The Campaign at 349 Glory Drive

By Robert Pugh

Sergeant William C. "Grandpa Billy" Stallings, a World War II veteran who always took great pride in being self-sufficient and self-reliant, reluctantly moved in with his son Jeb. Now, one year later, early symptoms of dementia are evident and beginning to have an impact on Grandpa Billy's everyday routines and family interactions. Never having imagined the burden his father was becoming, Jeb considers relocating him to an assisted-living facility, setting into motion a series of challenging and stressful circumstances. The Battle of the Bulge, a well-documented and reported period during World War II, serves as the historical backdrop for Grandpa's stories and the narrative of the story. One of Grandpa's favorite stories, however, noticeably begins to be told differently by him, where his wit and crusty charm are no longer able to conceal advancing health issues. Sadly, the truth of the story is not uncovered until after his death. His son Jeb, a veteran of the Vietnam War, and grandson Colin, a veteran of Gulf War I, learn of the secret through unusual and surprising circumstances, which had been veiled by Grandpa Billy for almost seventy years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642995596

Book preview

1

December 13, 1944, West of the Town of Lanzerath, near the German–Belgium border

W hat do you think, Lieutenant? Sgt. Stallings asked.

We’re here to keep an eye on things. Lock in on Jonesy’s Browning to your left and tie into Kepler near that tree on your right. He raised his arm and pointed toward the town. I estimate the distance to be three-twenty to the first house on the left. Keep your eyes open and stay off the radio. Somewhere out there, there’s a bunch of German panzers. They don’t know we’re here, and I want to keep it that way.

December 1944 hadn’t been the best of holiday seasons for this I&R platoon. A month ago, they had been pulled out of the Brittany region in France, before the gravy on their Thanksgiving turkey had a chance to get cold. Initially, they had been assigned as part of the Ninety-Fourth Infantry Division but were recently reassigned to the Ninety-Ninth ID instead. Headquarters was far to the rear of their current locations, and to their south, the 106th ID had just arrived to the front. The advance toward Germany had been moving ever so rapidly. Other troops from the Ninety-Fourth were being pulled from as far west as the ports of Lorient and Saint-Nazaire and moved eastward, but on a slower scale.

Sgt. William C. Billy Stallings was with one of those platoons recently reassigned and placed just about as far to the east as a unit could be without eating their daily meals with the Germans. Still wearing the Ninety-Fourth ID patch, they were welcomed by the men of the 371st Field Artillery Battalion, saying, Glad you could make the party.

Before leaving Lorient, Sgt. Stallings—or, as his men called him, Ears—had heard rumors about the Germans possibly stock piling supplies and bringing in fresh troops. Also, he had learned about how concerned field commanders were about the rumors of panzer units being moved into the east end of the Ardennes Forest. They hadn’t seen or heard any of them, but they could feel them. They were no match for a panzer division, and he knew it.

Stallings, do you have any smokes left?

Yeah, but nobody’s supposed to light up.

It’s cold out here, and the ground is covered in snow. I could really use a smoke.

Sit tight. Can’t you manage for a while longer, Reed?

Corporal Robert Stack Reed reached out and grabbed a handful of snow and threw it at him.

Here’s what I think about that.

By the time he reached out to grab another handful of snow, a half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes came flying into his foxhole. He looked over toward Stallings only to see the lieutenant making his way toward his location.

Reed, you can light up when I do, the lieutenant said.

But, Lieutenant, you don’t smoke.

Now you’ve got the idea. I’ll let you know when it’s okay. He tapped the top of Reed’s helmet, crouched as low as he could, and then started moving toward Kepler’s position. Reed sniffed the cigarettes as if he was taking in a breath of fresh air.

There was nothing but three hundred yards of snow-covered, open terrain between their position and the town of Lanzerath. It consisted of a few houses next to a dirt road and a church to the east. These men were there to support both the Ninety-Ninth ID to their north and the 106th ID to their south, and five miles of heavily wooded terrain separated the two divisions.

