Brave Like My Brother

by Marc Tyler Nobleman

  I guess I have no choice but to talk about myself again now. I DO keep getting interrupted. Are my letters as exciting as movie serials—one cliffhanger after another?

  As I drove Matt, the dog, and the spy to our destination, the spy tried to look into the back. But we’d tied his hands to the door handle in such a way that he could barely turn his head—besides, the tarp was still pinned down tight, so he wouldn’t be able to tell whatever it was anyway.

  He caught me looking at him in the mirror and spit on the back of my head. You just have to take it.

  A song came on the radio. Maybe you’ve heard it—it’s called “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To.” It’s a man talking about his wife or girlfriend, but it made me think of you. Don’t worry—the lyrics don’t sound too sappy. I would love nothing more than to be there and cook a big breakfast for you and the family.

  Aside from Mr. Bad News trying to peek at our cargo, all was easygoing. But it wasn’t long before we got into our next pickle.

  A storm blew in, and it was stronger than any storm I’d seen since I’ve been here. The rain was shooting down every which way. The sky ate the sun and the wind sounded like spooked horses. The ground was already damp and this turned it into a scene you would not believe. We were close but hours behind schedule and now this … the Jeep got stuck.

  We would have to get out and push. Matt’s wrist made him useless, plus now he’d developed a fever, so I was on my own … unless I made Mr. Bad News push as well. But to do that, he’d need his hands, which meant he’d be free to do more than push if he wanted to. Even in that storm, he might be crazy enough to try to run off—he had acted crazy before. It wasn’t worth taking that chance. So I pushed alone. And, of course, that didn’t work.

  The storm showed no sign of letting up. That left us with no option. We had to go the rest of the way on foot, even though it would be slow going. No other vehicle could get to us any quicker, so we didn’t even bother radioing for help.

  Once out of the car, Matt began shivering pretty bad. Maybe his injury had lowered his defenses. Maybe he’d caught what I’d had. Either way, he needed more warmth and we had nothing.

  Nothing except the tarp.

  I could either get in more trouble for disobeying the order to leave the tarp alone, or I could let Matt freeze to death.

  At first it was a tough choice. But as irritating as Matt had been, I wasn’t about to watch him die.

  So with rain pouring and Matt shaking and the spy still tied to the car door, I took off the tarp. Let’s see what the censor does with this letter before I tell you the rest.

  (Told you I’m good for a cliffhanger.)

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  I haven’t gotten a letter from you since my last, so with no questions from you to answer, I’ll pick up where I left off.

  Under the tarp was not a bomb and not anything else I could have expected. It was a bundle of what looked like rubber, packed tight. It took me more than a few seconds to figure out what it was, because it was something I’d never seen or even heard of before: an inflatable tank.

  Holy mackerel, an inflatable tank! One that inflates to the size of a REAL tank.

  I had nothing else to use as a substitute for the tarp. Leaving the fake tank exposed was a risk.

  I didn’t want Mr. Bad News to suspect it was anything unusual, so I tried to act like I hadn’t just been completely surprised. I got Matt out and draped the tarp over his head and shoulders. I tied it across his chest, since he couldn’t use his hurt hand to hold it. It wasn’t particularly comfortable but it would keep him mostly dry.

  In a whisper, he asked me what was under the tarp. I told him and he didn’t know what to make of it, either.

  I thought the best way I could try to prevent the spy from making a break for it was to tie him to the heaviest thing coming with us—me. I was again worried that he could cause some damage if I wasn’t careful.

  So I tied him to me in a nutty series of steps. Before untying his hands from the Jeep door, I tied his feet together so he couldn’t run. I tied a longer rope from EACH of his hands to the door, then untied the original rope connecting his hands to each other and to the door. Pulling on the two longer ropes like he was a marionette, I forced him onto the ground, facedown.

  Kneeling with my full weight on his back and neck, I tugged both of his hands behind his back so I could retie them to each other there. I looped that rope around his neck so if he struggled, he’d choke himself. I untied the other ends of the longer ropes from the door.

  I helped him stand and attached a rope from his bound hands to my waist. I wasn’t about to untie the rope binding his feet together, but I did loosen it a little. Making him walk like this would slow us down even more, but it was the only way to prevent him from getting away. He cursed at me the whole time. At least I think it was cursing.

  It was a lot of pressure … taking care of Matt, taking care that Mr. Bad News didn’t get away, and getting both of them (plus me and Cookie) to the camp with no more pitfalls. Not to mention abandoning our cargo.

  I tell you, Charlie, I didn’t think I could do it.

  Even with all I did with the ropes, MBN still tried to break free. At one point, my boot got stuck in the muck and right away he tried to trip me. MBN fell down on purpose to drag me down. Maybe he knew I had a knife in a side pocket of my pants and he thought he could get it.

  Cookie was barking but MBN wasn’t afraid of him. My rope didn’t do anything to stop MBN but he couldn’t get at me with his hands.

  We struggled on the ground—I think he was trying to use his whole body to push my face in the mud—but it was too slippery. Matt tried to pull him off me but he had so little strength.

