The Train Station
Leroy Jethro Moore made his way into the next train car, still trying to find somewhere to sit. The good news was, the war was over, and he was going home. The bad news was that after riding what must have been 10,000 miles across the United States from California, he was still not home yet. And after this much time away, each hour felt like a year.
Volunteering to become a United States Marine, so he could go to war alongside the fiercest warriors, had been the best decision of Leroy's life. He had done his job, survived, and he was proud. The Navy Cross on his dress blues said Leroy had done more than his job, a lot more, but he didn't care too much about that. It was a little souvenir from Iwo Jima, an island that had been the site of one of the fiercest and bloodiest battles of the entire Pacific War.
Leroy knew he didn't have much business bragging about any of his medals. He was lucky just to be alive.
Damn it. Was there anywhere left to sit on this train? Car after car had been crowded; it seemed like everybody had found a space except Leroy. He was hardly the only veteran aboard the train, though.
Military personnel comprised a good number of the passengers; there had to be a couple million guys being discharged with the massive drawdown. With the war finally over, trains and buses everywhere were overloaded as veterans tried to make their way home. Unfortunately, that meant there were precious few places to sit on this train. Leroy hadn't found an open seat yet.
After finding no luck in the latest car, Leroy headed on to the next one, determined to find some goddamn place to sit, even if it was the lavatory. He looked and looked, one set of benches after another, and just when he was about to give up, Leroy saw three boys in Army green uniforms, probably about his age, lazing about in a space that clearly had room for four.
As he got closer, Leroy noticed they wore silver winged parachutes- the insignia of the Army's new airborne troops- and the distinctive patch of the 101st Airborne Division, the Screaming Eagles. They were famous for their deeds in the war in Europe, where they had achieved great success against overwhelming odds, time and again. They were known for being brave, tough, loud, and generally lacking in modesty. In that sense, they were just like Marines.
One of the three young paratroopers wore a couple more ribbons on his uniform than the other two. Among the seven ribbons was the red, white and blue of a Silver Star, and the red and blue of a Bronze Star, and the plain purple ribbon of the Purple Heart. His jump wings, sitting above the blue badge and silver rifle and wreath of the Combat Infantry Badge, featured a single star above the parachute. The pale-faced youth wore the three stripes of a buck sergeant on his arms, and his brightly-polished boots were planted on the open space on the bench in front of him.
For someone who probably hadn't even graduated high school yet, this was somebody who'd clearly grown up fast. Leroy was impressed. Whatever story this young man had to tell was sure as hell gonna be interesting.
As Leroy approached, the sergeant was arguing sports statistics with one of the other troopers, who wore the stripes and "T" of a technician fifth grade. The third paratrooper wore the single stripe of a private first class, and was listening intently. The three young men didn't even look up as Leroy approached.
"Yeah, yeah, so Augusta got us pretty good in '44, I'll give you that," the sergeant was saying. "But you better look out, because when I'm back on the football team, Hargrave's gonna shut y'all down quick."
"You just wait 'till I'm back on with Augusta, and we'll see," the technician retorted.
"So they really gonna let me get my diploma an' all, Sergeant Jackson? With the war being over and all?"
"Colonel Camden's setting up a program so war veterans can get their high school education at Hargrave on G.I. Bill money, McCandless, so stop frettin' about it."
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Hey, relax, will you?" The young sergeant clapped the other paratrooper on the shoulder, then threw an arm around his shoulders in a brotherly fashion. "It's all good now, man! The war's over, we're goin' home!"
Leroy cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Sergeant. May I sit with you? Everywhere else on the train is full."
The young noncom looked up, and his pleasant expression vanished as he took in Leroy's Marine uniform… or maybe his brown skin.
"No," he said in a noticeable Southern accent, "you may not."
"You have room," Leroy pointed out reasonably.
"There's no room for you," the paratrooper said. "Keep moving."
"Sergeant-"
"I said get lost," the young man said sharply, obviously annoyed. "I don't know if you got bad ears, or what, but I don't wanna talk to you. Get lost, boy."
