Chapter 1
There was an exceptional amount of work going on along the Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad these days. The C&O's managers had done well, however unknowingly, in preparing the rail line, running from the East Coast of Virginia all the way into Cincinnati, Ohio, for the previously-unimagined amount of men and materials being moved on its rails in the present day. The railroad had not only survived but managed to respectably prosper through even the darkest days of the Great Depression, and when the Empire of Japan attacked the naval and air base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, the Chesapeake & Ohio had as well-maintained and modern a rail line as anyone else did on the Eastern Seaboard.
As usual, coal was being shipped out from the mines in West Virginia- along with being burned in the locomotives themselves- and with there being a war on, coal was more in demand than ever. But with a war on since December 7, 1941, going on three full years, the United States government was asking the C&O to move a hell of a lot more than just coal. Every kind of war materials, either raw or finished, and every quantity of troops imaginable. The rail lines of Chesapeake & Ohio ran straight to the Navy base at Norfolk and the Hampton Roads Point of Embarkation, a prime departure area for servicemen being shipped to the European theater.
It was a special point of pride for the men of Chesapeake & Ohio that the American landings in North Africa, Operation Torch, had been prepared for at Hampton Roads. The trains of C&O had done much to make sure the monumental loads of cargo, men and machines were at Hampton Roads when they needed to be. If you weren't fighting yourself, you damn well did what you could to show the ones who were you were pulling for them.
With so much going on, so much cargo and so many people to move- not just for the war effort, but more normal passenger operations as well- there was so much work available it was all the railroad could do to keep up with it. Business was booming, and the Chesapeake & Ohio was making money in a big way. So were the people working for it- even if some of them would have rather been fighting in the war.
Stripped to the waist inside the cab of the George Washington, one of the most prestigious of Chesapeake & Ohio's passenger trains, Benjamin Everett Jackson, just turned sixteen on June 4th, 1944, knew all about wanting to fight in the war. Tall and in superb shape for his age- or any age, really, from the way he turned heads at the beach on the man-made lake at nearby Douthat State Park- Benjamin had a short-cut, neatly-combed head of jet-black hair. He could pass for eighteen without much trouble, and had been strongly tempted to see the military recruiting office in Clifton Forge many times, lying about his age in order to get in.
There was always the option of buying a bus ticket to Winchester, or Waynesboro, or even Richmond, for that matter. Anyplace where there'd be a recruiter- and the War Department and Navy Department were making themselves as available as they possibly could these days. The word was well out there by now; the military needed every man they could get. Germany and Japan would lose the war- Benjamin knew no one in Clifton Forge who doubted that. The question was how long was it going to take- how much would it cost- before the end came for the fascists. Unsurprisingly not content to oppress and brutalize their own people, Adolf Hitler, Hideki Tojo, and Benito Mussolini had decided to take their shot at spreading their evil across the planet.
As Benjamin picked up another shovelful of pitch-black West Virginia coal, turned, and threw it into the George Washington's blazing furnace door, the engineer, Thomas Del Rio, a Brazilian-born man whose parents had moved up to the United States when he had been just a child, turned to him and shouted over the noise of the engine's huffing and puffing, "Benjamin! Any word on your brother?"
Benjamin shook his head, shoveling another load of coal in. "Nah." He stopped to catch his breath a moment, then went for a third shovel of coal. "I ain't worried, though. Just 'cause we ain't heard from him doesn't mean anything bad's happened. If there ain't no body, there ain't nobody dead."
The forty-year old man, a veteran of the railroad since before Ben had been born, laughed and nodded. "Yeah. I ain't arguing that."
"He's in the Airborne," Benjamin yelled over the noise of the chuffing engine. He had to pause as Robert Thompson, the assistant engineer, pulled a cord and #2677, a 2-8-4 Class "Kanawha" locomotive pulling the numerous cars of the George Washington, let off a steam whistle blast that made speaking aloud impossible. The noise assaulted Benjamin's ears, but as the George Washington puffed and bellowed its way back towards Clifton Forge- the first time it and Benjamin both would be back in days after a run all the way out to Ohio- his hard, hard work as a fireman was needed greatly. Short of setting down his shovel and clapping his hands over his ears there was little Ben could do about it, so he let the noise go on and kept at his work. Besides, he was young and his ears were in great shape. They could take a little strain from the whistle now and then.
"What?" Robert and Thomas said at the same time, looking back at their young fireman. Benjamin should have known they were both getting ready to make fun of him, but he was focused on shoveling coal and so just replied normally. "I said-"
The second whistle blast cut Benjamin off, and the way the George Washington's drivers were looking at him, knowing grins on their faces, said they'd been timing this whole thing perfectly.
While the long, loud whistle blast went on, dropping off and then picking up again as the train made the last of its run to Clifton Forge, Benjamin Jackson took the chance to look up at the engineers and say some things he wouldn't have dared say in front of his parents, at Hargrave Military Academy in Chatham (in front of the teachers and staff, anyway), at church, or in front of Rhoda, his latest girlfriend. From the way the engineers' big grins got bigger, they had expected Benjamin to start swearing uselessly, too- and they also no doubt knew he wasn't really angry with them. Benjamin might have been much younger than the other two men, but he got respect on the railroad and around Clifton Forge.
The reason was the same as it was for his older brother, the oldest of the four Jackson boys. Benjamin Jackson worked damn hard. He was a good student and a competent athlete, but apart from sharing his brother's love for physical exercise, Benjamin was no prodigy or superstar. He just worked hard and gave no half measures at anything he did- not least because his father would have made him unable to sit down for a week if he found out one of his sons was slacking off. There were no half-measures in the Jackson household, no jobs left half done. You did things correctly the first time, gave it your all no matter what you were doing, or you suffered Dad's wrath- assuming Mother didn't get to you first and simply glare at you, stare you down, until you hung your head in shame.
So while he got teased all the time, had pranks played on him constantly by the other railroad men- especially once they learned Benjamin attended a prestigious private boarding school during the school year- Benjamin's hard working, no-nonsense nature, combined with his sunny, energetic disposition and ability to take just about anything and stay on an even keel, made sure he was given plenty of respect on the Chesapeake & Ohio. Every engineer he had shoveled coal for had testified that Ben Jackson was a damn hard worker. He had earned his place on an elite assignment, one of the firemen on the George Washington. You didn't just get that job by accident.
