Map Boy: Christmas at the Battle of the Bulge

By Steve McCoy-Thompson and Tammy Flynn Seybold

Eleven-year-old Frankie Brown is stuck in no-mans land in easternFrance, between American and Nazi armies, beforethe last major battle of WorldWar II and he can hear Christmas carols. With his new map skills, how could he get so lost?
Told through the memories of an aging grandfather,Map Boycontinues Frankies story as aboy in war time, working withspies and Alan Turing at Bletchley Park to outflankthe Nazi terror. With the Bletchley bunch, he helps the Allied Armycross Europeuntil disaster makes him doubt everyone, especially himself. Only the worst surprise attack of the war inEurope, the Battle of the Bulge, can bring Frankie round and set a course for histrue calling.
Steve McCoy-Thompson lives in Pleasanton, California withhis wife and two children, where he loves to doclassroom readings. Based on extensive research, this historical adventure is his fourthbook and the second in thisWorld War II series for young readers. The first book in the Frankie trilogy isWeather Boy: A Story of D-Day.
Awesome Fantastic Youre my favorite author! reviews from young and older readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524601768

Steve McCoy-Thompson

Steve McCoy-Thompson is the author of four books, including Fuel: Catholic Men, Living the Faith; A Small Group Guide (Ave Maria Press, 2008) and two books of historical fiction for young readers: Weather Boy: A Story of D-Day and Map Bay: Christmas at the Battle of the Bulge. When not writing, he leads community and economic development programs both in the U.S. and around the world. He lives with his wife in Pleasanton, California and has two children.

Book preview

Prologue%20Better%20Than%20-%20IV%20stand.jpeg

Prologue: Better than Texting

June 2014, Boston, Massachusetts, USA

Travis hailed a taxi. He stood outside baggage claim at Logan Airport and squinted high to a blue June sky. Summer was here, finally.

Wheah to, kid? the taxi driver asked. He studied an oval face that was leaving the roundness of childhood, heading into the acne years. He figured the boy was about fifteen, a little young to be traveling alone. He wondered if the kid was a runaway.

Um, to Mass General Hospital, Travis said and slid into the back seat. He hoped it would be a short drive. Three days had passed already, since the heart attack, and he didn't know how much time his grandfather had left.

As they merged onto Massachusetts Turnpike, the driver looked into the back seat from his rearview mirror. The kid had scraggly, auburn hair and was thin as a rail. Ya from around heah?

Used to be, Travis answered. He glanced through the taxi window to concrete barriers and the flat buildings of modern America. They entered a tunnel, below the Charles River, and rose again to a park with green maples and sycamore trees that were far from the palm trees of Los Angeles. Long time ago, he added.

Yeah, sure, the driver said. I know just wheah ya from. I know accents real well, see. And you got Cape Cod all over ya. I can hear the ocean in ya voice. But there's somethin' else. Like Cape Cod's dyin' away or somethin'.

Maybe that's what it was, Travis thought. Dying away or something. I guess I'm from California now. My family moved there six years ago. He didn't mention a huge house, or a pool with an ocean view, that still seemed like another country.

Well that's tough. To move away, I mean, even if it is California. You out heah visiting? The driver weaved through traffic like a stampeding horse, but he spoke as if sitting down for tea.

Yeah, sure, Travis answered, his Cape Cod accent growing stronger. My grandfather's dying, I think.

Oh, said the cabbie and practically slammed into a jeep with the news. I'm sorry to heah that. I really am. I'm a granddad myself and, well, theah's not enough of us to go around. The driver shook his head, to focus on the driving, and was silent the rest of the way.

Travis fished in his backpack and put headphones in his ears. He opened his cell phone to check for messages. His mom left for Boston two days before, immediately after news of the heart attack. Frankie was forced to stay through the week in L.A., to finish final exams that had not gone well. His dad would fly in tomorrow, after a business meeting that must have been important. The family was like that now. Ever since their move west, they travelled on separate paths. As far as he knew, they had no family plans for the summer.

The taxi arrived at Mass General Hospital and Travis thanked the driver, who refused payment but accepted a tip for the ride. Take care, now, the driver called. Give my best to your granddad.

Travis checked in at hospital reception and the nurse directed him to the Intensive Care Unit, which did not sound good. He rolled his suitcase to an elevator and then down a silent, tiled hallway to Room 301. The wheels clicked on the tile lines in the hall.

