Old Heroes

By Steve Liddick

Two World War II veterans have remained friends through the years since they served together in a tough U.S. Army outfit that fought in the south Pacific. It is 1984. Retired Coll. Thomas J. Kelsey and Sgt. Andy Stubbs, also retired, were company commander and first sergeant of the unit. Now in their 90s, they are living in a senior care facility in Sacramento, California. Kelsey had a stroke a year earlier and his controlling daughter-in-law is forcing him to remain at the facility. In part it is because she wants to have access to the fortune her father-in-law amassed after the war, and in part because she has always hated him for his opposition to her marrying his son. Stubbs is there because he wants to be close to his old friend of nearly a half-century. The two of them learn of a reunion of WWII vets in Manila, the Philippines, and want to attend. The daughter-in-law objects, of course, and conspires to stop them. The two men work out a plan to escape. Once they arrive in the Philippines, they take an air tour of some of their old battlegrounds. Modern day guerilla fighters shoot down their plane and put them in a situation where, 40 years after their last battle, they find themselves once again at war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Liddick
• Release date: Jul 5, 2020

Steve Liddick

Steve Liddick is the author of four novels (All that Time, Old Heroes, Prime Time Crime, and Sky Warriors; a memoir of his nearly half-century as a broadcast journalist, (But First This Message); a camping cookbook (Campsite Gourmet); a budget cookbook (Eat Cheap); a gift book (A Family Restaurant is No Place for Children), and a collection of short essays, (The View From over the Hill). . The author retired after 47 years as a print and broadcast journalist and now lives near Sacramento, California and writes full-time.

Book preview

OLD HEROES

by Steve Liddick

CHAPTER ONE

New Year’s Day 1945 – Lingayen Gulf, Luzon, the Philippines

The combat team’s first sergeant was already on the move as he dove for cover and shouted, Incoming!

The whoosh of an inbound Japanese mortar round sent the American GIs scrambling behind anything they could find that was more solid than the thick jungle air.

More explosions erupted all around. On impact the blasts launched shards of hot steel, splinters from downed trees and course sand through the dense South Pacific island’s tropical forest. Fire billowed skyward in an ear-splitting plume of flames, dirt and smoke. Japanese bullets buzzed through the dense vegetation like rogue bees, all too often striking a U.S. Army trooper.

A quarter of a million of Japanese General Yashamita’s troops stood between the Americans advancing toward Manila and thousands of allied prisoners being held many treacherous miles within the island of Luzon. It was the Americans’ mission to free POWs and re-take Clark Field and the Philippine capital.

The 130-thousand-man 6th Army invasion force on the ground included a combat team under the command of Captain Thomas Kelsey.

By the time the enemy could be dislodged from hillside caves and tunnels, the jungle would be stripped of vegetation. A horrifying number of troops on both sides would lay dead and wounded.

Most of the Americans had long ago become numb to the possibility that each moment of life could be their last. For many, that time had already come.

The troopers crawled as low to the leaf and frond-littered ground and dense undergrowth as they could manage and still make headway. They found little protection from the resistance ahead of their position.

The oppressive humidity compounded the misery.

Before the landing at Lingayen Gulf, artillery from more than 800 U.S. 7th fleet naval ships offshore softened the area for the invasion. Most of the enemy had been driven inland. But enough Japanese troops remained behind, within shelling and rifle range, to slow the American advance.

Bullets often found their mark with an ugly sound, signaling that the already undermanned force had been reduced by one more.

Thwack!

A GI dropped to the ground within inches of his commander and the unit’s first sergeant. The young soldier’s mouth was open, his eyes wide, as though he had been surprised while trying to say something.

Medic! First Sergeant Andrew Stubbs cried out.

Another explosive round struck nearby, accompanied by screams of soldiers near the blast’s epicenter. Debris rained down on the advancing group. Dirt and tiny bits of stinging metal struck them. Some got the full force of shrapnel, suffering serious wounds from the spinning remnants of exploding shells. Others were not even that fortunate.

The captain and his right-hand NCO looked into the face of the fallen man. They knew from experience gained over more than three years of fighting from island to island in the Philippine archipelago that no help was possible for the soldier who had not yet reached his twentieth year. Now he lay among sword-leafed vegetation on foreign soil. This day had contained his entire future.

It’s Martinez, captain.

The young man was one of the Latinos who made up about one-third of the unit. The rest of the men of the combat group were a microcosm of the American population. They ranged from New York Jewish kids to Iowa farmers to Indians from more than 20 Native American tribes.

