Brave Like My Brother Read online

  After the pub incident, Matt glares at me more than before, as if it was my fault, or as if he thought I should have sided with him. Now I talk to him as little as possible.

  But funny as it sounds, competing with Matt during training is making us both better soldiers. We try to outdo the other. Captain Bunt doesn’t tolerate the boys arguing among ourselves—it distracts everyone. So he must be keeping Matt and me close to each other for a reason.

  Outside of letters from Ohio, the biggest light of the day is Cookie. A few days ago, out here in the middle of nowhere, this ragged but friendly dog showed up. We all took to him right away, and he took to us—particularly to Matt. Who knows, maybe they’re long-lost brothers. No, I don’t want to insult Cookie.

  That name was suggested by Matt, by the way, and no one objected. I actually like it, but I didn’t tell him that.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  My first holiday season away. Thanksgiving is always the one time of year everyone focuses on each other. Dad’s not working, Mom’s busy at home. This year I hope you were twice as chatty at the table, to get their minds off the fact that I’m not there.

  I was with a mom and a dad, just not ours (obviously). Many Brits invited Yanks to dinner for Thanksgiving. In fact, most of us got more than one invitation. Our superior officers encouraged us to share some of our own rations and care packages with our hosts. (We’d do that anyway.) The locals are really suffering under the rationing here. I brought my hosts a can of peas and they reacted like it was prime rib. Their regular diet is Brussels sprouts, Spam, and mutton, so any break from that is worth getting excited about.

  We were also told not to eat too much, even if our host family set out a big, swell spread of food. Mine did—even opened and served my peas right then. They didn’t let on about it, but our dinner might have been their entire rations for a week. More than kind under conditions like theirs.

  No turkey, though. We’re all making the best of it, Americans and Brits alike.

  Ira’s family said he looked like Jimmy Stewart from Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. I guess he thought that was a compliment. Francisco told his family the “butts-for-brains” story just to hear them repeat “butts-for-brains” in a British accent. And in the spirit of the season, I can say that Matt’s not all bad. He got a letter from HIS brother and I saw a tear in his eye. He saw me see him, and I just nodded. Rather than puff up his chest, he nodded back. Progress, I guess.

  Being in a war zone shows a guy that the list of things he’s thankful for is a lot longer than he realized.

  I’m thankful that we’re not yet in combat. We wake up each morning not knowing if that’s the day we will be thrown into battle. It wears down a fella’s nerves.

  I’m thankful (and not surprised) that Grandma is showing just how tough she is, even though I know she’s in pain. She lived through the first war with no fear, didn’t she?

  Most of all, I’m thankful you send as many letters as you do. You’re the cable connecting me to my real life.

  I’ll spare you the rest of my list.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  Soon that will be 3,700 miles. I’m being sent on a mission.

  With Matt.

  Captain Bunt has observed how Matt and I lock horns. So he assigned the two of us—only the two of us—to attempt this mission together. Jimmy Stewart and Butts-for-Brains asked me to send them a postcard from our “vacation.” Why couldn’t one of them come with me instead?

  Matt and I asked Bunt if we could take Cookie. Bunt said no—he said a dog is too much of a wild card and could put us in jeopardy. He’s right. But I still would like to take him.

  Got to keep this one short—we leave tonight.

  I can’t say where we’re going. I don’t KNOW where we’re going.

  I know you think you’re learning about the war from comic books as much as my letters, but whatever story they’re telling, the reality’s worse.

  I sure wouldn’t mind seeing your pal Superman in the flesh right about now.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  Oh boy, has a lot happened since last I wrote.

  A few weeks ago, Matt and I set out after dark on the mission. We’d been around each other all the time, but it wasn’t till then when I realized we’d never been ALONE together. I tried to start over with him, find common ground, like the fact that we’re both big brothers. But he preferred to bust the chops of other guys in our company, even though they weren’t there to defend themselves. They wouldn’t care, but still, I didn’t want to hear him point out faults in my friends. I asked him about his brother, but all I got was that his name is Richard and he’s fifteen years old.