But why hadn't Benjamin just quit his job, done the no doubt easy task of lying about his age to a recruiter, and gone off to fight in the war?
The reasons for it were pretty simple, as they tended to be as a Jackson.
First, Mom and Dad would have killed him when they found out- and even if he'd succeeded and was beyond their grasp by the time they learned, he'd have to face them as soon as he got back. And Benjamin did not relish the prospect of surviving the damn war and coming back to his parents. They might just kill him and do what the Germans and Japanese could not.
Second, it was wrong to lie- and Dad liked to say, quoting Jefferson if Benjamin remembered it right- "False in small things, false in all things." Benjamin had serious hopes of going on to become an Army officer like Lynn, his older brother, one day- and Lynn had sternly forbidden his brother from lying about his age and joining up. It was a bad start to military service if you had ambitions of becoming an officer.
"You'll do it with your parents' permission," Lynn said, "or you won't do it." And coming from his tall, brave, incredible paratrooper older brother, that was as good as a command from God. Benjamin would not be joining up without his parents' cooperation, no matter how many of his friends went and did otherwise. Some of them had parents like Benjamin's to answer to, some did not. But Benjamin would not be going. Not unless Mom and Dad were all right with it.
And that was that, more or less. It didn't stop Ben from thinking about it all the time, though. He couldn't wait to get his chance to sign up and go fight. Maybe when Lynn returned home after the invasion of Normandy was over- and it would end in an Allied victory, there was no doubt about that- Benjamin could talk him into supporting him when he went to Dad and Mom and asked for their permission to join the Army.
It was sure as hell better than not trying at all. There was just no time for Benjamin to wait until he graduated with Hargrave's Class of 1945, and then three years later from college. At the rate the Allied powers were piling up victories, the war would damn well be over by then. Benjamin just couldn't stand the thought of it- that the war would be over before he could get there.
XX
The George Washington pulled into the Clifton Forge station at half past five, only ten minutes behind its posted schedule. Given how late the average train could be, even in wartime, ten minutes late was excellent. The massive hulk of black-painted steel, as mighty and imposing as any of General Patton's tanks, chuffed its way to a stop at the water tower, and after about five minutes of taking on much-needed water for its tanks, the George Washington rolled into the station and came to a stop again. This was a mix of civilian passengers and soldiers, and both began to disembark as the conductor hollered through the cars that they had arrived at Clifton Forge, Virginia.
Streaked with grime and dirt, and no doubt smelling as wonderful as any of Uncle David's pigs, Benjamin nonetheless could only grin as the George Washington stopped and its passengers began to disembark. After a full week away, spending his days (and part of his nights) shoveling coal into a blazing hot furnace as the George Washington ran out to Hampton Roads and then all the way into the mountains of West Virginia and on to Ohio and then back again, Benjamin had earned his pay and come home again. However dirty and tired he was, his train had arrived at Clifton Forge and he was climbing down from the cab, off the clock at last.
He was home.
XX
The Jacksons were a family of hard-working men, so the way Lynn and Benjamin did things was not so unique among those that shared their blood and name. Soldiers in war, farmers, policemen, park rangers, firefighters, and teachers in peace, the Jacksons did the work that was worth doing. They dealt with others honestly, and asked for nothing but a fair deal from others in return. They had made it through the dark days of the Depression that way- by working hard and treating others fair, and asking only for the same in return.
Virginia Military Institute, in Lexington, was a highly preferred college of choice for the men. Women didn't go to VMI, and Benjamin could only laugh on the rare occasion that somebody asked if they ever would. It wasn't a woman's place, for one thing, going to a military college. For another, it was doubtful, from what Lynn had told him on the family's visits to the post and his trips home, that any woman would ever be up to the rigors of the VMI system. Life was hard there.
Ben's older brother was Lynn E. Jackson, III, son of Lynn E. Jackson, II. Dad was VMI Class of 1911, and Lynn was Class of 1943. Grandpa Lynn, the family elder, was Class of 1877. Uncle David was also Class of 1911, and he and Dad never hesitated to start telling old VMI stories whenever the two of them got together. It was their many accomplishments and hilarious exploits at the Institute, along with a deep sense of regard for the family's tradition, that had driven Lynn to go to VMI himself.
It was hard, against all that, for Benjamin to come to terms- even with himself, in his own, private thoughts- with the fact that he wanted to go to West Point. The United States Military Academy at West Point, New York, founded in 1802 versus VMI's 1839, was a legendary military college that had produced some of the finest soldiers and leaders in American history. It was greatly respected in the Jackson family, if constantly criticized and made fun of, because while West Point had indeed graduated the damn Yankee generals Sherman and Grant, it had also been the college of Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee.
But when you were surrounded by Institute men every time the family gathered, it was intimidating to say the least to come forward and state that you did not wish to go to the Institute yourself.
The why of it was difficult to explain; all Ben really knew was that it had nothing to do with whether VMI was a good college. It was, one of the best in the world, and Ben knew that. So many men in his family had grown up to wear the band of gold, the VMI ring, that it was practically assumed that Lynn E. Jackson, II's boys would all go and get one of their own. VMI was a great school, and Ben knew that if he did go, he would be proud to.
So why West Point?
Ben just knew he'd been crazy about the place since he'd first seen it. His brother had considered The Point before choosing the Institute instead, and the family had taken a trip up to West Point in the summer of 1939. Seeing the expansive campus of rolling New York foothills and imperious, castle-like buildings, many the same plain gray as the cadets' uniforms, Ben was struck with awe as he realized how many men had come there and then gone on to greatness.
Robert E. Lee, Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson, J.E.B. Stuart, John B. Hood, and James Longstreet, and none other than President Jefferson Davis himself. These were all heroes of Benjamin's childhood, men whose heroic deeds and honorable careers he had grown up knowing by heart. And today, the heroes of the Second World War, great men leading great armies in a great time- so many were West Point men. MacArthur, Eisenhower, Patton, Bradley- all of those, and more.