"Boy". The acceptable term for any black male who wasn't so old that you'd call him "uncle". Given the way he talked, this sergeant was clearly from the South, where whites and blacks lived distinctly different, separate lives. He was staring up at Leroy with a contempt that clearly had little to do with different services.
"I'm sorry for bothering you," Leroy said. "But I really would like to sit down."
The sergeant scoffed, looking at his buddies. "You believe this? Niggers in the Marines. Nigger Marines wantin' to come and sit with us, like they're as good as we are. My goodness, boys, whatever will they think of next?"
"I'd really like to sit down." Leroy stated it more firmly, with some steel in his voice.
"Get outta my face, you damn n-"
"What's the problem, gentlemen?" he asked.
"I'm just looking for a place to sit," Leroy said reasonably.
The conductor looked down at the three paratroopers. "You boys can't make room for another one of your guys?"
"He is not one of our guys!" the sergeant shot back. "He's a ni- a Negro, and we ain't sharin' no space with one of them."
"Where are you from, son?" the conductor asked.
"Clifton Forge, Virginia, sir," the sergeant replied proudly.
"And how about you two?" the older man asked, looking at the other two paratroopers.
"Danville, Virginia," the private first class said.
"Lee County, Virginia," the technician fifth grade replied.
"So, in other words, a segregated state."
"Yes, sir," the three paratroopers replied.
"Well, thing is, Pennsylvania isn't a segregated state," the conductor said. "And I know you paratrooper boys don't like Marines even a little bit. But if there's a seat open, you gotta make room."
"How about he go check the rest of the train?" the sergeant demanded. "I ain't sunk so low as to have to sit with niggers. He can move his black ass right outta-"
"Son, I know you do it that way where you're from, but this isn't where you're from," the conductor said, polite but firm. He looked at Leroy. "Have you checked the other cars, by any chance?"
"Yes, sir," Leroy said. "They're all full."
"So let 'im sit," the conductor said.
The young noncom stared. "Sir, this ain't right. This boy's got no right comin' in here and makin' trouble for us. We're just tryin' to get home."
"Son, what do you think he's doing?"
The sergeant looked like he wanted to protest. For a second, he looked like he was going to start shouting. But as he took in a breath, he saw the many heads that had turned in his direction, the numerous civilians whose conversations and reading had been interrupted by the argument. The anger began to go out of him, and he sighed, running a hand through his brown hair.
Without a word, the young noncom sat down on his seat on the bench. He started to put his boots back up across from him, but then pulled them down again. He pulled his olive-drab duffel bag out and set it in between the two benches, then put his boots on that. It took up most of the space in front of where Leroy was sitting, but Leroy decided not to start a whole new argument about that. Besides, the conductor had already started to move on.
The conversation that had been going on when Leroy approached didn't resume. The young sergeant crossed his arms and stared out the window, and the other two paratroopers followed his lead. All three seemed confused and annoyed at having to share space with Leroy.
It was puzzling, infuriating, and saddening all at the same time. Leroy had gone to fight the Japanese, the mortal enemy of the United States- his country- since December 7, 1941. He had battled the hated "Japs" across one island after another and survived the brutal fight for Iwo Jima. The enemies Leroy had fought against were enemies of the United States, same as the Germans and Italians these white soldiers had fought in Europe.
Those three young men were the same age as Leroy. They had fought in World War II, just like Leroy, and none of them were so much as eighteen from the look of it. They were just like Leroy, in age, in experience. But because they'd been taught that skin color was an impassable barrier, they could and would not so much as speak to Leroy, and visibly resented even sitting with him.
XX
While he was sitting there, Leroy studied the uniform of the sergeant a little more. It wasn't like he had anything else to do. The young man had to be Leroy's age- seventeen- and was a decorated combat veteran. He had definitely seen some action. His ribbons, his uniform- it told a story. It told a story of somebody who had been shot at far too many times for his age. Someone who was brave, who knew what war was like.
The 101st had been at Normandy, Holland, Bastogne. Which of those battles had this boy sergeant been there for? What had he lived through? What had he seen?
It was enough to think about Iwo Jima. Leroy knew that with ribbons like he had, this sergeant had to have some memories of his own that he was going to think about, and try in vain to forget for the rest of his life.
