thought the medal winners would have the best chance of
surviving.  I looked over at him.  He was scowling at the ground, scuffing at
it with one foot.

 “Thanks,
Sarge,” said Chartelli.  “Appreciate you taking the time.”

 “Yeah, don’t
mention it.   Sorry, men.”  He turned and returned to the jeep, and it rumbled
out of sight around the stable.

 “What do we
do with it?” asked Lou Robinson.

Chartelli
shook his head.  “Damn.  That guy’s name was Dick Monte.  He was from Chicago,
I think.  Damn.  He was a good kid.  He talked about playing pro baseball when
we got back.”

I threw my
cards in, and the rest of my table did the same.  We were all quiet. 

 “I think we
should treat them like our letters,” said Big Swede.  “We should get it to
their families, explain what it was.”

A lot of us
nodded. 

 “Yeah... 
Yeah,” said Chartelli.  “That’s a good idea, Swede.  I’m going to go around the
company and tell all the medal winners our plan.  Tell them they got to
identify a buddy who will get the medal to family if they don’t make it.  I’ll
write down the list of winners and contacts, get it to Cap or something.”

 “How about
you pass that around for a look-see?” asked Trumbull.  The medal slowly made
its way around the group.  When I got it, I thought it was strange that it
looked as new and shiny as the day Monte won it.  But we’d all been tarnished
in our own ways—shot at, scared, or just plain worn down.  The little kid
motioned for it.  He studied it, but didn’t seem impressed.  He didn’t know the
story behind the tag.

I didn’t feel
like playing cards any more.  I got up for a walk along the little stream.  The
kid walked alongside me.  We figured out each other’s names.  His name was
Guillaume.  Then he grabbed my hand and yanked on it, and motioned that I
should follow him.  We walked maybe a quarter mile along the stream until we
came to a spot where it widened into a shallow area about twenty feet on a side,
maybe a foot deep.  The water was clear, so we could see the pebbles in the
mud.  The kid shucked his shoes and waded in, and motioned me to join him.  I
hesitated, looked around.  We still were near krauts.  But here we were
isolated in a forested area.  There would be no reason for anyone to be here
but us.  I put down my rifle and took off my shoes. 

The water was
warm, yet refreshing.  The kid reached down, picked up a little pebble, and
chucked it at the edge of the water.  I realized he was trying to hit a frog
that was sitting in the mud.  The kid motioned me to try.  After a few times
each, the kid succeeded in hitting one, scaring it into the water.  As it
jumped, the frog let out a little squeak, and the kid busted out giggling.

We spent
about five minutes at it, and then I hit one.  We were laughing hard, then I
heard a twig snap to our left.  Guillaume kept laughing, but I looked toward
the sound.  A German soldier stood not forty feet from me, his rifle aimed at
my head.

 “Shit!” I
yelled, and turned to look at my rifle, some ten feet behind me and toward the
kraut.

 “Nein!” the
kraut shouted sharply.  Guillaume stopped laughing and looked at the kraut. 
His eyes were wide, and his mouth twitched into a little sobbing face.

The kraut
threw a hand up in the air, and then put it back on his rifle.  He said
something in German, pointed at me, and then threw his hand up in the air.  I
figured out that he wanted me to put my hands up.  I slowly raised both hands.

I just stared
right into the eyes of that bastard.  He looked at me and he didn’t blink.  We
were locked there in the afternoon sun.  I didn’t hear anything at all.  If
there was a breeze blowing, I didn’t feel it.  I didn’t hear or feel Guillaume
near me.  All I could do was stare at this soldier.  I was going to die.  And I
was pissed off.

I couldn’t
think of what to do.  Guillaume was standing just to my right, so he was
shielded behind me.  My sidearm was on the right, so the kraut couldn’t see
it.  But he surely knew it was there, and there was no way I could pull it
before he shot me.  I thought about calling for help, but we were too far from
the chateau. 

He motioned
for me to go to the shore.  I didn’t like that.  He was probably going to
position me so he could put one in my head, instead of the side of my torso. 
What about the boy?  Would he kill him too?  Or let him go?  Keeping my hands
up, I turned and slowly waded to the shoreline.  I hesitated and looked at Guillaume,
nodding to indicate that he should stay to my left.  He followed, mimicking my
pose and actions.  We walked next to each other, and I tried to shield him by
keeping between him and the kraut.

When I looked
back at the German, he pointed at my sidearm holster, and then flicked his
finger toward the water. 

