Daughter of Deceit (11 page)

“What is the matter with you?” Katharine demanded. “He seems nice enough.”

“He’s a self-righteous prig.”

“Can you at least be polite?”

“No.” She picked a novel off Katharine’s shelves and headed to her Uncle Tom’s library. “But I’ll stay until he goes. I’ll be reading in here. Call if you need me.”

That made Katharine more nervous. She went back into the kitchen and switched on the CD player, thinking bluegrass music might warm up the atmosphere, but when Kenny walked back in the hall he stopped and frowned.

“You don’t like the music?” Katharine asked.

“It’s okay if you want to keep it on, but I like classical, myself.”

She cut it off and brought back a magazine to read in the wing chair by her study window while Kenny worked. He didn’t ask where Hollis had gone, but her absence seemed to relax him. While his fingers were busy inside the computer, he began to whistle the song they’d just heard on the CD. Katharine lifted her head to listen. “You are the only person I know who can whistle a whole song on key.”

He flushed. “Sorry. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break.”

“I like it. Do you sing?”

“No, ma’am. The only musical talent I have is for whistling.” He resumed work, but stopped whistling. In a few minutes, he said, “Let’s see what she does.”

When the computer booted, he linked his hands above his head and stretched.

Katharine smiled. “You are amazing. I’ll bet your family’s real proud of you.”

His chuckle was as sunny as his smile. “Not really. Every one of the men sat me down and suggested I get some training so I can find a real job in case the computer industry goes bust, and they’re all waiting for me to show up on the front porch one night admitting I’m starving and need a loan.”

Thinking about how she wished Jon were closer, she asked, “Do they live far away?”

“About an hour and a half north of here.”

“Is your mother okay about your living in Atlanta?”

“Oh, sure. Mama gets around more than Daddy, so she understood why I might want to live in the city. She told me to do whatever makes me happy. But before I came down here, her sisters gave me all sorts of helpful advice.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Janie said, ‘If you ever need a little money, give me a call and I won’t tell the others.’ Wanda said, ‘If you wind up in jail, give me a call. I’ll come bail you out and won’t tell your folks.’ Flossie warned me not to forget my roots, and Bessie told me she is real disappointed, because she had me slated to be a preacher. Can you imagine that? She knows good and well I never planned on being a preacher. All I ever wanted to do was work on computers.”

“You did a great job on mine. How much do I owe you?”

“Not a thing. I got that motherboard off a computer I bought for parts, and I’ve more than made back my investment selling pieces to other folks.”

“But your labor?”

“Jon’s fed me enough times to pay for that. I’m glad to do his mama a favor, him being out of the country and all. You call me if you have any more trouble, you hear?”

“Thank you. The biggest trouble I’m likely to have tonight is trying to track down a friend’s father’s military medals. She left a box of them and wants me to see if I can help her figure out what he did to earn them.”

What made her say that? Could she possibly care whether a young man she scarcely knew saw her as a woman with interests and abilities of her own, and not simply as Jon Murray’s mom?

Kenny lit up like a summer morning. “Military history is something of a hobby of mine. Could I see what medals you’ve got?”

She fetched Bara’s cigar box, vexed with herself. Chances were good that Kenny knew little more about military medals than she did, but he’d spend the next who-knew-how-long trying to track them down. Why hadn’t she remembered that giving a computer geek a research subject is like throwing fresh steak to a starving dog?

She came back to find pictures of medals on her computer screen. “This is U.S. Military About dot-com,” he informed her. “It tells all about various medals and what it takes to earn them, and it has good pictures, too. I’ve bookmarked the site for you to read later.”

He did seem to know his medals. He lifted each from the box as if he and they were old friends. “Here’s three Purple Hearts. The folks who earned them either got wounded or killed.” Ignoring Katharine’s wince, he picked up the Bronze Star. “This one’s engraved on the back. See? Was that your friend’s dad?” He pointed to the name.

“Her brother. He was killed in Vietnam. One of the Purple Hearts is his, too, but I don’t know which one. The rest of the medals belonged to their daddy.”

“He must have fought in the Second World War. This one’s the Victory Medal they gave to all the folks who served.” Kenny showed her a big round disc with a woman’s figure on it and the words W
ORLD
W
AR
II. It hung from a ribbon with a rainbow of colors on each side of a wide red stripe.

“It is certainly bright.” Katharine didn’t know what else to say.

“And here’s an Air Medal, a Presidential Unit Citation, and—whoa! Look at this!” He held up a blue circle with a gold border, golden wings joined by a white star, and the number 15 embroidered between the wings. “It’s a Fifteenth Air Force patch. I’ve never seen one of these.” He stroked it between his forefinger and thumb as he explained, “The Fifteenth was made up of heavy-bomber groups stationed in southern Italy during the last eighteen months of the war. Most of the fellows started out in Africa, but once southern Italy was taken, the army established the Fifteenth in the fall of ’forty-three and sent them in.”