It was just a matter of wanting to have that ring- the West Point ring- over the VMI one. It was a matter of personal preference, even if it meant breaking with tradition. Nobody had ever said Benjamin absolutely had to attend VMI. In what was probably the last letter that reached Lynn before the launch of the invasion of Normandy, Ben had finally confessed his desire to choose the Point over the Institute to his older brother. Soon, he would have to confess it to his parents no matter what Lynn wrote back. Hopefully, he would hear back from Lynn before then, and hopefully, his brother would be supportive.
If not- Ben wasn't sure. He had practically built a shrine to West Point in a scrapbook in his room. He had toured every inch of the West Point campus when he'd seen it for the first time, overlooking the Hudson River just as the old fortress formerly located there once had, committing it all to memory.
It wasn't even a question of did Ben want it; it was more than that. As much as his family background said he was meant for VMI, Ben knew he, personally, was bound for West Point. He had to do it. It was just where he was meant to go.
XX
Thinking all those complicated thoughts, Ben almost didn't notice what was happening before his eyes as he came around the locomotive, a relatively clean gray shirt on- clean in comparison to, say, his dirt, grease, and oil-streaked heavy work trousers. But he caught it soon enough to say something, and Ben would be damned if he wasn't going to.
"Hey!" Ben called, barking it out sharply at the four- no, five- dark-skinned men in khaki who were headed for the wrong damn restroom here at the station. "Hey, you boys can't go in there!"
The five black soldiers didn't seem to much care for being called "boys" by a sixteen-year-old, but Ben's confident stride and the authority in his voice kept them from responding right away. They halted and one of them asked, "Why can't we use this restroom? We're in the Army, ain't we?"
It was all Ben could do not to scoff at the rank he saw on the men's sleeves. Two corporals, and a sergeant, for crying out loud, along with the two privates. Sergeants! They were making blacks into sergeants!
What Ben did was put his hands on his hips and stare them down, the sergeant most of all. "I don't care," he said flatly, "if y'all are all about to get promoted to General of the Army. That restroom you're heading for, it's for whites only. Y'all ain't white."
Now the black men did stare at him, a mix of disbelief and even anger emerging on their faces.
"Hell, it wasn't like this when we was in Ohio!" one of the corporals exclaimed.
"Well, you ain't in Ohio!" Ben almost shouted, and was about to start really yelling at them when the chief station master, Archie Wrightson, a tall, lean man well into his fifties, came walking over.
"Virginia law says you boys can't use a whites-only restroom, or anything else that's whites-only for that matter," Archie said. "I thank y'all kindly for joining up but y'all ain't from around here, I can tell that. Our laws're different from wherever it is you're from. Soldiers, of all people, should know how to respect the law."
The two corporals looked like they wanted to argue, the privates even more so, but the calm but stern authority of Archie Wrightson, that veteran tone of his that brooked no argument, combined with Ben's indignant anger, made sure the sergeant quickly backed the others down.
Seeing he wasn't going to get an argument, Archie went on, "Blacks restroom is down that way, on the right." He pointed, and nodded to them as they headed off, looking none too happy about it.
"I heard there were nigger soldiers," Ben said to Archie, staring after the soldiers. "I heard it but I didn't believe it. There isn't a single black in the whole 101st or 82nd. My brother said he knows that for a fact." In disbelief, he turned to Archie. "They must be out of their damn minds even letting 'em in the Army at all. What use're they gonna be, Mr. Wrightson?"
"God knows, Ben," Archie answered solemnly. "But even if the big boys up in Washington want to put 'em in a uniform they ain't about to make us start letting 'em use our restrooms."
"Or our schools, by God!" Ben exclaimed. "Like it's any of their business, anyhow." He shook his head in confusion, briefly wondering what in the hell the world was coming to. He wondered what it would be like at Hargrave if he had to contend with black classmates, then quickly rejected the thought. It wasn't worth wasting his time on. Not a chance in hell of it happening anytime soon.
"Well, Ben, I'm glad to see you made it back, anyhow," Archie Wrightson said, by way of changing the subject. "Hope the girls in Ohio and West Virginia treated you right."
Ben blushed crimson, and Archie laughed as he noticed. Ben Jackson was always getting in trouble for some romantic escapade or another, and he'd been known to pick up a girlfriend or two along some of the routes he traveled on the George Washington. Lately, though, he was toning it down. Ben wanted to get into a good position to get married as soon as he graduated college, because the only thing he wanted to do more than fight in the war was get a family of his own started, and all the boys knew what fun that was said to be.
Not that Ben knew himself, not yet. It was damn hard to get any respectable girl to go that far, and the one time he'd seriously tried, Mom had stapled his trousers shut when he got home.
"I survived another week shoveling coal in the middle of the summer," Ben said. "That's what I care about."
"That's fair, Ben," Archie said, nodding. "Although, seems to me like you maybe enjoy your work a little bit under all your gripin'."
"Aw, Mr. Wrightson, when'd I ever go complaining about this job?" Ben asked with great indignation, his grin being the giveaway that he was kidding.
"Only every time I see you, Ben," Archie Wrightson said, and they both had a laugh over that. Turning serious, the stationmaster said, "I hope your brother's doing all right over in France."
"He is, Mr. Wrightson," Ben said.
"You've heard from him? I wasn't sure if the airborne boys would be able to write all that soon once they landed."
"I ain't heard from him, ," Ben admitted, "but I know he's doing just fine. He told me there's nobody better than Fox Company, 502nd." Just about bursting with pride, Ben added, "He told me all about him and his platoon sergeant leading the best platoon in the 101st. They've been ruining things for the Krauts ever since they landed."
"Lynn knows his stuff," Archie agreed. "I've always felt better about him going out to fight the Nazis for us. Comes to soldiering, he's got what it takes and then some."
"Damn right he does, sir," Ben agreed, nodding enthusiastically.
"Now, that's a tinker's damn, isn't it?" Archie asked.
"Oh, uh, yes, sir," Ben said, suddenly self-conscious. "Yes, it is."
"Good," Archie nodded. "But I'd still watch that mouth around your mother if I was you."