Leroy had always believed in being fair to people, giving them the benefit of the doubt. His parents had told him that it was important to be polite, even if they weren't polite to you. That was especially true for anyone who could be described as "colored". Down South, a black displaying bad manners to a white could get arrested, or worse. Even up North, a black man or woman who was discourteous to a white could get in plenty of trouble.
What had that white boy across from Leroy been taught? Was quickness to anger, rudeness, and condescension the way he had seen his parents speak to blacks who "stepped out of line"? What about his teachers, his older siblings, if he had any? There was nothing awkward or hesitant about how the sergeant had talked to Leroy. It was clearly normal, where he came from. Whites did not sit with blacks, and if you tried to change that, woe was you. He would've been harshly punished, most likely, if he'd ever rebelled against that system himself, and he clearly considered it acceptable and ordinary, if nothing else.
After a while, the technician got up and went to find where the head- or latrine, as they'd call it in the Army- was on the train. The sergeant stared at Leroy like he was thoroughly pissed off, which he probably was. He made a show of crossing his arms and staring anywhere but Leroy, but his eyes kept sliding back. After a while, curiosity started to show, along with hostility.
"So when'd they start letting niggers in the Marines?" the sergeant asked finally.
"1942, Sergeant," Leroy answered.
"They train you down at Parris Island, boy?"
Leroy felt his temper threatening to flare up. The young noncom was clearly set on deliberately ignoring Leroy's two stripes. Where he was from, even sharing space with a black man like this was illegal- not to mention socially forbidden. So being rude and condescending was the next best thing he could do to enforce the norms he had been taught.
"No, they trained us at Montford Point, in North Carolina," Leroy answered calmly.
"How bad did it get out there for them to start letting you people in?" the sergeant asked. "We fought the whole war in Europe without letting any of you in."
"Well, Sergeant, strictly speaking that's not true," Leroy said, choosing his words carefully.
"Oh, isn't it?" the kid sergeant asked contemptuously.
"There were two squadrons of black fighter pilots, and they sent black truck drivers and tank crews to serve with Patton."
The sergeant waved a hand, dismissing that. He started to ignore Leroy again, but suddenly leaned forward, eying Leroy's ribbons.
"They gave you a fucking Navy Cross?"
"They did, Sergeant."
"What the hell for?"
"I was just doing my job."
The kid sergeant paused at that; something flashed in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yes. That's all it was."
"Well, I know coloreds can't think fast enough to fight like whites," the boy said, sneering confidently. "So where'd you really get it from? You were in supply, weren't you? Stole it from a medals box."
Leroy's temper flared again, and this time it got to him. "Is that how you got your medals?"
The sergeant's face flushed. He held out one hand, pointing a finger at Leroy. "You wouldn't know the first thing about it, you goddamned nigger," he said. He abruptly stood up, savagely grabbing his duffel bag just as the technician fifth grade was coming back. "Let's go, boys," he said to the other two paratroopers.
"But I just got back!" the technician complained. Then he saw the look in the sergeant's eyes, said, "You got it, Sarge," and reached for his own bag. The private looked unhappy about the change of plans, but he got up and took his bag without protest. The sergeant said, "Let's go see if there's room in another car."
"There isn't, Sergeant," Leroy told him.
"Then I'd rather stand."
XX
Leroy sat there, trying to control his anger after the three white soldiers left. He'd volunteered to be a Marine for the same reason anybody else did: for the snazzy uniforms and the chance to serve. After Pearl Harbor, there had been a massive, powerful sense of national unity, of "come on, we're all in this together."
But throughout his time in the Marine Corps, Leroy had encountered people like that sergeant, whites who were convinced Leroy wasn't a "real" Marine, that nothing he did or could do was as good as even the lousiest white man. Leroy's parents had raised him to be ready for infinite amounts of abuse, verbal and otherwise, from whites who had been trained since birth to believe they were better than anybody with dark skin.
It was just how things were. Even in Pennsylvania, there were social rules that kept whites and blacks apart. But down South, the two races lived in totally separate worlds. Despite living in the same cities, towns and counties, they had next to nothing to do with each other. That sergeant had unquestionably grown up surrounded by white kids and adults, gone to an all-white church and an all-white school. And once he'd volunteered for the Army and again for the parachute infantry, he'd served in an all-white unit, the 101st Airborne Division.