From their location, however, they had perfect line of sight. Having dug a defensive position five feet behind the tree line, they had used the three days before the Germans would discover their presence to their advantage. Their sleeping areas and well-disguised firing positions had been perfectly covered by freshly fallen snow. Each firing position and their neatly dug, standing foxholes were hidden well from anyone’s view from the town.

Two days passed without incident. On the evening of the fifteenth, the lieutenant received orders to send a patrol into town before daylight. Two men, assigned from another reconnaissance unit, had already taken up positions east of town to serve as forward observers for regimental artillery units. Sgt. Stallings was ordered to go into town, secure a tactical position to support battalion artillery units, and be prepared to direct mortar fire for the platoon. He was to report back to the lieutenant anything about what the Germans were up to. At 0400 hours on the morning of the sixteenth, he and Corporal Reed began their trek toward town, under the cover of darkness and the quietness of falling snow, to link up with those two men.

It was quiet. The men who had stayed behind in their foxholes were cold but alert. At 0530 hours, on the morning of December 16, 1944, everything changed.

XXXXX

For a mid-day Thursday, things were kind of slow at the office. Jeb’s appointment with Sanderson was cancelled at the last minute, but he was able to get Billy’s appointment with the dentist scheduled and confirmed. He spent the rest of the morning working on a project for the Ellerton Construction Group out of Jacksonville. It was nearing completion and being readied for presentation on the following Tuesday to members of their management team. He had started working on last minute cost estimates until Kristie walked into his office, stood behind him, and began rubbing his shoulders. He tossed the pen he had been using on the desk, leaned forward, and bowed his head.

I knew there was a good reason why I married you.

Am I distracting you? How are you coming along with the Ellerton ideas?

He arched his back and shoulder area and stretched out both of his arms in front of him.

We’re ahead of schedule—but if you keep doing this, we won’t be.

She walked around to his right and leaned against his desk.

Has this thing with your dad gotten in the way? You seem somewhat distracted.

Not really. I’m concerned—that’s all. It sounds like he might have gotten confused on a couple of points when he was interviewed about his old unit. It’s no big thing.

Honey, Dr. Myles mentioned that he has already begun to see changes in your dad’s demeanor. Has he been taking his medicine like he’s supposed to?

I guess so. He paused and let out a long sigh. It just bothers me that, all of a sudden, his memory of certain events is different from all the other times I’ve heard him talk about the early days of the Bulge. I mean, it’s not like him to make a mistake about something like that. I haven’t seen the article, but Colin told me this morning about it. Apparently, he’s not as concerned about it as I am, but something’s not right about it at all.

Tell you what, let’s go get some lunch, take a nice walk on the beach, and then come back here and finish the project. It isn’t too chilly, and the wind isn’t really blowing too hard. It might be nice over at Ormond. A walk on the beach will do us both good.

Back at the house, Grandpop Billy’s grandson Colin stopped by to return the magazine. Colin, a veteran of Desert Shield, had taken the day off from work to speak with David about restoring a 1949 Plymouth he had recently purchased. David Hurling, also a World War II veteran and Billy’s friend, had been wounded on the morning of December 19, 1944, captured later that afternoon, and spent three months as a POW until rescued by Billy’s unit in early March 1945.

Since 1982, when David’s story first appeared in the local newspaper about how he enjoyed restoring old cars, he became somewhat a celebrity because of his expertise and craftsmanship. Although he would spend the better part of every Thursday and Friday with Billy reminiscing about the old days, he spent the rest of his week working in his garage he called The Shop.

Colin entered through the kitchen door. Billy was sitting at the table with David, sharing a can of peaches.

David, do you remember my grandson Colin?

Sure do. He and I shared the same MOS, only about fifty years apart.

It’s nice to see you, sir.

You can call me David or Mr. Hurling or old-timer, but do not call me ‘sir’ because I still work for a living.

Colin looked at his grandfather and gestured as if to ask if everything was okay.

Don’t look at me. You should know better than to call a sergeant major that.

David laughed, extended his right hand, then shook Colin’s hand and smiled.