  I was finally able to get him under control by using the binding that tied him to me. I pulled it, twisting his arms tighter behind his back. He was kicking at air and shouting. That’s when Matt found some reserve of power and kicked MBN across the face.

  Matt shouted, “Enough! We’re late and my hand is killing me!”

  Whether or not the spy understood the words, he sure understood the rage. I don’t have that kind of rage. But I’m glad Matt did.

  We trudged on. All of us except Cookie were in some kind of discomfort. It took close to two unpleasant hours, but filthy, battered, and bone-tired, we finally made it.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  (continued from last letter)

  When we got to the camp, the captain did not thank me for helping Matt. He did not thank Matt and me for capturing a spy. No, he mainly focused on the cargo we left behind. He was NOT happy. I do understand that, but to me, a hunk of rubber is not as important as human lives.

  “No single soldier is worth compromising a mission,” the captain said.

  That’s the army for you. But the mission wasn’t ruined—the cargo had not even fallen into enemy hands. At least, we didn’t think it had.

  The spy DID help us, though. Because we were able to get him to camp, our punishments were not as harsh as they would normally be for messing up a mission—mostly some additional duties, which Matt couldn’t do right away anyway. His wrist WAS broken and a medic fixed him up. He wouldn’t be sent into combat till it healed.

  The captain needed two soldiers to drive out to the Jeep and retrieve the cargo, but it had to wait till the next day when the weather had cleared or else they, too, would have gotten stuck. I asked if I could do it, since I made the mistake in the first place. The captain agreed. To my surprise, Matt volunteered to go with me. He would be of no use physically, but could keep watch while I slid the cargo from one trunk to another.

  What had seemed like such a long, tough journey in the rain and mud took only a few minutes in sunshine. Like the storm, Matt’s tolerance for me had also passed. He made a couple of rude remarks, such as how we wouldn’t be in this jam if it weren’t for my decision to walk.

  You’re w
elcome for saving your life, Matt, or at least your wrist. Besides, it wasn’t like HE had said it was a bad idea.

  The cargo was still there. I don’t know why I thought anyone would come across it, considering where we left it. Still, it being untouched meant no extra punishment for us.

  Once we got back to camp, we found out what that inflatable tank (which weighs only ninety-three pounds!) is for. It is a wild story. But I can’t tell you yet.

  One thing I CAN tell you: We’re preparing for something big.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  I’m so sad about Grandma. But I’m glad she didn’t suffer in the end. I wrote Mom a long letter. She already feels like she’s lost a son, and now she’s lost her mother, too. But she was spending so much time helping Grandma that she never had time for herself. So maybe this will be some kind of relief for her. Is that a horrible thing to say?

  So much about my life in Ohio seems like only a dream now. Milton’s, the neighborhood, even the sound of your voice—the memories aren’t so clear anymore. It’s been only a year and a few months, but war makes each day last a week.

  Matt’s wrist is mostly healed. The closer we get to our larger mission—which the commanders are still keeping us boys mostly in the dark about—the more I see a side of Matt he didn’t really show before. He’s scared. I can tell because he’s finally talking about his life back home.

  Out of nowhere, he told me a story about his brother, Richard, about how he once got his arm stuck between fence posts. It was just the two of them there. At first, Matt just laughed at him, but then Richard stopped crying. Yes, STOPPED. He was still scared—but he wanted to show his big brother that he wasn’t. And that was when Matt helped get Richard’s arm out.

  I don’t know why Matt shared that story with me. Or maybe I do. But he wouldn’t confirm or deny it if I asked, so I didn’t bother.

  I don’t blame Matt for being scared. We all are. Even Cookie. He ran off and hasn’t come back.

  Soon we’ll wish all we had to deal with was mud, bad food, and lone spies.

  On top of pushing us harder on our daily training exercises, now they’re teaching us a foreign language. Can’t tell you which one, because it’s where we’re going next. Word is, the censors are so overworked that they’re missing stuff in letters, so maybe I COULD tell you and they wouldn’t notice. Or maybe they’d miss it just because my handwriting is famously bad—remember when Grandma said you’re the only one who can read it?

  Sometimes I feel like you’re the only one who can read ME. Thanks for listening, always.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  Pearl Harbor was two years ago today. Some of the boys are mumbling that if not for that, we would be home with our families for the holidays. They’re right, but what’s the point? It happened, we’re here, there’s no way back, and there’s only one way forward.

  This anniversary and the thought of what’s next has had some kind of effect on Matt. First thing this morning, before we were ordered to crawl into small holes and sit there for hours, the way we might have to do on a battlefield, Matt told me something. It turns out that he had suggested naming the dog Cookie as a way to tease me about being a cook. I hadn’t realized. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have been any more obnoxious than anything else he’s said or done. But then he said the joke was too dumb to be mean. He got that right!

  And then—get this—he asked about YOU. He asked how you’re doing with me still away. He asked if anyone was still bothering you. He said Richard’s not doing so great. I said I understand. It might be the only thing Matt and I have in common.

  We’re both doing this so you and Richard never have to.

