Ned looked around the room. Everyone looked back at him. Tears filled his daughters’ eyes. Even his son’s eyes looked misty. Ned’s voice began to quaver. “I was just a wide-eyed Army private. I’d never fought any battles before. I remember my hands were shaking so badly I could barely hang onto my rifle.

“Sergeant Harry Jacobs led our squad onto the beach. I followed close behind, scared out of my mind and praying the whole time. Sergeant Jacobs got hit immediately. He dropped right in front of me. I tripped over him and fell down. From on the sand I was face to face with the big sergeant. Half his face was gone, and I could see his brain through a big hole in his skull.

“I screamed and scrambled to my feet. I mistakenly took three or four steps in the wrong direction back toward our landing craft. Someone pushed me back. I started to turn around and charge up the beach, but didn’t make it far. Somewhere close by a mine exploded and I felt shrapnel slice into my back. I went down again.

“And I didn’t get up this time. I froze, too scared to move. Soon, bodies fell on top of me. They were men from my squad. I pretended to be dead the rest of the day. All the while dead and dying men lay on top me.” Ned paused to swallow. “Those dead and dying men saved my life. Their weight pressed against my back and staunched the blood flowing from my wound.

“Hours ticked slowly by. The sounds of surf and screams and gunfire filled my ears. I heard dying men reciting Psalms 23. Every so often a stray round would find its way into the pile of bodies. I got hit in the leg and shoulder. Eventually I passed out. I was lucky I didn’t drown. The incoming tide drowned many of the wounded unable to move. Near sunset a medic found me and attended to my injuries.”

Ned fell silent. He watched Connor furiously scribble notes into his notebook. He looked up. “What happened then, Grandpa?”

“I was loaded onto a hospital ship and taken back across the English Channel to a hospital in England. I spent several weeks there recovering and then was discharged and flown home.”

“Don’t forget to tell Connor how the people of Copeland gave you a hero’s welcome,” Cora Hoxley said.

“They gave me a parade,” Ned said through clenched teeth. “I sat in a convertible as it drove me through the town square. People clapped for me. It was awful. I felt shame and guilt and remember thinking ‘this is the worst day of my life.’ I did nothing but play dead on a beach. And they gave me a parade for it. I remember thinking I wish I really had died on Omaha Beach.”

“I’m glad you didn’t die, Grandpa. This room wouldn’t have nearly as many people in it had you died. And I wouldn’t be here,” Connor said.

“Losing your life in battle is an honorable way to die. My buddies that I went ashore with, who died fighting are the true heroes.” Ned held out a hand toward Connor. “Let me see what you’ve written down so far.”

Connor handed Ned his spiral notebook. Ned ripped off the top page and tore it into pieces. He threw the pieces onto the floor.

“Grandpa Ned, this paper is due in four days. I have to read it aloud in front of my classmates. And the paper makes up one third of my grade.”

Ned handed the notebook back to his great-grandson. “If you want to get an A on this paper you need to write about my brother Bobby and his girlfriend Rose. Bobby is a true war hero. And Rose is an example of the worst kind of war casualty, a casualty not mentioned enough. Families of the fallen are left behind to grieve the rest of their days. Their wounds never heal. And although Rose was never part of the Hoxley family, she would’ve been had Bobby survived the war. They had plans to marry. And no one grieved longer or harder than Rose Whitcomb.”

“Okay, Grandpa, I’ll do whatever you wish.” Connor said, poising his pen over the notebook.

Ned spent the next several minutes talking about Bobby and his contribution to the war effort as a tail-gunner on a B-17 bomber. He recited everything he knew about the plane crash and Bobby’s imprisonment, his escape, missing-in-action status and death high in the German Alps. He also described Rose in great detail and her great love for Bobby, leaving out only the couple’s discovery of a secret room and treasure box in Rose’s house.

“That’s quite the story, Grandpa,” Connor said. “But I think this paper needs to be about all three of you.”

Ned shook his head. “I’m not quite finished yet, Connor. I can be longwinded sometimes. So bear with me. When word reached this town that Bobby’s remains were found, a vicious rumor spread throughout Copeland. The townspeople accused Bobby of being a deserter and Nazi sympathizer. Some people even said he was never really missing, that he denounced his U.S. citizenship and lived out his days willingly in Germany.”

“That’s awful, Grandpa. Why would someone start a rumor like that?”

Ned shook his head. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. And would you believe only the Hoxley family and Rose attended Bobby’s funeral? Not one resident from Copeland attended. They all believed the lie. So Connor, this is your chance to right a terrible wrong. At least your classmates can know the truth. And this is your chance to honor Bobby, a true war hero and the finest patriot I’ve ever known.”

“I’ll do it, Grandpa Ned. I’ll make you proud. But there is one thing I have always wondered. Maybe you can answer it.”

Ned looked at Connor fondly. The young man reminded him so much of Bobby. “I’ll take a stab at it.”

“Why do the nicest people die so young, people like Bobby?”

“I’ve often wondered the same thing, Connor. Maybe it’s because at their funeral we learn of all the great things they did while alive. God uses their death and legacy as a way to motivate us to love others and live better lives.”

Connor got up to his feet and hugged Ned. “Grandpa, everyone in this room treasures you. You don’t have to die to leave behind a legacy. You’re living out your legacy right now.”

Ned squeezed his great-grandson as tight as his frail arms would allow. Tears coursed down his wrinkled face. “Thank-you, Connor. Your kind words are the nicest birthday gift I’ve ever received.”

Epilogue

Atchafalaya Basin—September

Chris Mouton tried to shake off his disappointment. He hadn’t caught a single alligator all day. He’d experienced days like this before, but this was the first time he’d taken his eleven-year-old son out hunting with him. And he’d hoped for better luck. Danny sat in the bow with shoulders hunched. He looked bored, even a little mad.

They’d been on the water since sunrise checking lines. And so far not a single line hung down in the water. The rotting chicken he used for bait still clung to the large hooks and attracted only flies. Worse, only one more line remained to be checked.

Mouton glanced at his watch; saw that it was after four pm. They would need to turn back soon. Hunting this deep in the Basin at this hour wasn’t wise. He didn’t want to get caught in the dark. Besides the danger of low visibility, alligator hunting ran from sunrise to sunset. Mouton didn’t want a conservation agent to issue him a citation.

Danny suddenly perked up. “Hey, Dad, a line is down,” he said, pointing toward a sapling doubled over along the bank.

Mouton looked in the direction Danny pointed. He didn’t see the half-chicken he used as bait, and the line disappeared into the muddy water. He smiled. “We got us a gator, Danny. We didn’t get shut out.” Mouton guided his aluminum, flat-bottomed boat over to the submerged line.

“Get the rifle, Danny,” Mouton instructed.

Danny reached down and grabbed up an old Ruger .22 caliber rifle. Scratches covered the gun’s stock and attested to its age and reliability.