“'There were other troops at the bottom of the cliff. Most had no helmets or weapons. They were wet. We were temporarily safe from the shellfire from the cliffs. It was only temporary, because the mortars were starting to move our way. Nobody was doing anything. A few were being bandaged by the medics. Some sat silently and smoked. There were no officers around at all. No one seemed to know what to do. I turned to Mikee and told him we were going to be killed if we stayed there. He looked out at the beach and said we would be killed if we went back out there. He said, 'If we're going to be killed we might as well go up the cliff. That's what we were here for.' I can still hear those words. They are crystal clear. And I can see the look on his face. He was a brave guy. But I guess we knew we were going to die, and there wasn't any bravery involved. We just decided to die fighting. I found a dead soldier and took his helmet, machine gun, some grenades, and bandoliers of shells. Mikee did the same thing. We headed up the cliff. It was an easy slope at the beginning and there were places we could climb and still conceal ourselves from the firing from on top. By this time several other soldiers had seen us and they too grabbed weapons and helmets and followed us up the cliff. Come hell or high water, we were going to breach the Atlantic Wall. I led the single line as we climbed in a rivulet that protected us on both sides from the firing from the cliffs edge. When I got to the ledge at the top I saw a machine gun emplacement closer to the beach and to our backs. They could not hear us for the noise of guns and shells that exploded everywhere. I unloosened a grenade and threw it on the nest. In a moment the gun was silenced. I hopped up over the ledge and pulled Mikee up over too. There were trenches four or five feet deep that lead away from the machine gun nest along the cliffs edge. Mikee and a couple of guys went off one way and I went off the other, alongside the trench. Every few steps a German soldier would appear and I would fire. We followed the trench around until I saw Mikee coming down the trench from the other direction. He was firing all the time. In those few moments I can't tell you how many Germans I killed, but my machine gun was red hot and my bandoliers were almost empty. We stopped and spread out on the ground, facing a farmhouse 200 yards inland. By this time I could see that many other soldiers were coming up over the ledge in the same spot where we had come up. I reached down and took a drink from my canteen. Suddenly I was very thirsty.
“'We weren't thinking about what we were doing at all. We just did what we did. Together we got up and ran towards the farmhouse. I threw my body against the door and it burst open. I still have problems with that shoulder. The pain reminds me every day of what we did. I could not believe what I saw. There were 5 or 6 German soldiers eating breakfast. This was the battle of the century and these guys were eating breakfast in the middle of it. They all looked up in surprise and I sprayed the room with machine gun fire. Mikee ran past me, opened the door on the other side of the farmhouse and we could see the barn about 30 yards away. Mikee ran to the barn and kicked the door open. Inside were the barracks, and about four or five Germans were there. Mikee sprayed the room with machine gun fire. I guess it was the first farm liberated in the Normandy invasion. And Mikee and I looked at each other and for some reason we began to laugh. I suppose it was a nervous laugh because we had not expected to be alive, but somehow we were. And I guess we laughed because we knew each other and loved each other and felt it was really strange that two guys from Indiana were fighting on a foreign country and just trying to stay alive. I remember that laugh. It was long and hard and deep. And I have never been able to laugh like that again, because I haven't had Mikee to laugh with.
“The old guy choked a little and his voice mildly cracked, but he went on.
"'When we walked out of the barn there was a German in the loft of the farm house. He fired two shots, one at Mikee and one at me. I was hit on the helmet and it went flying off. I raised my gun and sprayed the loft window and the German fell forward and out. I looked over at Mikee and he was lying on his back, bleeding. He had a wide-eyed surprised look on his face. I went over to him and he looked up at me. He grabbed the lapels of my jacket and looked and me and said, 'Help me, Johnnie.' He had said that to me before, when we were home. When we were about 13 and 14 years old we were swimming in Tasca Creek below the dam. We didn't know it but they released water that afternoon and it came racing down the creek. Mikee was upstream when it came. The force of the water knocked him over and he came racing in my direction. He yelled, 'Help me Johnnie.' I grabbed at his arm and he reached for mine, and I held him, and pulled him from the current. Another time we were hiking up Blue Mountain. The trail had a drop of about 20 feet on one side. Mikee slipped and fell on the trail. He caught his fall before he went rolling down to the canyon, but he was holding onto the ledge for dear life. He looked up and me and said 'Help me, Johnnie.' I reached down and held his hand and pulled him up to the trail. We laughed on that trail just like we laughed in the French barn.
“'And now Mikee, again, was grabbing me and saying, 'Help me, Johnnie.' But now there was nothing I could do. Mikee relaxed slowly and lay gently on the ground, and I watched as 19 years of Indiana wheat, 19 years of a mother's love, and 19 years of the molding of the man died that day, and his life's red blood spread over the Normandy ground.
“'Mikee was a good man. He deserved a life. And after that I took Mikee with me wherever I went. He has given me guidance in my life. I would wonder what Mikee would have done or what would have made Mikee proud. Things got tough, once in awhile in my own life, and I remembered what Mikee said. 'If we're going to be killed we might as well go up the cliff. That's what we were here for.' And I guess it's true. We die at the end of life, so if we're going to be here until then, we may as well do it right, cause that's what we're here for. I have won more battles than I have lost, and I still talk to Mikee. I still look up at the sky on a nice day, or look at the chair next to me when I am alone in the room and I say, 'How yah doin', Mikee. I love you, guy.' And somehow I would feel I was talking to him, and I would feel a lot better. I have been talking to him for years. Now it's time to visit, and say hello in person.'