He continued as if Katharine had objected. “I know we hear more about the Eighth Air Force, but that’s because they were stationed in England, where most of the reporters were. My Uncle Vik claims if it hadn’t been for the Fifteenth Air Force, our land troops could never have won the war. Their crews flew over enemy territory and blew up communications lines, oil refineries, major roads, and railroad yards—all sorts of infrastructure that Germany needed to win the war. Uncle Buddy agrees. He was in the air force during the first Gulf War, and he’s big into air-force history. He says folks make a lot of fuss over the infantry’s role in the invasion of Normandy, but they forget that the Fifteenth flew over enemy territory every single day, long before the ground troops got there. The Fifteenth also had a photo unit that flew unarmed over enemy territory, to shoot pictures for the bombers. Can you imagine the courage that took?”

He was so engrossed, he didn’t bother to wait for Katharine to nod. “And they had an amazing track record for rescuing air crews shot down in enemy territory. No other air force completed successful escape operations in as many countries.”

“Show-off.” Hollis drawled from the door to the library.

Kenny turned bright pink. Like Katharine, he seemed to be cursed with blushes that rose anytime he was embarrassed or annoyed.

“He is impressive,” Katharine chided her niece. “I didn’t know all that. Did you?”

“No,” Hollis admitted grudgingly.

“I probably was showing off,” Kenny admitted to Katharine, ignoring Hollis, “but military history is in my blood. Up where I was raised, practically every stream and hill was the site of some battle. If you dig much, you’re likely to uncover cannonballs and stuff. My granddaddy’s got such a big collection of old cannonballs and ammunition in his basement, the county fire department has a plaque on his house saying they will not come in case of fire.”

Hollis frowned. “You’re putting us on.”

“No-siree, it’s the gospel truth. He can’t get a speck of insurance, either. To hear him brag, you’d think that old collection was something worth having. He’s a real military buff. He was in the navy during Vietnam. Daddy and all my uncles, except Vik, served in some branch of the U.S. military.”

Hollis curled her lip. “Every man in the family but you?”

Katharine was surprised by her contemptuous tone. Hollis was vehemently opposed to war. Kenny, however, didn’t seem bothered. “Yep. Everybody but me. I don’t like fighting. I got licked when I fought kids at school. I figure I can do more for my country doing what I do best than shooting at somebody I never had a quarrel with. I can’t get real excited about re-enactments, either, but Granddaddy, Daddy, and all my uncles are involved in them. And almost every evening they sit around Granddaddy’s house re-hashing battles. To hear them tell it, if they’d of been the generals, the South would have won. When they aren’t talking about the War of Secession, they’re talking about World War II, Vietnam, or the Gulf Wars, figuring out how they would have done things different. You can’t grow up hearing war talk day and night without some of it sinking in.”

The term “War of Secession” wasn’t one Katharine used, but she had heard it somewhere recently. While she was trying to remember when or where, Hollis sauntered over and picked up a medal dangling from a blue–and-yellow ribbon. “What’s this one? It’s real pretty—looks like a sun or something with a bird of some sort in the middle.”

“It’s an Air Medal. The bird is an eagle with lightning in its talons. You had to fly a certain number of missions to earn one. Twenty-five or thirty, I think.” He turned it over and showed them the engraved name: W
INSTON
A
RTHUR
H
OLCOMB.

“That’s not very many,” Hollis objected. “Uncle Tom flies that much every few months.” She laid the medal down as if it were unimportant.

Kenny cocked one eyebrow. “Does Uncle Tom fly with folks shooting flak up from the ground? And with fighter planes stuck on his tail?”

Katharine gave Hollis a warning look and answered for her. “No, he doesn’t, and you’re right. That would be a lot of missions to fly under those conditions.” She was not about to let World War III break out in her study.

“What’s this one?” Hollis lifted a plain blue ribbon framed in gold with raised leaves on it. “It doesn’t look like a medal at all.”

“It’s a Presidential Unit Citation. I’ll bet his unit got that for flying some of the Ploesti raids.”

Meeting blank stares from the women, he was delighted to elaborate. “Ploesti was a huge oil refinery in Romania. Germany took it over, and by 1943 had it producing something like a million tons of oil a month plus the highest-octane gasoline in Europe. The folks who would later be the Fifteenth Air Force started bombing it around August of ’forty-three, and they bombed that sucker for nearly a year. That earned the whole unit a citation.” He set it back on the table.

Katharine picked up the gold star Bara had loved. “What is this one?”

Kenny took it and held it reverently. “Whoa! This is the Medal of Honor, the highest honor the military can bestow. They almost never give one, and when they do, the person has to have done something spectacular. It’s so special that even if a private gets one, a general will salute him.”

“Or her,” Hollis added.

“Or her,” he conceded. “Your friend’s daddy must have been a hero of major proportions.”

Katharine nodded. “So I understand. But researching what he did to earn this many medals could take ages, couldn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. They give a citation with every medal. If your friend’s daddy kept his medals, he probably kept his citations.”

She was delighted it could be that simple. “I’ll tell her. Thanks so much.”

Getting rid of Kenny wasn’t so simple. He was still fingering the Medal of Honor.