"Yes, sir."
"When your brother comes home, Ben, you let me know. The Army tends to book its people coach, but I intend to have him come home with a little more comfort and style."
Ben grinned, knowing full well how much Archibald Wrightson liked to get first-class tickets for Clifton Forge locals coming home from overseas.
"Yes, sir," Ben said. He moved off, waving to Archie as the stationmaster resumed making his rounds. With the way things were going, and with the time and expense involved in a round-trip cross-Atlantic voyage by ship, the Army would probably not be sending Lynn Jackson home until the damned war was over. But whether it ended in 1944 or 1945 (it would almost certainly be one or the other, Ben was convinced) Archie Wrightson would see that Ben's older brother returned to Clifton Forge in style.
As he headed for the street in front of the station and took a seat on an open bench, waiting for the family Oldsmobile to come and take him home, Ben thought about how he had neglected to mention how truly worried he was about his brother, in spite of his enormous confidence and faith in him, and how Mr. Wrightson had forgotten to ask about that.
It seemed like a lot of folks avoided asking him if he was scared about his brother these days.
But Ben knew that everybody was just being polite, and besides- it was true that the Germans were the ones who should be worried about. It was them, not Lynn Jackson, III, that were in trouble.
XX
One of the station janitors was old George, the black man who had retired from twenty-five years on custodial staff at Fishburne Military School just last fall. He came outside with a broom and dustbin while Ben waited on a bench for his father.
"Ben," he said, nodding in friendly greeting. "How the rails be treating you?"
"All right, George," Ben said, smiling and nodding back. Wearily, he added, "I sure am glad to be home, though."
"And we're glad to have you back, Ben," George said. He winked. "I know the girls at Douthat Lake been missing you."
The dark-haired teen laughed; he'd met more than one of his girlfriends on the artificial beach by the lake, the only place at the state park where swimming was allowed. He'd been playing a impromptu game of football with a few other local boys who attended Hargrave and a few more who attended its archrival Fork Union when he met Rhoda, right there on the sand by the lake. Douthat held a lot of fond memories for Ben and he was well known around town for visiting the park about as often as he could.
"I'm looking forward to some time at the park," Ben admitted.
"Don't work too hard while you're back, eh, Ben?" George said, moving off.
"Thanks, George," Ben said, nodding sincerely. "I'll try not to overdo it."
"Best enjoy yourself until Germany wins," George added, and Ben cracked up laughing at that one. George would sarcastically remark about studying up on his Japanese, or say "Until Germany wins," with folks in town he was familiar with. Someone from out of town might think the black man was unpatriotic, but between his sarcastic tone as he said those things, his avid involvement in local scrap metal collection and war bond drives, and the simple fact that George had fought through the entirety of World War I as a volunteer in the French Foreign Legion, everybody in Clifton Forge knew George for the good man he was.
Ben certainly did.
XX
Dad came to get Ben at the train station just a few minutes after he'd sat down to wait, and the dark-haired teenager gladly bounced up and hurried out to meet his father's aging 1928 Oldsmobile Straight-Six at the curb. Looking for all the world like an old car, the Olds was nonetheless aging very well. Dad had been meticulous about maintenance on it from the day he'd bought it, brand-new, at Danny Pomberton's Olds dealership here in Clifton Forge in the summer of 1927. The dark green Olds had been bought in a decade of prosperity, survived through the hard times of the Depression, and now rode around on balding tires and tightly-rationed gas. Dad talked about wanting to fix it up like new before he ever even considered selling it, but the way he lavished what time and money he could on it, the car would probably not be changing hands anytime soon, even after the war was over.
With gasoline, tires, and the steel used to make replacement parts all being hard to for any but the most influential civilians to come by, the fact that Dad was driving all the way to the train station to get Benjamin was a testament to how much Lynn Jackson, II valued his children. Any day around town, odds were, Ben would walk when he wanted to go somewhere unless that was where Dad or Mom were already headed. But when one of their sons was returning home after an absence, especially while working hard on the railroad to help pay his way through private school, as Ben was doing? Ben would ride home today. He'd earned it.
"Hey, son," Lynn Jackson, II said, smiling as his son pulled open the Oldsmobile's front passenger door and jumped in. "How's the railroad?"
Ben might have been seventeen years old, but he wasn't the least bit of showing affection for his family, and had respect for his elders had remained consistent all through his teenage years. He unashamedly scooted close to his father and hugged him tight, a gesture his father returned in that strong but gentle way only fathers seemed to know how to do.
"Dad, it was swell," Ben said, "it was real swell." As hard, sweaty and dirty as it was, Ben loved his job. It paid well enough to make a difference with his tuition at Hargrave, and it was indisputably connected to the war effort. What more could a young man even ask for, short of fighting in the war himself?
"But it's just not home, is it?"
"Noplace is, Dad," Ben said, tearing up a little. He took a moment to compose himself and sat up, smiling. "It's good to be back."
The patriarch of the Jacksons of Clifton Forge smiled warmly at his son.
"It's good to have you back."
Ben thought of Lynn, his beloved older brother, and how much he deserved to be here in this car. He thought of how much he hated that son of a bitch Adolf Hitler, and the gall it took to start all this and put everyone to so much trouble. He spent a moment savagely visualizing 'The Great Dictator' with a M1 Garand's bayonet thrust through his throat.
It wasn't the most Christian thought, but would be a just end for such a man.
As his father got the Olds in gear and drove, Ben was startled as the fifty-two year old man, an old soldier who had earned the Distinguished Service Cross in World War I, said quietly, "Don't worry about Lynn, Ben."
I should've known, Ben thought. His father had always been good at sensing his sons' thoughts. He seemed to instinctively know when something was bothering one of his boys.
"I can't help it, sir," Ben admitted. "I just wish we had him back right now and the da- the darn war was over."
"It will be, Ben," Lynn Jackson, II said with a calm assurance Ben didn't feel. "And Lynn's smart. He's a good soldier, knows when to keep his head down. He'll get out of this and we'll win the war. Sure as night follows day."
"But, Dad, if the Japs keep it up, if he gets sent to the Pacific-"
"-He'll make it back from there, too," Ben's father finished for him. "I understand your concern. I do. But be strong while Ben's away. It's what he'd want you to do."