 “You want me
to throw my gun in the water?” I asked.  He made the motion again.

I started to
drop my right hand to my holster.

 “NEIN!” he
shouted.  I froze.  He said something in German, and pointed at my left hand. 
I understood.  He wanted me to pull the gun out with my left hand, so I
wouldn’t be able to hold it correctly.  I slowly reached down to the holster with
my left hand, pulled the snap, and with two fingers, lifted the sidearm slowly
out of the holster.

He shouted
something at me and flicked his hand toward the water.  I sighed, and tossed my
gun about ten feet into the water.  I watched the ripples.  I still had a boot
knife.  I cussed myself that I never had Duncan show me how to throw a knife. 
But he always said they threw special knives in the circus, so it probably
wouldn’t work anyway. 

I decided I
would try to talk my way out of this, even though he didn’t understand a lick
of English.

 “Look, you
got us.  Let the boy go,” I said, tilting my head toward Guillaume.

Our eyes
locked again, and he just stood there looking at me.  He started walking toward
me, real slow.  That made me happy.  If he could get close enough, I might be
able to grab his rifle and push it away.  Maybe I could have a chance in
hand-to-hand combat. 
Keep coming, you son of a bitch
. 

Without
taking his gun off me, he reached my rifle.  He slowly bent down and picked it
up, and tossed it into the water. I kept jawing at him.

 “Well, you
are thorough, I’ll give you that.  What’s your name, anyway?”

He just stood
there looking at me, the gun never wavering. 

 “Come on,
pal, let the kid go.”

He was my
age.  Young.  We could have been schoolmates back home.

 “Look.  You
got us.  You won.  Why don’t you go back to your buddies and tell them how you
caught an American?”

Still
nothing.  After another minute, he pulled his sidearm from its holster and
pointed it at me.  Then he leaned the rifle against his leg.  With his left
hand, he reached up and unbuckled his helmet strap.

 “What the
hell are you doing, buddy?” I said, trying to be as friendly as I could.

After the
buckle was undone, he grabbed his helmet and pulled it off.  I gasped.  His
hair was unruly—dirty blond and stiff, with cowlicks everywhere.  Just like mine!

I saw the
faintest sign of a smile on his face.  He lowered his pistol. 

I couldn’t
help it.  I just busted out laughing.  He started laughing too.  Who would have
thought that two guys with the world’s worst hair would be standing here next
to each other?  Two men from separate worlds, standing here by a Frenchie pond
on a nice warm afternoon. 

The laughing
only lasted a minute or two.  We were both still smiling.  Our hair wasn’t the
only similarity.  We had the same build, the same face shape.  We could have
been brothers. 

His smile
slowly faded, and he pointed the sidearm at me again.  He pointed at the
ground.  I stopped smiling too.  I nodded, and dropped to my knees, facing him.

 “Nein,” he
said with an assuring tone.  He smacked his butt with the pistol and pointed it
at the ground.  He wanted us to sit down.  He started talking a lot, but I
didn’t understand any of it.  But like I said, he was talking real friendly. 
He was making a lot of hand motions too.  He was motioning that we were to stay
where we were, and he was going to walk away.  I nodded.  I thought he was
going to let us go.  Frankly, I couldn’t understand why.  I was an easy kill. 
Maybe he was worried that there were more GIs around. 

He holstered
his sidearm, pointed his rifle at me, and backed his way slowly out the way he
had come.  He stopped when he reached the trees.  He talked quietly, but in a
tone like we were old friends—light and soft. 

He put his
hand to his chest, and said, “Dieter.”  He pointed at me.

I put my hand
on my chest and said, “Douglas.”  I pointed to the boy and said, “Guillaume.”

He nodded,
then he motioned with his hand that we should stay put.  I nodded.  He smiled at
me, then he winked.  I chuckled and nodded.  My twin was going to let us live. 
My eyes teared up.  No one had shown me mercy since I’d been in this damn war. 
I watched him disappear into the trees, and I hoped I’d never see him again,
because surely one of us would have to kill the other.

Guillaume and
I hugged and both talked nonstop in our own languages.  We knew what each other
was saying.  We were coming off the adrenaline of nearly getting killed, and
then we laughed as we’d point at my hair, or point back at where the kraut had
been. 

We headed
back to the chateau.  I never shared the story with anyone.  Didn’t want to put
up with the lectures of going out in enemy territory by myself, or putting my
weapon down.