It was by no means the first time someone in the outfit had been lost. Martinez was one of the recent replacements, not yet well-known, but mourned nevertheless as one more whose life was squandered in the effort to annihilate a cruel enemy and gain a few yards of jungle half a world from home.

Kelsey looked with sadness into the unseeing eyes of the young man, . . . a boy, really.

The officer reached over and gently closed the eyes. In moments like these the commander had the look of a weary old man.

What a goddam waste, he said.

At the age of forty, the CO was the oldest man in the outfit. Most of the young draftees and volunteers in his command were teenagers, like the young man who lay beside them.

The medic who crawled to their position had only to glance at the gaping chest wound that had not even had time to bleed. He knew for certain that the young man was beyond earthly aid. Nevertheless, the medic checked for a pulse. Finding none, he removed one of the soldier’s two dog tags to take along for his records. The other tag was left behind for identification by those who would follow. Then he crawled off to answer another plea for his skills.

Will it never end? Kelsey asked no one in particular.

First Sergeant Stubbs turned to face his commanding officer.

If we ever get out of here alive, captain, Stubbs called out, I’m gonna find the quietest place on earth.

Kelsey yelled back. Save a spot for me, Top!

* * *

CHAPTER 2

May, 1985, Sacramento California

The dim interior and stillness of the Pleasant Grove Assisted Living Home contrasted sharply with the warm California springtime sun that shone brightly on the bustling capital city of Sacramento that lay beyond its walls.

The sun’s rays streamed through the floor-to-ceiling Spanish style arch windows and faded from cheer to gloom as they were absorbed into the dark, wood-paneled main hall.

Two old men sat off to one side of the great room. An elderly woman busied herself nearby with needlework.

Thomas J. Kelsey, Colonel, U.S. Army retired, and Andrew Stubbs, Master Sergeant U.S. Army, also retired, were dressed in khaki pants, Pendleton shirts and soft-soled slip-on shoes of the type that did not require creaky bodies to stoop to tie them. Their rumpled appearance defied the image of the military they were once a part of. Their body language may have implied that they were at attention, but their clothes were definitely at ease.

Sure is quiet around here, Andy Stubbs said.

That’s because most of the people here are nearly dead. Tom Kelsey said. And I’m not sure about Homer Berman over there. Anyone checked his vitals lately?

The old man seated in a wheelchair across the room from Kelsey and Stubbs and stared straight ahead.

Elderly residents in the predominantly female population were scattered throughout the dimness. Some played cards and board games and chatted among themselves in low tones except for an occasional voice raised to accommodate a hearing deficiency. Some sat alone, sighing now and then, perhaps with only their memories to sustain them.

The room reflected a kind of dingy elegance typical of once-grand institutions whose maintenance costs were now in competition with profits that rated higher priority than the comfort and aesthetic sensibilities of its residents.

The cheap bastards that own this place ought to fix it up, Stubbs said.

Kelsey snorted. If they spent money on us, the owner’s kid might have to give up that noisy foreign car the arrogant little twerp drives around in.

An occasional reading lamp stood out as a small lighted island, threatening to bring some sparkle to the otherwise somber mood of the residence's common area.

A television game show could be heard coming from a room at the far end of a long hallway. The click of checkers, the sounds of shuffled cards and an occasional cough echoed off the hard surfaces of floor tiles and dark-stained wood wall paneling.

I want to go home, an old woman cried out.

A fellow inmate, Kelsey said. I managed to avoid being taken prisoner by the Japanese only to be imprisoned by my own family?

Lightly fragrant smoke from a sandalwood-scented candle wafted through the large room in a weak effort to offset a combination of essences that filled the air: medicines, disinfectants, cleaning products and the pervasive mustiness of old people. It was an olfactory opus as unique to an elder care facility as are those of a battlefield, a summer camp dining hall or a one-room country schoolhouse.

Some in the small group sat in wheelchairs, rocking chairs and overstuffed lounge chairs. Others ambled slowly through the sparsely illuminated room, steadied by aluminum walkers. Most of the guests were relatively mobile, although at a slow pace one might expect for those who called Pleasant Grove home.

I heard we’re getting a guest speaker on the benefits of personal hygiene, Stubbs said.

Thank God, Kelsey said. I was getting desperate for some excitement.

You could roll a grenade into the manager’s office, Stubbs said. He may have been kidding.

Their only audience was Gladys Murchison, a spry elderly woman who was an inadvertent bystander rather than an active participant in what had become an ongoing two-man routine. She seemed unperturbed by the complaints of her two fellow residents and continued her needlework without comment.

The men were a serious mismatch with their surroundings.