Grandpop, here’s your newsletter. Did you get a chance to read the article about your old unit before I borrowed it?

No, I haven’t—and probably won’t have to. I’m sure between you and your father, I won’t need to.

The article never mentioned you were with the Ninety-Ninth ID. Grandpa Bill and David glanced at each other. It was all about your time as part of the Ninety-Fourth ID.

They glanced at each other once again.

Son, give me the magazine, and I’ll take a look at the article. I’m sure it’s some kind of error they didn’t catch before printing it.

Colin put the magazine on the table, said his goodbyes, and exited through the kitchen door.

You haven’t told him, have you?

No, I haven’t. I may have slipped up and said something a few days ago. My son doesn’t know either. He paused, turned to look out the kitchen window. You know, there aren’t very many of us left now. Besides, that was almost seventy years ago, and nobody could give one hoot or a holler about it today.

Have you heard anything from the lieutenant since your last reunion?

No. The last thing I heard was that he was in a hospital somewhere in Georgia.

That doesn’t sound too promising.

He’s eaten up with cancer. I’ve got his son’s address somewhere around here. You know, I ought to write him just to let him know we’re still kicking.

David picked up the can of peaches from the table and offered him what was left.

These things sometimes give me the runs, but that’s why I eat them. The alternative is far worse.

The two of them chuckled.

2

At the Stallingses’ house, earlier Thursday morning, December 8, 2011

Grandpop William C. Billy Stallings, now an eighty-nine-year-old veteran of World War II, was eighty-eight years old when he moved in with his son Jeb and daughter-in-law Kristie. Now, more than a year later and soon to celebrate his ninetieth birthday, his daily routine could seem mind numbing to some. Awake by four-thirty most mornings, he’d shuffle into the kitchen, where the coffee pot had perked its first of two pots for the day. He wouldn’t fill his cup too full because he knew he’d spill some of it; he carried it to the porch. The shaking of his hands wasn’t getting any better, and the medication he had been taking for it the past three months wasn’t really helping.

For now, comfort was sitting in his favorite chair enjoying his early morning coffee. His vantage point allowed him to watch the sun rise and to see the birds complete their feeding ritual in the backyard. He would sit there watching the early morning news casts until he knew it was time to get dressed.

By ten o’clock, however, he had taken his walk in the backyard, filled the bird feeders, and made sure the squirrels’ feeder trays were tended to. Lunch was exactly at 1200 hours every day, where he’d sit down at the kitchen table with his ham sandwich, Jell-O, sliced peaches, and another cup of coffee, and he would watch the local news. On most days, after watching the noon weather report, he’d stretch out on the sofa in the family room for a two-hour nap. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep while looking through his scrapbooks or looking at a magazine he already had skimmed through several times. Mostly, he would fall asleep while watching television. Nonetheless, he would get his daily nap. He wasn’t bashful about letting everyone know about it either.

At my age, a nap allows your body to catch up with the day—and I don’t intend on falling too far behind.

Usually, around three o’clock, he’d walk to the mailbox and retrieve the mail. Before returning to the house, he would gather Mrs. Olsen’s mail and place it on a small table on her front porch. Because she struggled so with her walker to get to the mailbox, it was his way of helping out. He would return to his chair on the porch until it was time to get washed up for dinner. The only exceptions to this daily regimen would be either a doctor’s appointment he couldn’t avoid or because it was raining.

When his dear friend and war buddy David Hurling started visiting him on Thursdays and Fridays, the two of them would talk for hours recalling their antics and personal stories from the war. The other days of the week, it was like clockwork. Jeb called it the prevailing convention.

When Grandpop first came to live with them, he enjoyed going to church, but lately, he had become more interested in watching a particular evangelist on television. It was fast becoming a struggle, at best, for him to get dressed and to be ready by nine o’clock each Sunday morning. Since there were no commercials during the program, getting dressed for church looked more like dealing with a four-year-old with serious fashion issues.

The Lord knows what I look like, and rushing me ain’t going to make me any prettier. Believe me. God’s got plenty of time.