He had imagined his grandfather many times while in California. He thought of calling the old man, to say he missed his stories and his hot chocolate. But he never did. If only his grandfather would get a cell phone. Then they could send text messages. A phone call was just too weird. He couldn't think what to say after all that time apart. He didn't want to hear the unspoken thoughts in the old man's voice. All the things that would be left unsaid. Like -- I miss you. Or -- why don't you visit?

Before Travis moved, his grandfather had sat him down for a long story. It was a tall tale that Travis actually believed at the time. About how his grandfather had saved D-Day, or something like that. About some strange talent to 'see' weather in the future, and then losing that gift, on purpose, to save his own father. A story that, now he was old enough to drive, was surely impossible. He would never admit this at school, but Travis kind of missed that part. The believing in things. The part he seemed to have left behind in Cape Cod.

When he opened the door of the hospital room, Travis could not believe the change in his grandfather. In a small private room of pastel colors and plastic tubes, Franklin Brown rested in a steel-frame bed. From a gray-haired man of full of energy and imagination, his grandfather had slipped to straggly white hair and heavy breathing. An oxygen tube ran from his nose to a machine that blinked red numbers. This was not the man he admired, his father's father, and Travis wanted to run.

His mom sprang from the bedside chair. She seemed grateful for any distraction in this barren place. Travis! Oh, thank God you've arrived. He's been asking for you all the time.

With great effort, the old man spread his arms and Travis moved inside an IV tube for a hug. He motioned for Travis to sit, in the chair where his daughter-in-law sat for hours. He called in a foreign language and a nurse appeared to raise the angle of the bed. He called in another language and a second nurse entered with an extra pillow. The patient waived them both forward and then winked at Travis.

Didn't know I could speak German and Russian, did you? he smiled. He had waited a long time for the boy's arrival.

You are too much, Franklin, Travis' mom said as if scolding a child. I've always said there were too many secrets in your house.

Well, the old man said and closed his eyes. That's about to change. You've been wonderful, dear. Thank you. Now, I want to share a special secret with my grandson.

Oh, said Travis' mom and realized she was being excused. Of course, Franklin. I'll bring Travis' suitcase to the hotel and come back later.

Take your time, Franklin nodded and smiled again. This could take a while.

The door clicked behind the women as they left the room. The men were alone at last and Franklin patted his grandson on the arm. Now where were we? he asked, as if they had met last week for a bottle of pop.

The light was slowly returning to his grandfather's eyes. Travis could see the energy in the old face. What had he been thinking all this time? What kept him away, or from calling? To make those eyes shine again, or to hear that gravelly voice? Travis cleared his throat and put the earphones away in his backpack. Um, I don't know, grandfather.

Well, answered Frankie, sounding boyish now, and he shifted his head high on the pillow. Good thing it's my heart and not my head that's failing. Come closer. I believe we never got to finish our story ...

1%20V%20is%20for%20Doodlebug%20-%20missle.jpeg

Chapter 1: V is for Doodlebug

July 1944, London England

A black Rolls Royce crossed Westminster Bridge, over the River Thames, with a full view of historic London. Frankie Brown sat wedged between his parents in the rear of the car. His older sister, Joan, leaned forward to see the sights.

The Browns were on holiday. General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the supreme commander for the Allied Army in Europe, had arranged everything. The tour was a thank you gift to the Browns and a birthday present for Frankie. They would see London from a limousine and then meet Winston Churchill for a speech, followed by afternoon tea with the famed Prime Minister. It was a nice gift, obviously. Frankie knew the Prime Minister pretty well already. But he dreaded the tea.

His family had been together six weeks, while his dad recovered from a broken leg on D-Day. For the first time in years, all four sat round a table for meals, just like a family. They told stories, passed the salt, and Frankie snuck peas beneath the table to his sister. He played checkers with his dad in the evening and Joan played her one and only record, Glenn Miller, again and again. His mom never mentioned the peas.

Yet every day, the leg mended. First the cast went and then the crutches and finally, slowly, the limp. The healing couldn't be stopped. Everyone knew his dad was gearing for another parachute jump, back into battle. It was time to split the family again and Frankie figured Mr. Churchill would do the splitting. There were good reasons, of course. A world war was on. Sacrifices, as Churchill had said many times, must be made. But Frankie wasn't thrilled. He liked his new home as is, even if it was temporary, on an army base, two thousand miles from Cape Cod. He didn't care much for tea, either. Too bitter.