  Love,

  Joe

  Dear Charlie,

  I have a feeling this will be the last time I can write you for a while. Please don’t worry. It means something happened. But it doesn’t have to mean something BAD happened.

  So … I have two confessions, if that’s the right word. One about the war, the other about me.

  That full-sized rubber tank Matt and I had to transport … no, I can’t bring it home for you, but I will now tell you what it was for. I don’t know if this will get past the censor, but here goes …

  We’re going into France. To get there, we are going to have to cross the English Channel—the body of water between England and France. We wanted to fool Hitler into thinking we were somewhere else in England. That way, the Nazis wouldn’t be waiting at the REAL invasion spot. So the Allies came up with a doozy of a plan.

  We created a fake army.

  And by “fake,” I mean “inflatable.” The tank Matt and I transported was one of the first, a test. Many more were produced.

  It wasn’t just tanks. Also boats and planes, and even small buildings, I think. These things were set up to look like a real base, and soldiers were stationed there to act like they would if it were a real base. The idea is that if any German planes flew over, they’d hopefully believe that our forces were bigger and closer than they had thought. Ira said it’s like a stage play where the stage is the entire outdoors and the audience is the entire world.

  And we think our rubber army worked. We’ll find out soon enough.

  The other confession is harder … even harder than military life, in a way. But I owe this to you.

  Maybe I am a good brother, Charlie, but I’m not the man you thought I was. This war is about to get a thousand times more intense and I don’t feel any more ready than I did when I got here two years ago. It’s not the army’s fault. They did the best they could do with me. Don’t get me wrong—I’m going to give this my all. But everyone’s all is different.

  And what gets me hardest of all about this is that I left to protect my country when I could barely protect my family. I tried to help you, but in the end, it didn’t quite work, and then I left you on your own. I know coming here wasn’t my choice, but that doesn’t make it sting less. What I’m trying to say is, whatever happens, Charlie, you have my blessing to stop looking to me as your role model. Instead, pick someone who sets out to do something … and then really does it. I want you to grow up to be a guy like THAT.

  Wow, I don’t feel better now that I told you. But what will never change is that I love you.

  Wish me luck.

  Joe

  Dear Joe,

  It’s all different now. For one thing, this is the last letter I will write you.

  People are saying we’re going to win this war. But I don’t think so. Not because of you and the other soldiers—you did a great job. The reason I don’t think we’ll win is because so many people have been killed. That doesn’t feel like winning to me, even if we do beat the Nazis.

  Being out there at war is harder than staying home. But when you’re IN the war, people dying is everyday life. I know they don’t always die right in front of you, but it’s never far. You know how it looked where they died. You know how THEY looked. You get used to it, I bet.

  But back home, we don’t know. That makes it scarier. It’s like monster stories in comic books. When they show the monster, it is not as scary as when they only talk about the monster. Your mind can makes things the scariest of all. Like kids who are afraid of what’s under the bed. I bet in war, it feels like EVERYTHING is under the bed.

  We don’t find out who died and when and how until weeks or months after it happened. When we write a letter to someone, we wonder if that person is already gone. And even folks who haven’t lost a son or a husband or a brother are sad, because everyone knows someone who lost someone. Every day, I see people with tears in their eyes. In the market. Just walking down the street. They don’t see me see them. I think some of them don’t even know they’re doing it. For soldiers, dying is everyday life. For us, crying is everyday life.

  Even when you were so far away, you always tried to look out for me at home. But then you also always wrote that you’re no hero, you’re n
o help. But I know what you are, and you know what? I don’t care if you don’t agree. There are a lot of mean guys around here. I don’t see many big brothers sticking up for little brothers the way you have for me. And you taught me how to do it for myself.

  Here’s how I know.

  I told you about that big storm last winter when we were let out of school early. What I didn’t tell you is that when I was walking home by myself, I saw Jed shoveling his driveway even though it was still snowing. I tried to pass without letting him see me see him, but he grabbed the hood of my coat and pulled me backward.

  He shoved the shovel at me and said, “Perfect timing. You finish.”

  I looked to his house and he said his parents weren’t home. I said I forgot my mittens in school. He just laughed. Then he asked me if I was going to cry.

  I didn’t say anything. I just shoveled his stupid driveway while he watched. He looked like he couldn’t believe I was really doing it. He even started to feel bad. He didn’t say I could stop, but he did offer me his mittens.

  I told him that my brother had been shot at and threatened and insulted and hungry and had to sleep in mud and hike at night with a heavy pack for hours and live in fear for months and live without his family for years.

  I told him that if you can do all that, I can shovel a driveway with cold hands. I told him I didn’t do it because I was scared but because it was the nice thing to do. And I told him not to bother me anymore.

  Then I said, “This war is over.”

  Here’s the craziest part. We stood there in silence for a minute, just letting snow fall on us. Somehow, right then, something changed. Jed said something that surprised us both. He said that he respected you for what you did. And then he called you a hero.

  I knew that already. And I knew it even before you left home. No matter what you say, I know you’re not what you seem to be at first. Like an inflatable tank.