The dietitian told me this morning I can’t have bread with my meals, Kelsey said. He scrunched up his face, registering his contempt for the management. The comment was aimed at anyone within hearing range.

Stubbs pushed his bifocals up onto the bridge of his nose and looked at his friend. Fascist bitch. Why’d she say that?

She says the doctor told her I’m putting on too much weight.

Oh for chrissake! Andy Stubbs nearly shouted above the otherwise relative quiet of the large day room. You musta lost fifty pounds after you had your stroke.

Kelsey’s former top sergeant aimed a nearly imperceptible eye movement at the old man to alert him to the presence of Frederika Ingram. The home’s autocratic director had arrived in her trademark covert fashion.

Kelsey knew the conversation was being overheard by the resident tyrant. They treat us like a bunch of children.

Are we having a little trouble dealing with authority, Mister Kelsey? Mrs. Ingram said. The woman was one of the few people who did not address the career military officer as ‘colonel’.

Freddie, how wonderful to see you again, the old veteran said. He enjoyed returning the disrespect, using an insolent form of the prune-faced director’s given name just to irritate her.

Authority? Hell no, Freddie. I lived with authority for more than 30 years in the military. I only have a problem with authority when it’s abused.

We're just trying to keep everyone healthy, the director said. An imperious tone blanketed the room.

Kelsey gave her a withering look. It's comforting to know that on the day I drop dead I’ll be in perfect health.

It is important that we have rules and that they are followed.

The colonel enjoyed goading her. Important to whom?

Important to the smooth operation of a facility shared by guests other than just yourself, Mister Kelsey.

Well, when the rules become important to me, personally, I’ll follow them. Meanwhile, I’ll just pick and choose the ones I like.

The woman drew herself up in full puff pigeon mode. I think you should know, Mister Kelsey, that we take our responsibilities toward our residents very seriously.

Why, thank you Freddie, Kelsey said. I’ll remember that the next time I revise my list of things I care deeply about.

The domineering director sniffed in her long-practiced aloof fashion and continued the walking tour, taking care to make her presence felt among those within her realm to be certain that the stifled air that penetrated every molecule of the facility was maintained to her rigid specifications.

You don’t think Freddie’ll try to separate us again, do you Top?

The last time she tried that we nearly brought this place down around her, Stubbs said. When you told her the newspapers might be interested to hear how two war buddies were being split up who have known each other for more than a half-century, she changed her tune.

She walks like she forgot to take the coat hanger out of her outfit when she got dressed this morning, the old colonel said.

Andy suggested. Maybe they’ll kick you out of here.

Kelsey wrinkled his brow. Don’t tease me like that, Andy. You know how I hate to get my hopes up and then have a big letdown later.

What were the owners thinking when they put her in charge? Andy said. Freddie and your daughter-in-law would probably get along . . . control freaks of a feather flocking together and all that.

You gotta be kidding. They’d probably kill each other trying to be the one in charge, the old man said. Still, as hopeful as that possibility sounds, I still feel like I just ate a toad.

Freddie forgets we’re the customer and she’s the service provider. Maybe we should take our business elsewhere.

She sure puts a dent in a man’s sense of humor.

Uh huh, Andy said. If you didn’t have a sense of humor, you probably wouldn’t have any sense at all.

Kelsey frowned. If anyone wants to know what it’s like to feel invisible, they just have to get old.

Or ride a motorcycle, Stubbs suggested.

People act like old folks aren’t even there; that we don’t have anything to say that’s worth listening to.

Kelsey just shook his head. He took a letter out of his shirt pocket. Top, do you remember Charlie Hopper, that scrappy little corporal from New York City who was always in trouble?

Hell yes I remember Hopper, Stubbs said. I was the one he was always in trouble with. Why?

I got this letter from him, Kelsey said. Kinda ragged looking after being forwarded all over hell and gone. He handed the envelope to Andy. Hopper says our old outfit is having a reunion in Manila next month.

Manila? I thought those outfits always had their reunions in some VFW hall or Holiday Inn in places like Moose Breath, Montana.

This one is for all the vets from the Pacific theater. It's the fortieth anniversary of the end of the war. Good P.R. for the army, Hopper says.

That brought a chuckle from Andy. Good P.R.? Can you see us on a recruiting poster? ‘Be all that you can be . . . in a wheelchair’.

I think we should go, Kelsey said. But there’s the matter of the daughter-in-law from hell.

"I can see how they got guardianship when you first had your stroke. But that was almost a year ago. You're in pretty good shape now. I mean, you kind of drag around and you won’t