And the insults, the condescension, the shortness of temper? That was all stuff the kid sergeant had learned, either through direct instruction or observation, over his brief lifetime. It was amazing. He was a combat veteran, lucky to be alive after the battles his ribbons said he'd been through. But even that wasn't enough to make him willing to set aside previous standards and consider treating a black man as an equal.
Leroy found himself both angry and sad. He was the same age as that sergeant- he had to be. They had both seen combat and fought in elite units. They had both volunteered to go to war, to defend the country against the enemies that threatened it. But a bunch of rules and laws made to keep white and black apart said none of that gave Leroy and the sergeant anything in common, nor did it even matter.
XX
After sitting there by himself for a while, Leroy started to nod off. When the train jerked to a stop as it pulled into the station, Leroy awoke with a start. He stretched out his feet, getting ready to stand up, and was startled to hear something metal roll around on the floorboards. Leroy sat up, looking for whatever had made the noise. After a moment, he spotted a large gold band lying by his right shoe, and reached down to pick it up.
Leroy glanced down at the ring. It had an elaborate design on both sides, and had the inscription VIRGINIA MILITARY INSTITUTE- 1943- around the top. In elaborate, feathery script, the name LYNN EVERETT JACKSON III was written on the inside of the ring, along with the motto "Animus Vincet Semper".
The young man pocketed the ring, heading down the aisle, then down some steps and into 30th Street Station.
XX
It wasn't easy to locate a single uniformed man in 30th Street Station, and that was putting it lightly. With so many men returning home now that World War II was finally over, trying to find just one in Philadelphia's massive train station was not too far from trying to find a needle in a haystack.
Leroy didn't give up, though. For over an hour, he searched the station, questioned conductors and guards and people at the ticket counter. He checked anybody wearing Army green for a Screaming Eagle patch, and airborne wings.
It might have helped if Leroy had known the sergeant's name, but then again, who here would have known it, except for the sergeant himself plus his two friends? No, there was really nothing for it but to find him.
Eventually, Leroy decided to take a break. He stepped outside, onto one of the more remote ends of the train platform, where there was a little room to stop and catch your breath.
It would be only too easy to just give it up and get rid of the damn thing, Leroy thought. You could do it any old time you want.
But was that how your mother raised you? A voice in Leroy's mind answered him. Was that what she'd do, if it was up to her?
Leroy sighed. He was not going to get home anytime soon if he kept this up, but he knew the answer. He had been raised right and was not about to throw an item like this ring away.
The Marine corporal gradually became aware of a few young men in uniform standing at the far end of the platform, in the shade of a tree. They had their backs to Moore. One was obviously upset about something, and kept gesturing with his hands, running them through his short brown hair. The other two kept trying to console him.
Leroy glanced their way once, then twice. All in Army uniform, all wearing the insignia of the 101st Airborne Division. It dawned on Leroy that resuming his search, and completing it successfully, wouldn't be so hard after all.
Taking a breath and letting it out, Leroy turned and walked towards the three paratroopers. As he got closer to them, he could make out some of their words.
-"can't happen now. It can't. I got it back in the Bulge and I carried it 'till the end of the damned war!"
"It's got to be around somewhere," the technician fifth grade said. "I know it."
"We searched every inch of that train!" the sergeant exclaimed. "Where else could it be? It was in my pocket! I had it! I can't go home and tell Dad I lost the ring coming home!"
"I'm sorry, Sarge," the private said. "I mean, maybe you could get another-"
"That was Lynn's ring!" the sergeant interrupted. "There's no replacing that!"
"We're doing everything we can," the technician fifth grade said.
"I wish I'd put it in my bag, or mailed it, or something," the sergeant said. He choked back a sob. "I'm never gonna forgive myself."
"What would Lynn say? Would he want you to do this to yourself?" the technician fifth grade asked.
"It doesn't matter what my brother would've wanted!" the boy sergeant exclaimed. "He's dead! That ring was all I had left of him and I threw it away!"