Ben couldn't find any way to argue with that, and he'd learned not to question his father's authority- especially his common sense- a long time ago.
So he answered simply, with two words.
"Yes, sir."
XX
The meals that Marilyn Jackson prepared every evening were famous in the family; she was no Italian, but her spaghetti was the best for miles around. Damn good food, and lots of it; nobody went without a second helping at Marilyn's table. Even if there was a war on, and everything was bought on ration stamps, Mom kept the legend of her cooking growing.
Scents of a wonderful, wonderful dinner waiting for Ben were wafting out through the screen door as he came up the front steps at 442 Smith Street. It was close to the edge of town, just a few miles from the beginning of the great forest that contained Douthat State Park. Built in 1915, the house was neat and orderly, standing the test of the years well. Hardly a speck of dirt could be seen, on the front porch, on the windows, or anywhere inside. Mom tolerated no messes in her house.
A service flag, red bordering a vertical white rectangle, hung in one of the spotless windows. A single blue star was sewn into the center- the mark of a family with one member serving in the war. A blue star represented the serviceman was alive; gold meant he had given his life for his country, whether through combat or any other reason.
Ben gave a silent thanks every night that the color of the star on his family's service flag hadn't changed yet, and prayed that it never would.
"Head on in," Dad said, motioning to Ben. The teenager fairly bounded up the front steps, pulled the screen door open- and was immediately tackled by the twins, Matthew and Joshua. Nine years old and possessed with boundless energy, the blond boys bowled their taller, stronger brother over like he weighed nothing at all.
"Bennie!" they both shrieked in his ears, deafening him. As tired and dirty as he was, the last thing Benjamin would have wanted was to go down on the hardwood floor on his back the moment he stepped in the house. But the twins' sheer joy at seeing one of their older brothers home again made Ben delighted at it instead. It was a swell thing, getting knocked flat on your ass by people who were just so happy to see you. Ben fought his brothers off half-heartedly, laughing as they worked to keep him pinned to the floor. He got them off the way he usually did; by tickling them mercilessly. When one of the twins collapsed in laughter, the other quickly went to his aid, so Ben was able to get free again fairly quickly. He stood up and then helped his brothers up. The three boys all shared a hug, and Dad looked on approvingly.
Mom stood in the doorway to the kitchen, smiling as well. In a few moments she would be ordering Ben upstairs to bathe, because there was no way he was sitting at the table with coal dust practically hanging around him in a cloud. Dad would no doubt get fussed at for the mess in the car, and Matthew and Joshua would for getting coal dust all over their clothes. But she'd say it all with a smile, and that meant everything was all right.
It sure was good to be home.
XX
Ben led the prayer that dinner, asking that God watch over the Allied forces now engaged in battle on so many fronts. Mom seemed personally offended if anyone at her table didn't eat until they were almost incapable of moving, and after a week eating most of his meals in the caboose of a passenger train, the teenager was more than willing to oblige her. Healthy, tasty food, and lots of it. Nobody cooked better than Ben Jackson's mother, and he would've tested her food against any other mom's in the world to prove it.
"I'm sure Rhoda will be happy to know you're back for a few days," Marylyn said with a knowing smile. "She comes by every so often when you're gone, asking if you've come back early."
"I always tell her when it is I'm coming back," Ben said, touched and frustrated at the same time.
"Be glad it matters that much to her," Marylyn admonished her second son.
Ben nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
The dark-haired youth was glad that neither of his parents knew about all the fooling around he'd gotten up to with girls. He'd had his hand under Rhoda's shirt once, during a particularly pleasant evening out in the seclusion of the wooded trails ringing the lake at Douthat, earlier this summer. Maybe that had something to do with her eagerness to see him back. That was fine with Ben, and in his defense, he treated every one of his girlfriends well. He wasn't too eager to get his pants stapled shut a second time, though, so certain details of just how well he treated them were best kept quiet.
"When I get older," Josh said in tones of absolute confidence, "I'm gonna have ten girlfriends."
"You said five," Matt reminded him.
"Ten sounds better," Josh said, after pausing for thought.
"You sure you'll have time for that many, Josh?" Lynn Jackson, II asked, sitting at the head of the table. It looked like he was having a hard time trying not to laugh.
Josh scratched his straw-colored blond hair, tilting his head slightly. "Well, maybe I'll start off with eight," he said. "I hope they give me a lot of weekends off at VMI."
"Do they, Dad?" Matt asked hopefully.
"For that many girlfriends, yes," Lynn Jackson, II said, and Marylyn frowned.
"Lynn…"
"Yes?" The head of the family looked back, his expression innocent.
"They'll have one girlfriend each, at any time, and no more," Mom said sternly.
Lynn Jackson, II, sighed, and gave a shrug of his great shoulders, still strong after many years out of the Army. Running a hardware store and volunteering time with the State Parks, plus raising four boys, kept you in shape. And besides, after four hard years at the Virginia Military Institute, you tended to find just about anything to do with our life besides sit around getting fat.
"Well, boys, this old soldier knows when to withdraw from the field. I think you'll need to be content with just one girl at a time."
"Aw," Josh said.
"Can't it be two, Ma?" Matt pleaded.
"Find out for yourselves what just one girlfriend at a time's like," Ben suggested. "That's enough, trust me."
"You know, I think it'd be kinda swell if the war goes on a while longer," Josh said.
"What for?" Ben asked, as everyone else at the table looked at the boy oddly, including his identical twin beside him.
"Well, when America wins and Lynn and the guys all come home, all the best girls're gonna be taken!"
Everybody laughed at that one, even Mom. The twins were full of energy, always finding the positive in things. They might not have had the most realistic view of everything, but you didn't expect but so much of that when someone was nine years old. That was a time for living a simpler life, just enjoying yourself, and that was something the twins did very well, especially anytime they relied on the intense bond with each other.
"The war done with yet, boys," Lynn said, glancing at everyone's empty plates, "but I think dinner is. Your mother's done a fine job getting all this ready. How about taking care of the cleanup for her?"
"Yes, sir," the three boys chorused, getting up from their chairs.