Sergeant Brown squeezed his son's shoulder and pointed across the bridge to a large clock tower. That's Big Ben, he said. Never broken. Never stopped ticking. Just like the British.

That's right kind, sir, said Thornton from the steering wheel up front. But not quite true. Stopped half a day, three years ago, when a machinist dropped his hammer in the works. So you might say the only ones who can stop us is us.

The family laughed at this. After four years of war and Nazi bombing and a million homes damaged in London alone, the only thing that could shut down the largest clock in the world was a workman's hammer. Then we can't be stopped, his mom said.

Jonas Thornton chatted on to keep the Americans entertained. The last time he played tour guide, the trip did not go well. Disaster would be closer to the mark. Before D-Day, at General Eisenhower's request, he drove the limousine with Frankie's mother and sister to London for a holiday. When Nazi bombers struck the city, he abandoned Eisenhower's precious car and led the women below ground, to the London Tube, for safety. An hour later, they climbed from the subway to find the limo blown to bits.

So Thornton talked on, cheerfully, and scanned the sky for planes and bombs and the latest terror from the Nazis: the Doodlebug. The goal was to keep the American guests happy and distracted. For there was always the fear that they would grow weary of the war and go home.

On our left, Thornton waved from the bridge, beside Big Ben, is Westminster Palace. That beautiful brown building is the home of our Parliament.

Mah-velous, Joan chimed. She was seventeen years old and still working on a proper British accent. Like a lovely chocolate cake.

Thornton smiled. Quite, miss. That's where you'll meet Prime Minister Churchill. Quite an honor, Master Frankie, I must say. The greatest leader we've enjoyed in many a year. And though you can't see, Thornton continued, beyond Parliament is Westminster Abbey. Like a white wedding cake, that is.

Chah-ming, added Joan. If only Cap were here to see.

Frankie winced at the fake accent. Thornton, on the other hand, was pleased as punch. You sound like a lost colonial, he said with pride. Coming home to the mother country, as it were. And how is our young Cap? Back with the Royal Navy?

Oh yes, Joan said. She met her true love in the Tube, while hiding with Thornton, and her accent began that day. He's been gone a frightfully long time.

Frankie rolled his eyes and Mrs. Brown changed the subject away from the boy. Where to now, Thornton?

Well, mum, General Eisenhower insisted we have a 'swell time.' Thornton used a flat, Midwestern accent to imitate the general and everyone laughed. So we'll pay a visit to Our Lady. Our miracle of London, you know. In four years of war, among all the bombs that Adolf Hitler has thrown at us, St. Paul's Cathedral has hardly been scratched. So any good trip to London starts with her. I daresay, Master Frankie, this will be the most memorable birthday you've ever had.

Thornton chatted away as they crossed the Thames. He turned east from Westminster Bridge and into streets of sudden destruction. Four years of Nazi bombings had destroyed much of the city. Bricks and rubble lay in piles on either side of the road. Ruined homes and buildings littered the sidewalks. Now, the hated V-1 had arrived. They were unmanned planes and the V was for vengeance, after Hitler's defeat at D-Day. The Nazis sent them by the hundreds to drop their bombs on London. The locals called them Doodlebugs and buzz-bombs, for the horrible buzzing they made.

Thornton thought he saw one high in the sky. He swerved left, jerked right and almost hit a Red Cross truck. A bobby waved him to the side of the road and Thornton flushed from the shame of it. He checked the sky to make sure the day couldn't get worse.

You almost hit that lorry, the police officer said. Keep calm and carry on, but I'm afraid this road is closed. To go further, you'll have to walk.

Reluctantly, Thornton left the car. He tried to be cheerful for the Americans, who were not fooled. Welcome, he announced, to me old neighborhood! Paternoster Row, where the greatest books in the world were made for centuries. I used to work here, you know. They walked past hollowed buildings and crumbled walls where Nazi bombs had burned a half million books.

Two streets in, Thornton stopped to gather his breath. He pointed to a pile of bricks and wooden beams. This was my shop, he said.

The family stared at an open, empty building. You weren't always a driver? asked Mrs. Brown.

Oh no, ma'am, said Thornton. "I daresay this war has changed everyone. Just as you, Sergeant Brown, were a high school science teacher I'm told. In truth, I sold the prettiest cards and stationary