Leroy had reached the three paratroopers by then, and touched a hand to the sergeant's right shoulder. "Excuse me," Leroy said.
The sergeant turned around, and it was obvious from his reddened eyes and moist cheeks that he'd been crying. When he saw Leroy, recognizing him from earlier, the boy sergeant's eyes flashed with rage and his face twisted with hatred.
"You again," the boy shouted. "I'm sick and tired of looking at you! I'm sick of all you niggers! We taught the fucking Japs their place but I guess we still gotta work on you! What the fuck do you want, huh? What the fuck do you want?"
Leroy reached into his pocket and took out the gold ring. He reached out and pressed it into the white paratrooper's palm.
"Found this on the train after you left," Leroy said. Leroy said, "I'm sorry about your brother, but at least you have his ring."
The other two paratroopers looked surprised, but the sergeant was speechless. He stared between Leroy and the ring in his hand, mouth agape, making little sounds as he tried to find words.
"How- what- what-" the sergeant whispered. He turned the ring over in his hand, staring at it. Then he was staring at Leroy again. "How'd you get that?"
"I just thought you should have it back," Leroy said. "It must mean a lot."
"Where the hell'd you find it?" the private asked Leroy.
"Under the bench where the sergeant was sitting," Leroy answered. "I guess it must've fallen out of his pocket." Leroy shrugged. "Anyway, it was good to see you again. I'm glad you have your brother's ring back."
Leroy turned to go, but this time the sergeant called after him, taking a few steps. "Hey, bo- hey, wait a minute."
"Yes?" Leroy asked, turning around.
"Who are you?"
"Leroy Jethro Moore," Leroy answered, making a slight bow. "At your service."
"Uh, I'm- I'm Ben Jackson," the boy sergeant said. He hesitated, then with visible effort held out his hand. "Thank you."
Leroy shook the young man's hand. "You're welcome."
Ben Jackson hesitated again. "I… I'm… I'm sorry about…"
"I understand," Leroy said, offering a smile. "Marine uniforms just have that effect on you Army boys."
"I never- I've never shook hands with-"
"A Marine? It's quite an experience. I understand."
The young sergeant continued staring at Leroy with total bafflement, like he was someone from another world, something totally out of his knowledge and experience.
"I'd love to stay and talk," Leroy said, "but I have a train to catch. So long, Sarge."
"Where're you from?" Jackson called after him. Leroy stopped and turned around again.
"Stillwater, Pennsylvania," Leroy answered. "And you're from- Virginia, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Clifton Forge."
"Well, here's to Clifton Forge," Leroy said, lifting his uniform hat. "and to this being the real end to all wars. This one was enough, wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes. Absolutely. More than enough."
"Can't say it better than that," Leroy said. He smiled and nodded again, then headed back into the train station.
A/N: 3-11-2018.
I got the idea for this after watching "The Namesake" and learning about Leroy Jethro Moore's service in the U.S. Marine Corps during World War II. He received the Navy Cross (later upgraded to the Medal of Honor) for heroism during the Battle of Iwo Jima and attained the rank of corporal (E-4), and returned home to the United States after the war in the Pacific (and World War II overall) ended in September 1945.
Ben Jackson, on the other hand, is an OC I developed for use in the "Brothers in Arms" series. He is a product of his times and thus not only considers racial segregation normal (it was the law of the land in 1940's Virginia), but he also considers white supremacy normal and factual. The 101st Airborne Division was an all-white unit during its wartime service in 1942-1945, and a Southerner like Ben Jackson would almost definitely be openly racist. He isn't evil, but he comes from a different time and a different set of values and beliefs.
The treatment Leroy Jethro Moore gets from the white paratroopers on the train is actually quite tame compared to the reception some other black U.S. servicemen got. Some black veterans received verbal abuse that was even worse. Some were physically harassed or assaulted. Some were murdered. America was a different place then, and the service of the many black men who wore the American uniform in World War II was overlooked and ignored by too many.
I tried to write this whole thing as authentically as I could; hopefully, I succeeded. Please share any thoughts you have in a review. All feedback is welcome. Just be polite; that's all I ask.