"Oh, and Ben," Lynn said, "a letter from your brother to you arrived today. Been savin' it for you. Get everything cleaned up and I'll have it for you in the parlor."
"Yes, sir!" Ben said, suddenly a great deal more excited about cleaning dishes. A letter from Lynn! The day wasn't likely to get much better than this.
Driving the twins to hurry it up as he both supervised and worked alongside them, Ben nonetheless made sure quality did not slip. Mom inspected everything, making sure it passed muster as sternly as any sergeant. If she wasn't satisfied, you'd have to clean any rejected items again. If too many items were deemed unsatisfactory, you'd do everything again.
"Do you gotta work us like this?" Josh complained as he scrubbed a pot in the soapy waters of the sink.
"We ain't in the Army yet!" Matt added.
"Hush, you," Ben said. "This builds character."
"Aw, I can get all my character at vee-emm-eye," Josh whined. "I don't need you to teach me any extra."
"Act white, you," Matt admonished him.
"You're probably passing for white," Josh shot back.
"We're twins!"
"Oh."
XX
As soon as the dishes, pots, and utensils were all brought inside and given Mom's stamp of approval, Ben got the letter from Dad, who gave a knowing smile at the sight of Ben's obvious delight and anticipation. Then he raced upstairs to his room.
Ben's modest, hardwood-floored room was a monument to the grave, yet exciting, nature of the times. Copies of the town newspaper, the Clifton Forge Register, detailed some of the pivotal events of the last few years. December 7, 1941- the treacherous Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, marking the entry of the United States into the war. The declaration of war on Japan by unanimous vote of Congress the next day. Midway, Guadalcanal, Operation Torch. One of the most recent covered what the public was being told of the Allied landings in Normandy, France.
On the walls, posters proclaimed bold statements of the Allies', and more specifically America's, unbreakable resolve.
"UNITED WE ARE STRONG," proclaimed the top of one poster showing a large group of cannons blasting forth flame, each bearing the flag of a different Allied nation. "UNITED WE WILL WIN", it said below the image.
"THE M1 DOES MY TALKING!" A GI declared, his rifle in one hand, a 8-round clip of ammunition in the other.
"LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS", another poster thundered in silence, with an accusing hand, made of newspaper showing a convoy had been sunk en route to Britain by German U-Boats, pointing a finger at a man in a business suit walking obliviously along. It was a reminder to civilians to shut up about war business, about what and who was going where and when if it came to the military.
A red poster with white lettering, topped by the British crown, saying "KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON". That one had been sent to Ben from England by his brother. It was classic British, London's way of telling its people "Stay calm and go about things as normal, so we can get about the business of winning the war."
Pictures of paratroopers in training. An M3 Lee on maneuvers at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Publicity posters of Douglas MacArthur, the famed war hero who had done so much to fight the Japs to a standstill in the Pacific and then start pushing back. George S. Patton, Jr., hailed widely in the press as "America's fightingest general".
Ben hurried into his room, sat down on his bed, and tore open the envelope. He unfolded the letter and started to read.
Dear Ben,
I received your letter during mail call on June 4, when they called off the jump yet again. It will be coming soon, though. So I'd better write this while I can.
I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, about a lot of things. I'm happy to say I know I have accomplished something with my life so far, and that as I lead the best platoon in the 101st into battle, I'll be doing even more. Hitler has been asking for what America and the Allies are about to give him for a long time. He'll be getting what he deserves. It's only a matter of time.
My chances are as good as any officer in the Army. My men and I have been through the hardest training the United States Army has to offer, and we volunteered for it. We know that when we get to the fighting, the men beside us will be the best- not some draftee who's going to get us killed. The 101st Airborne Division is the finest band of fighting men in history. I am proud to be numbered among them.
So you don't want to go to the Institute, huh? Want to be a dashing Rebel and go off to West Point, that school where Sherman and Grant went? All the old VMI men in the family have been assuming you'll go where they did. This will come as a bit of a shock to them if you really do it. Sounds like you're going to.
But I want you to know that no matter what happens, if West Point is really where you believe you're meant to be, I'll do whatever I can to help you get there. It's a break from family tradition, and you'll probably catch some hell for that. But I'm with you regardless. From the day you get your cadet grays to the day you graduate, I'm with you all the way. Just make sure you get your jump wings when you get out, all right? I'll see you at Fort Benning when the day comes.
Don't feel badly that West Point graduated Grant and Sherman, by the way. Jefferson Davis, John B. Hood, Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson went there too.
"You may be whatever you resolve to be."
-Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson
Love, your brother,
Lynn
June 5, 1944
As Ben read the last of the letter, he started to cry. So many of Lynn's letters made him smile; many made him laugh. As serious as Lynn was about the war, he somehow managed to take even the biggest things about it and make them sound like no big deal. And as nervous and uncertain as Ben was about announcing his near-treasonous plan to break from family tradition and choose the Point over the Institute when he graduated high school in 1945, Lynn took all of Ben's fears and made them just fade out into nothing.
I'm with you all the way.
That was an unmistakable pledge of unconditional support right there, and Ben knew it. His brother would not allow Ben to be condemned or disowned, put down or rejected because of his choice of college. Dad, Granddad, and the other family elders might not like it, but they'd have to reckon with the tough-as-nails paratrooper older brother if they wanted to raise hell about Ben and West Point.
Because if anybody tried to disagree or ask for an explanation, Lynn would be there to talk to them reasonably until they understood. If anybody tried to fight it, if Dad or anyone else simply wouldn't let Ben go, Lynn would fight them with the same fearless tenacity he was at this very moment taking to the Germans.
And it heartened Ben considerably, that reminder that some of the Confederacy's greatest leaders, men long enshrined in the Lost Cause honored by whites throughout Virginia and the rest of the South, had been trained at West Point. The United States Military Academy had been founded based chiefly on ideas and a directive from Thomas Jefferson, one of Virginia's own and a legend in his own time and ever since. It was, as Theodore Roosevelt had so boldly and eloquently said in his speech at the Point's centennial celebration in 1902, "Absolutely American".