  Our ride was a military Jeep and our cargo was in the back, covered by a tarp that was secured with hooks. We were told not to look under the tarp. We were supposed to transport the cargo to a camp in southeastern England. Under normal circumstances, that would be a five-hour drive … you can already guess where this is headed.

  I took the first shift driving. Aside from our headlights, the world around us was black as watermelon seeds. Not long after we left, I heard an unusual noise in back, like breathing. I asked Matt if he’d heard it, too, and he said he did and would check it out. As I kept driving, he turned around and leaned into the backseat. “All clear,” he said. Maybe a dog running loose, he said.

  A short while later, I heard it again. I stopped the car and checked the back myself. Matt just sat there holding back a smile. But when I found the source of the sound, I couldn’t help but smile myself. It WAS a dog—it was Cookie. Matt had smuggled the dog into the transport. I have to admit I was impressed he sneaked this past Captain Bunt. But I was also annoyed. Though it was Matt who had disobeyed an order, if Bunt found out, I’d get in trouble, too. Matt just told me to relax.

  We gave Cookie some affection, then got back on the road—if you can call muddy countryside crisscrossed with barbed-wire fences a “road.” Just when I thought Matt had nodded off, he said, “My dog died.” Then he proceeded to tell me more about his beagle, Tumbler, than he’d ever said about all the human beings in his family combined. I joked before that Matt might be half dog, but now I half believe it. Matt and I still quarreled, but having Cookie with us did ease some of the stress.

  Matt asked what I thought we had under the tarp. I said I didn’t have a guess and didn’t care. I asked what he thought it was. He said a bomb.

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  Busy days here. Sorry I had to cut my last letter short—so short I couldn’t even TELL you I was cutting it short. So, here is what happened next.

  England goes into blackout mode at night, meaning that they make everyone turn off the lights in their homes so they’re not easy targets for enemy planes. During our drive, we passed a few towns, but since they were blacked out, sometimes we barely noticed them. When we saw what looked like a long, straight, clear stretch ahead, we turned our headlights off, too. Driving blind is nuts, but it beats getting blown to bits.

  Not long after I discovered Cookie the stowaway, I began to feel funny. We couldn’t have been an hour and a half into the drive. I thought maybe the constant cold and damp had finally made me sick. Matt took over the driving. Course he had to say, “Don’t think you can get out of your next shift just because you say you’re not feeling well.” As if I were lying.

  When I began to tremble, I wondered aloud if we should contact our company—or any company. Our Jeep was outfitted with a humdinger of a machine—a two-way radio that could allow us to talk to a base up to fifteen miles away. As much as I wanted to try it at first, Matt and I agreed that it wasn’t a good idea—what if someone on the wrong side intercepted the message? I just tried to think away how I was feeling. Didn’t work.

  And that wasn’t even the worst of the night.

  At one point, with our headlights off, Matt hit a ditch.
We both banged our heads against the roof of the Jeep, but we weren’t going fast enough that it hurt. Still, it did pop a tire. Changing a flat in the dark is not easy. Changing a flat when you’re feeling lousy is no fun. And changing a flat with Matt might be more awful than both of them. No matter what is going on, he has to be the one who knows better. I just let him. I didn’t need to prove anything.

  While Matt worked on the tire, Cookie began barking. At first it made no sense, but then we saw why—a flashlight. It STILL made no sense … who would be walking out there at that time of night, during wartime? But someone was definitely approaching.

  We both pulled our handguns. A voice called out that he was lost. British accent. I shined my flashlight on him. He was in civilian clothes and looked scared. He stopped right near the rear of our vehicle, near the cargo. I asked him how he found himself here and he said his car ran out of fuel, so he was trying to find a petrol station.

  But petrol was rationed—for official use only, like the military. Something wasn’t right.