“We can actually get the citation for the Medal of Honor online. Back in 1973, Congress decided they ought to collect the citations from all Medal of Honor recipients in one place, and that entire record is now available at www-dot-army-dot-mil. They have the recipients listed by name and the war they fought in.” He set down the medal and started typing. “What was his name, again?” In a very short time the printer spat out the results. Kenny handed Katharine the printout with the expression of a puppy presenting a slipper. “Here he is.”

Katharine thanked him, but made no move to read the paper. “Thanks. I’ll give this to Bara.”

Hollis reached for the sheets. “Aren’t you even going to read it? Mrs. Weidenauer won’t mind.” When Katharine hesitated, Hollis began to read aloud.

Holcomb, Winston Arthur (Air Mission). Rank and organization: Captain, U.S. 15th Army Air Corps. Place and date: Blechhammer, Germany, 20 November 1944. For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty while serving as pilot of a B–24 aircraft on a heavy-bombardment mission to attack the South Synthetic Oil Refinery at Blechhammer, Germany, 20 November 1944. Before this mission, Captain Holcomb had already completed the required number of missions, but he unhesitatingly volunteered for this assignment. The mission was highly successful, but costly. Twenty-three of the twenty-six planes over the target were hit by flak. The plane which Captain Holcomb was flying was riddled from nose to tail by flak and knocked out of formation. A number of fighters followed it down, blasting it with cannon fire as it descended.

Hollis stopped and complained, “They make this sound like an action movie.”

Kenny took the papers from her. “Let me read it if you can’t show the proper respect.”

“I can show respect.” She snatched back the sheets and kept reading.

A cannon shell hit the craft, blowing out the windshield, killing the copilot and wrecking the instruments. Captain Holcomb’s left leg was struck above the knee. However, none of the other members of the crew knew how to pilot the plane, so he asked his crew to apply a tourniquet to his leg while he continued to fly.

Again Hollis stopped. “Do you think this is really true?”

“Of course it’s true,” Kenny declared. “They verify it very carefully.”

“Whew!” Hollis took a deep breath before continuing.

The controls failed to respond and 2,000 feet were lost before he succeeded in leveling off. The radio operator informed him that the bomb bay was in flames as a result of the explosion of cannon shells, which had ignited the incendiaries. With a full load of incendiaries in the bomb bay and a considerable gas load in the tanks, the danger of fire enveloping the plane and tanks exploding seemed imminent. When the emergency release lever failed to function, Captain Holcomb gave the order to bail out. Four of five surviving crewmembers left the plane. The waist gunner’s parachute, however, was on fire. He beat out the flames and continued firing at the enemy while Captain Holcomb, thinking only of saving his crewman, continued to fly.

“He must have been in excruciating pain,” Katharine exclaimed.

“At least,” Hollis agreed, “but the style still leaves something to be desired.”

“Keep reading,” Kenny commanded.

The plane was under enemy attack for another half hour before Captain Holcomb lost the fighters. Flying his crippled bomber over peaks as high as 14,000 feet, Captain Holcomb informed the gunner that a crash landing was imminent. He ordered the gunner to take his own parachute and exit the plane, to lighten the load. From the ground, the gunner watched the plane land in a distant upland meadow. When it burst into flames moments later, the gunner believed the captain had perished. Local residents assisted the gunner to return to base, where he reported Captain Holcomb’s bravery and death.

Kenny interrupted, surprised. “He died?”

“No,” Hollis told him. “It was like Mark Twain—the rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated. I’ve known this man all my life. Hush and listen!”

Six weeks later, Captain Holcomb rejoined his unit. He stated that he had been pulled from the plane by local residents who informed him he was in Yugoslavia. His wounds were treated by a local nurse, whose family cared for him until he was able to travel, then they assisted him to rejoin Allied forces. Although Captain Holcomb had received excellent care, his leg could not be saved. He returned state-side 15 February 1945.

They stood in silence for several minutes. Katharine had no idea what the others were thinking, but a searing conviction was burning itself into her brain:
The man who endured that flight would never have killed himself.

That’s as far as she had gotten when her thoughts were interrupted by Hollis. “Why have you got these things, Aunt Kat?”

“Bara asked if I could find out what each medal was for.”

Hollis rolled her eyes at Kenny. “Aunt Kat takes on some of the dumbest projects. Why couldn’t Mrs. Weidenauer do her own research?”

“Your mother volunteered me, so don’t ask why I didn’t say no. You’ve lived with Posey all your life. But at least, thanks to Kenny, it won’t take as long as I had feared. All I have to do is ask Bara to look through her father’s files for citations to go with the other medals, right?”

He nodded.

Hollis slid a glance Kenny’s way, then strolled over to the computer. “I see you got it up and working again.”

“Yeah. That’s what I do.” He started to put the medals back in the box, but Katharine touched his hand to stop him.

“What are all the little stars at the bottom?”

“Battle stars awarded to his heavy-bomber group during the war. Do you know what bomber group he was in?”

“No idea.”

“If you can find out, you could Google it. A lot of them have Web sites, with pictures and memoirs. Some also list missions they flew, and citations and stars awarded to the whole group. As for the medals, like I said, each one comes with a citation stating what was done to earn it. Tell your friend to look for the citations.”

“What if she can’t find them?” Hollis made it sound like a test.