Most mornings, when Jeb would enter the kitchen for his first cup of coffee of the day, he would see his father sitting in his favorite chair on the porch. Grandpop Bill usually had on his blue plaid pajama bottoms and his olive drab army jacket, which proudly had the Ninety-Fourth Infantry Division patch sewn on one shoulder and the Third Army patch on the other.

It’s comfortable and it fits, he would say and then add, and it’s paid for.

Before leaving for work, Jeb would try to join him on the porch. Mostly, they would sit and talk about the weather or how retail prices seemed to be skyrocketing. On this particular Thursday, he wanted to spend a few moments talking with him before he had to leave. Instead, they sat there for several minutes without saying anything. They both had decided to just enjoy taking in the sunrise and the coolness of the season, until his father decided H-hour had come.

I wonder what old Burns is doing right now.

Dad, he passed away three years ago. Remember?

Of course, I remember. I just wondered what he’s doing, that’s all. I miss him. Did I ever tell you about the time he and I escaped a German patrol outside of Butzdorf in ’45?

Yes, you have—many times. Listen, I have to finish getting ready for work.

You needn’t run off on my account. Don’t you have a few more minutes to spare?

Really; I’m running behind a little this morning. He picked up his coffee cup, patted his dad’s left shoulder as he passed by him, and headed toward the kitchen.

Son, can you spare me some time this afternoon after you get home?

Sure. What’s on your mind, Dad?

Oh, nothing important I guess. I just enjoy sitting and talking with you—that’s all.

Okay. So what have you got planned for today?

I guess whatever the Lord decides to put on me.

Stuart Jeb Stallings, a veteran of two tours during the Vietnam War, who has been married to Kristie Thompson for thirty-eight years; the father of one son, Colin, and three daughters, Abigail, Susan, and Mia; knows first-hand about war and the rumors of war. His first tour was with the Twenty-Fifth Infantry Division in 1966 at Cu Chi. For his second, he had been reassigned with the same division; only, he had been relocated to the Trang Bang Province. Awarded a Purple Heart during each tour, a Bronze Star for his actions at Cu Chi, and the Silver Star in his second, he returned from Vietnam in May 1970 and never looked back.

After completing his second tour of duty, he decided he had pushed fate enough, got out of the military, and re-entered civilian life. By January 1972, he and his wife Kristie had started the family business, Elegant Building Designs, Inc., offering consulting services for renovations and construction.

At first, the transition to what he called civilianship was challenging. It took several months of scrimping and saving, but the business finally got off the ground in October 1972. Two months later, they landed a large contract from an investment company headquartered in Cincinnati, Ohio, to develop several acres north of DeLand, Florida. Although primarily residential designs, that contract allowed Jeb to meet and get to know his future business partner, Paul Langley, a young architect right out of the University of Florida, who was looking to establish himself with a business.

The two of them initially were introduced to each other at a Chamber of Commerce luncheon in Daytona Beach. Impressed by Paul’s forward thinking, they hit it off immediately. His ideas were exactly what Jeb had been looking for. Three days later, Paul was hired. Two years later, Paul became his brother-in-law.

As a kid, Jeb could be found sitting with his father and listening to his daring acts with the Ninety-Fourth Infantry Division. He would sit spellbound listening to the adventures of the likes of George S. Patton and the Third Army. He had heard his father tell the story about the German resistance at Butzdorf and Tettingen more times than he could remember. He knew it well enough that he could retell it, word for word, and not miss a beat.

Dad, when I get home this afternoon, how about we play a game or two of checkers?

I’ll check my calendar.

That brought a smile to both of their faces.

Jeb put his coffee cup in the dishwasher and started toward the front door. Kristie, who had just entered the kitchen from the bedroom, gave him a hug and kissed him goodbye.

I’ll get there as soon as I can. I’m running a little slow this morning too. Don’t forget about your meeting with Sanderson this afternoon, and—oh yes—remember to call the dentist to confirm Dad’s appointment for next Tuesday.

After he picked up his briefcase and turned to go out the door, the phone rang. He stopped, waiting to see if the call was for him. It