  So I asked if he was a soldier and he said, “We’re all playing our part, aren’t we?”

  I could tell Matt was suspicious, too, but far as we could figure, this man wasn’t doing anything wrong at the moment. We said we didn’t know where the nearest village was. He thanked us and turned to leave. We turned back to the tire—Matt fixing, me watching. I asked Matt if he thought it was strange that the man didn’t ask us for a ride, and just then there was a flash behind us.

  He took a photograph!

  Then we heard running into the distance.

  Matt said “Spy!” and bolted up to give chase. I grabbed his arm and said that if it WAS a photo, it couldn’t have captured anything important—the tarp was fully covering whatever we were transporting. Matt jerked his arm away and tore off after the guy. I was so wobbly I couldn’t go after HIM. A few minutes later, Matt returned. He was furious at me for trying to stop him, and furious at himself for failing to stop the photographer. I said our priority is the mission—and we were already delayed.

  But then we heard planes overhead. We quickly killed the lights in the Jeep and waited it out. Matt dozed off and I reread some of your letters by flashlight.

  More later.

  How are you, buddy? Still taking good care of Mom and Dad, I trust? I know that’s hard, but it’s for your own good, too. I’m so sorry I left, Charlie. I want to promise that I won’t do it again, but I’m afraid to, in case I can’t live up to that promise.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  Thanks for writing me such great letters, pal. They lift me up. And for once, I might have a story that will lift you up. Your brother had a brush with greatness.

  After the spy got away and Matt conked out in the Jeep, I was going back over some of the letters you’ve sent me. Think I told you that. I felt so weak. Next thing I know, there’s a rap at the window—and it’s morning. An American infantry platoon, maybe forty guys, had come upon us and clearly thought we were a couple of dopes for sleeping on the job. At one point I would have said they were only half right (meaning Matt), but I was guilty as charged, too. By sleeping through the night, we lost HOURS. And I didn’t wake up feeling any better.

  Their lieutenant chewed us out, and he had every right to. I handed him our orders, part of which were sealed in an envelope we were not to open ourselves. After reading them, he notified our superior officer as to where we were and decided not to write up a report on us. He did strongly order us to get a move on.

  But before we could, another military caravan came into view—and there was something different about it. That turned out to be an understatement.

  One of the men in the caravan was Eisenhower himself.

  GENERAL DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER.

  I knew he had made it a point to personally meet every Allied division—every group of American soldiers—but I had no idea he wasn’t still fighting in North Africa. Maybe this was just a short, secret side mission. Either way, all of us were made to stand in a row while Eisenhower walked along it, passing every man. I’m glad the lieutenant didn’t tell General Eisenhower that Matt and I were not in that platoon and that we had just gotten in trouble. Eisenhower said something to each soldier.

  To me he said, “I salute your service to your country, son.” Maybe that was what he said to everyone. In any case, then and there, I got a new sense of commitment to the war.

  As the general was stepping back into his vehicle, Cookie took it upon himself to start barking. I thought we’d be chewed out again for sure. But you’ll never guess what happened. Eisenhower got out of the car and went up to our Jeep. He opened the door … and petted Cookie on the head!

  Then he said “As you were, soldier.” (Yes, he said that to a DOG.) I didn’t dare turn to look to Matt but if I had, I bet it would have been one of the rare moments when we smiled at each other.

  Eisenhower left, and Matt and I left, too. We had hours to go in our journey to deliver the mystery cargo.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  Sorry for the delay in writing.

  You joked that you did not believe my Eisenhower story (that WAS a joke, right?), but here’s one you are NOT going to believe even more than that.

  While entering a small town for the first time on the trip, I still felt feverish, and then also sick to my stomach. So much so that I asked Matt to stop the car so I could get out, lean over, and throw up. Which I did, and quite nicely, I must say. Matt did not miss the chance to put me down for not being able to “handle war.”