Those facts, those things that proved West Point was still a supremely worthy school for a member of the Jackson clan, would help sway the family's leaders. Ben was sure of it. They spent so much time honoring the memory of Hood, Davis, Lee and the family's distant but very real relative from what was now West Virginia, Thomas J. Jackson, that flatly refusing to respect Ben's wishes to go to their school would be risking grave insult to those men.
Ben smiled, wiped away his tears, and laughed. His greatest fear had been that Lynn, his big brother, his idol and hero all his life, would not respect or support his desire to attend West Point. He had spent so much time agonizing over how to write his letter. What to say, how to say it. And Lynn replied with unconditional support. With "I'm with you all the way." It was wonderful. Liberating. Ben felt like the weight of a M4 tank had been lifted from his shoulders. He still had to face his parents, but with the backing of his older brother, he now felt he could handle that.
Setting aside the letter, Ben pulled off his shoes and glanced at the envelope it had come in. There was another folded-up paper in there. Ben took it out, unfolded it, and read this one as well.
Of all the institutions in this country, none is more absolutely American; none, in the proper sense of the word, more absolutely democratic than this. Here we care nothing for the boy's birthplace, nor his creed, nor his social standing; here we care nothing save for his worth as he is able to show it.
Here you represent, with almost mathematical exactness, all the country geographically. You are drawn from every walk of life by a method of choice made to insure, and which in the great majority of cases does insure, that heed shall be paid to nothing save the boy's aptitude for the profession into which he seeks entrance. Here you come together as representatives of America in a higher and more peculiar sense than can possibly be true of any other institution in the land.
-President Theodore Roosevelt, at the West Point centennial, 1902
Ben had to wipe tears from his eyes. Oh, this was beautiful. Roosevelt might have been a damn Yankee, but he'd also been one of the greatest Presidents ever. And he was as right as he could be about the U.S. Military Academy.
The dark-haired teen set aside both documents and the envelope, leaving them on his dresser. He lay down on his bed and gazed out his half-open window at the stars.
Was Lynn out there in France somewhere, out in the countryside or some town with his troopers, looking up at the night sky, too? Staring out at the galaxy, maybe some of the very same stars that Ben was?
Second Lieutenant Lynn Everett Jackson, III, United States Army. Virginia Military Institute, Class of 1943. Officer, soldier, paratrooper, soon-to-be-war-hero, fighter, lover, student, scholar, big brother.
Ben was so proud to be related to him it defied words. It was a privilege, an honor. Lynn had never hesitated to show love and affection to his three siblings, had embraced their presence wholeheartedly from the day they were born. This love and affection had swiftly and intensely been returned by the other three boys. Ben and the twins would follow Lynn anywhere.
The dark-haired teenager was so busy thinking these proud, happy thoughts, so busy thinking of the Army, of Lynn, and of West Point, that he didn't hear a knock on the door downstairs. He didn't hear his mother cry out sharply, or his father console her.
But he did hear the odd strain in his father's voice as he called upstairs.
"Benjamin, get yourself down here."
XX
Ben had changed into his pajamas already, and had just been starting to drift off when his father called him. He descended the hardwood stairs slowly, wondering what was going on. And why had Dad called him Benjamin? That was his name, sure, but he was hardly ever called that. Everybody just called him Bennie or Ben.
Standing near the front door were Mom and Dad, and at the door were two soldiers. Ben recognized one of them as Robert Zinney, a classmate of Lynn's from VMI.
Two soldiers.
Those solemn faces, like-
Like-
Like someone had just died.
A brief, ludicrous hope blossomed in Ben that it was all wrong, that all his impressions and hunches about the scene before him were incorrect. Surely these men were here in dress uniform, at night, because Lynn E. Jackson, III had been recognized for supreme heroism and given the Medal of Honor. Surely they were here to deliver exceptionally good news, not… not what Ben began to be terrified they were here to tell him.
"Hey, Rob," Ben said, meaning to sound casual and friendly. But instead his voice came out choked, barely a whisper. He was starting to know why Rob was here. Why his face looked so grim, so sad.
"Hey, Bennie," Robert Zinney replied, looking and sounding uneasy. It was unnerving, because Ben had known Zinney for years- seen him at the Institute when the family visited Lynn, seen him at home when his brother visited Clifton Forge. Ben had almost never seen Zinney without anything to say. Zinney stood there, gazing uncertainly out from under his Army officer's cap brim. "I-I- listen, Ben-"
"It's all right, Robert," Dad said, gentle but firm. "I'll tell him."
"Tell me what, Dad?" Ben asked, standing at the last step on the stairs, gripping the railing with one hand, eyes wide, his mind screaming at him that he was a fool to be so afraid, that this couldn't possibly be true.
"Your brother went missing the night the Airborne jumped," Dad said gravely, slowly. "Him and everyone else in his plane."
"Yes, sir," Ben said.
Dad didn't hesitate, didn't look away. He looked at Ben, looked him right in the eyes and said it. Straight and sure, honest and simple. Like a Jackson.
"They found Lynn and his plane in a field near Carentan."
"Yes, sir," Ben said bleakly.
"He's dead, son."
The room seemed to tilt before Ben; everything seemed to freeze. Ben searched his parents' faces, searched Zinney's face, for hope- for a chance that none of this was really happening. But he saw nothing but sincerity, nothing but grave seriousness in every face. It dawned on Ben that he had been one bullet away from being the oldest ever since Lynn had gone to war, and now, with Lynn's death, he'd been moved up. Promoted. He was the eldest sibling now.
And Lynn Everett Jackson, III was dead.
Ben held it together for precisely two seconds after that. He immediately went to his parents, and was enveloped in a desperate hug. He broke down, shoulders slumped and shaking, as his mother rocked her son gently. His father had his arms around them both, holding his wife and oldest remaining son close. He held on tight, as if fearful that letting go would cause him to lose the family he had left. Ben sobbed desperately, tears streaming down his face and into his parents' arms as he grieving for the older brother he idolized.
Robert Zinney and the noncom accompanying him knew full well that, though the Army required that they be here, this moment was far too private for them to intrude. They withdrew onto the porch, leaving a note behind that they would be back the next day. Some affairs would need to be settled, loose ends tied up, but that would be dealt with another time. Later, not now.
Lynn had always been there for his family. He had gone out of his way from the day his three brothers entered the world to be the best older brother he could. He had embraced the responsibility of his position with all his heart. At dinner at a restaurant in Lexington the night before he graduated and joined the Army as a second lieutenant on June 6, 1943, Lynn had told Ben, Matt and Josh that he had loved them from the day they were born. Ben had replied that they already knew. They'd sensed it instinctively. Lynn's love for his family was obvious in everything he did.
And now he was gone, vanished forever, banished to memory and a soon-to-be-written obituary in the town newspaper. Lynn had stopped being a man and started being a name. Were he not experiencing it right now, Ben could not have imagined the pain this caused. Lynn was dead. It hurt so badly you couldn't put it into words; it was impossible. Ben hadn't seen his brother in over a year, and now he never would. Not ever again.
"I guess I better wake up the twins," Dad said, in a hoarse, whispering voice that was a mere ghost of its normal self. Dad sounded utterly, completely lost, and hearing that in his father, a man Ben had long ago viewed as immensely strong and unshakably confident, shook Ben to his core. But he also found his voice, because something in him- something, somewhere- told Ben it was what Lynn would want him to do.
"I'll get 'em, Dad," Ben said, in a strained, halting voice. "I'll do it."
The dark-haired teen reluctantly separated from his parents' embrace, turned and headed for the stairs. The twins were sleeping soundly by now, in the bunk beds set up by Dad and Lynn years ago in the room the two identical boys occupied. Ben climbed the stairs and headed to get his brothers, his first act as the oldest son. He would not be able to hear a knock on the door without instantly thinking of Lynn's death for a long time; he would not be able to hear one without often thinking of it for the rest of his life.
Ben shook each of his younger brothers awake. Gently, but firmly, he told them they had to get up.
"What?" Josh whined.
"I wanna sleep," Matt added.
"Come on," Ben said again. "We gotta go downstairs. There's something- there's something Mom, Dad and I need to tell you."
The twins complained some more, but they climbed out of bed and ambled out of their room behind their big brother. Ben took the twins' hands as he led them downstairs. In only moments they would find out they had just one older brother left- and with the pain he had inside, and not so well hidden at that, Ben had a good idea what it would be like for the younger boys.
But the twins had to know, in every way Ben could possibly tell them, that their last older brother wasn't going anywhere. His father and his mother had to know their now-eldest son was not about to die as well. Ben couldn't. He'd bear his pain and help others bear theirs- all he could stand and more. It was his duty, his job. Ben didn't really have a choice.
Too many people needed him.
A/N: I wrote this story to expand on the background I gave canon character Lieutenant Jackson of Road to Hill 30 and Earned In Blood. I did my best to ensure all details that are mentioned in both stories match up between them.
The idea for Ben Jackson wanting to go to West Point despite coming from a line of VMI graduates was inspired by the decision made by George S. Patton, Jr. to transfer to the Point after a year at the Institute. Next to nothing seems to exist to explain why he did this; I've always thought it was a very personal decision, coming from a line of VMI men and a very tradition-minded family as Patton did. His son, George S. Patton, IV, attended West Point like his father and graduated with the Class of 1946.
Lieutenant Jackson's remark in his letter to Ben that he and his men "have been through the hardest training that the United States Army has to offer, and they volunteered for it" is borrowed directly from Richard Winters' remarks to "Buck" Compton in the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers.
Some phrases about Ben's reaction to the news of his brother's death are borrowed from the fifth year of the They Shook Hands series by Dethryl, in which Harry Potter is sorted into Slytherin House and becomes a close friend of the Malfoys and other elite Slytherin families.
Lynn's remark to his brother that "Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson went there too" is based directly off a conversation between William C. Westmoreland and his Uncle White when Westmoreland visited his uncle during his second year at West Point. When he said he was going to the same school Sherman and Grant attended, his uncle gave that reply. The source I used is Westmoreland's memoirs, A Soldier Reports.
Segregation was the law and custom in Virginia and the Army in 1944, and would be for a while to come. The US Armed Forces were integrated by order of President Harry Truman in 1948, while desegregation of Virginia schools began in 1959 and went on until the early 1970s when the state stopped resisting integration. Ben Jackson supports segregation and holds a racist worldview because that's how he's been raised. Both in direct instruction he's received, and in behavior he's seen others display, Ben has grown up believing that blacks are second-class citizens and that's just how it is. His impatience and rudeness toward the black soldiers he meets comes out of a sense of moral outrage that the black men are violating the law and custom of the South in the 1940s- their ignorance of that law and custom is no excuse to Ben. He believes himself completely in the right in addressing them the way he does, and Ben is the one who the stationmaster, the first authority figure on the scene, sides with. In spite of all this, Ben Jackson is not evil or even especially racist; he is just completely unfamiliar with the idea of treating black people as equal to whites.
Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson did not, in fact, say "You may be whatever you resolve to be," though that remark is popularly attributed to Jackson and is inscribed on the Jackson Arch at the Virginia Military Institute. The sentence was one of many kept in a small book of phrases and wisdom that Jackson wrote in every so often in the years of his life prior to joining the Confederate States Army. The quotes in this book were all said by others, not by Jackson himself, so someone- probably a schoolmaster of his- said the famous quote instead. Nevertheless, it is not entirely wrong to picture Jackson as having said the words: it is certainly something he would have said if he'd thought of it first, and absolutely something that he believed.
Ben's reference to the 5-star rank of General of the Army is off by 6 months. Public Law 78-482 was passed on December 14, 1944. Congress passed it to create the rank, pay grade, and authority of Fleet Admiral and General of the Army. The rank had existed before, with Ulysses S. Grant and William T. Sherman holding it during and after the American Civil War, but it was not a 5-star rank at the time and did not entail the same responsibilities and prestige. General of the Army and Fleet Admiral were created both in response to the extraordinary scale of American operations during World War II, and to give American supreme commanders the authority and rank to deal equally with the top commanders of other Allied nations; in the Army's case, General of the Army let generals like Eisenhower deal with British Army field marshals on equal terms.