  When I stood up, two things happened at once. First, I felt better. Second, I saw someone walking nearby who looked familiar. It took me a moment to realize it was the man who’d come up to us when we had the flat tire—the mystery photographer. What happened last time was bizarre. This time, it was plain bonkers.

  Mr. Bad News saw me, too, and ran toward the town square. I sprinted after him. I was surprised by my own energy. I don’t know if it was because I had just puked up whatever had been slowing me down or because that time, I DID want to prove something to Matt—who had jumped from the car to follow me following the spy.

  I caught up to him and grabbed him by the back of his coat. He was my size and I managed to hold on to him, asking him who he was. He was angry now, swearing that he was nobody and insisting that I let him go. I told him, “Nobodies don’t run away.” Then Matt arrived and shoved Mr. Bad News out of my grip and against a wall. A crowd was gathering now.

  Matt asked why he had taken a photo of us. The man said nothing. Matt shouted at him, demanding the truth. The man denied knowing what we were talking about and looked around, maybe for someone to help him.

  Matt balled a fist to wallop the guy, and I did it again—I tried to stop him. But Matt wasn’t having it that time—he turned around and hit ME in the head. I had my helmet on, so it didn’t hurt too much.

  In the chaos, Mr. Bad News pulled out a gun. In a split second, Matt was on him again, trying to wrestle the gun from his hand. MBN dropped the gun but slammed Matt into a stone pillar of a building. Matt cried out and grabbed his arm. In the confusion, MBN picked up his gun and aimed it at Matt’s head.

  I pounced on MBN, knocking us both to the ground. He still had the gun, though. A shot went off, but over my head. The crowd scattered, shrieking. I elbowed MBN in the chest and knocked the wind out of him. Then I twisted his hand till he let go of the gun.

  I raised my hand over his face and he called out—in German. Up till then, he’d spoken British English with no trace of an accent. At least he got THAT part of spy training right.

  I didn’t think I had it in me. I’m not bragging. This wasn’t much. But it was more than I thought I could do.

  Though Matt was in pain, he helped me subdue the spy. We tied his hands behind his back. But then we had no idea what to do next. We’d been trained to deal with soldiers, not spies. And we were, again, sidetracked from
what we were supposed to be doing.

  We decided to bring him to the local police, but they turned us away. Seems they were even less able to deal with this than we were. Or they just didn’t want to get mixed up in US Army business.

  So we were stuck with the spy.

  Meanwhile, Matt’s wrist was swelling. I was guessing it was broken. That meant I would be driving the rest of the way.

  We got the spy into the Jeep. He didn’t have the camera on him and we didn’t find out what he did with the photo he took. He would not answer any questions, just mumbled to himself in German.

  Matt said, “If you’re not going to tell us your name, then we’re going to give you a name: Cuckoo.” I guess he thought it was funny that we now had a Cookie and a Cuckoo. In my mind, I continued to call him Mr. Bad News.

  But something funny DID happen—it was a bonding moment, too. Before we set out, Matt and I prepared Mr. Bad News in case he escaped. We have this pen with ink that is really hard to wash off. We used it to write “spy” many times on his face and arms. I can only chuckle when I think what Francisco would have added. And, for good measure, we also shaved the word into the hair on the back of his head.

  That’s something the army does NOT teach you.

  We tried to stabilize Matt’s injury. But as I drove, his pain got worse, to the point that he passed out. But first, he said a word I don’t remember hearing from him before: “Thanks.” He never apologized for decking me, though.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  I feel like all I do in these letters is talk about myself. How are YOU? Have you spotted the Superman guys around town yet? Jerry and Joe? (Nice name!) I’m stunned that they drafted Jerry. If Superman’s writer is not safe, no one is.

  Any new neighborhood adventures to report? Has Mom stopped crying at night? It rips me up to think of her like that. You’re smart as ever, Charlie. I know I never have to tell you what not to tell Mom and Dad. The letters I write them are the less scary version of my stories. They worry enough as it is.