“About then the bus pulled in and the gas brakes hissed a final bellow as the bus stopped. The door opened and the passengers began to rise to file out the front door. I looked at the old guy and said, 'It's been nice talking with you.' He got off the bus and walked straight, and he was tall and strong. He walked over to a small building to the side of the entrance and went in for a minute. He came back out of the building with another person who must have been a guide. The guide pointed through the entrance gate as he kept on talking. Then his extended arm pointed to the left and the old guy nodded his head that he understood. And they parted but before they did, the guide extended his hand to the old guy. The guide put his other hand over their clasped hands and held it there for an extra moment. I would like to think the guide was saying 'Thanks', something I wished I had said, but never did.
“I followed him at some distance as he walked into the cemetery with its row upon row of white crosses sitting on manicured velvet green lawns. It had turned into a beautiful day with rich blue skies and rich white billowing clouds. He had his eyes to the ground, reading the number of the rows. Then he stopped and turned left. He walked in past about ten crosses when he stopped again. He slowly got down and sat in front of the cross. He put his knees up and his arms around them. I knew he was talking to Mikee. He stayed there for about a half an hour. Then he put his hand on the cross and lowered his head. After that he slowly got up and walked away.
“On the way back I sat with him again. He told me that he had brought his family to France, his four children and what he described as his countless grandchildren. He said his son Michael looks just like his uncle Mike, and laughs the same way too. He said he was going to bring his family down tomorrow, but today was his day to be alone. And we said goodbye as the bus dropped me off at my hotel. And I was a changed person. This was a real life person, meeting with one of those who sacrificed their lives, their fort
unes and their sacred honor so that I could breathe free.
“Now, even I, on a particularly warm and beautiful day, when the sky is a deep and blue and clear, I will look up and say ‘How you doin’, Mikee? I love you, guy. And thanks.’
“I think that is when I decided to do something that protected this country. I became a patriot. I applied, and after numerous interviews, background checks, lie detector tests, and after lots of time, they took me in. I passed the background checks, I think, because I had no background. I was just a vanilla girl from Alabama who hadn’t done much.”
John was sipping his third glass of Pinot Noir as the waiter hovered, waiting for his dinner order. “I suggest the soft shelled crabs,” said the waiter. John ordered them. He looked at this woman and realized he could love her, at least for the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
SIGN ON
The next morning at 9:00 AM John waited on the curb in front of the Hilton wearing his newly pressed suit, laundered white shirt, and the same tie. A black Chevy suburban pulled up and the passenger window went down. A fellow, who John thought looked about fourteen years old, said, “Mr. Trader?”
“Yes,” said John.
“I’m your ride.”
John got into the van and asked, “Where is Sarah?”
“I don’t know,” said the driver. “I’m the driver. That’s all.”
“What’s your name?” asked John.
“Call me Bob,” answered Bob.
“You can call me Rodney,” said John.
“But that’s not your name,” said Bob.
John did not respond, but spent the rest of the trip in silence, frustrated by the hokey secrecy that seemed to surround this whole sordid affair. Bob pulled up to the curb on a busy street in front of a nondescript office building. “Your meeting is on the third floor. Tell the guard your name, Rodney, and they will let you through. You are expected.”
John got out of the van and walked into the building. There was a single security guard sitting at a console looking at display terminals. John walked up to him and said, “My name is John Trader.”
“Good morning, Mr. Trader. I will get you to the elevator where you will go to the third floor. Someone will meet you,” replied the guard. The guard got out of his chair, walked to the elevator, passed a card key over an electronic reader, and the elevator doors opened.
John turned to the guard. “You don’t have metal detectors,” said John.
He smirked, “We're safe. Everyone in this building carries.”
John walked out of the elevators on the third floor into a foyer that had no directory, no signs pointing to the men’s room, and nothing that indicated he was on the third floor. A young man in a dark suit greeted him and said, “Good morning, Mr. Trader. My name is Bob, please follow me.” He was packing a Glock. John was guided to a medium sized conference room with chairs around a conference table in the middle. Behind the chairs that were at the table, there were chairs lined up against the wall on one side, probably for observers. John sat down at the table, leaned back in the chair and looked around. He looked out the window at the view of Washington that was dull without any of Washington's recognizable buildings. A view of the Nation’s seat of power would probably double the lease rate. The room could hold probably 20 people. Moments passed and the door to the conference room opened and two men in dark suits and Sarah came in, all holding files or legal pads. Sarah was dressed in a dark suit with a white blouse, quite similar to the one he had seen her wearing the day before. The two men sat at the table. Sarah sat in one of the chairs lining the wall. The men were generally nondescript. The older was about fifty, a full head of salt and pepper hair with no distinctive features. The younger man was in his thirties, dark brown thinning hair and he looked somewhat geeky.
“I’m Robert Fordham, Deputy Director,” said the older man. John thought he had met enough people named Bob in Washington. “This is Agent Davis, and I believe you already have met Ms. Todd.” None of the men extended their hand or expressed any greeting. John remained silent and a moment passed mildly uncomfortable. “Mr. Trader, we need you to identify Darby Rhodes. You are the only person we know of who has seen and can identify him.”
“Is he here?” asked John.
“No. In fact we don’t know who he really is. His name has appeared sporadically and associated with other events that are of interest to us.”
“Who is ‘us’?” asked John.
“There are many and various Security agencies in the government. We gather evidence to avoid threats to the country. And that is where Mr. Rhodes comes in. Mr. Madani has told us that he believes some security breach was in the offing. His words, though important, don’t add up to solid evidence of a direct threat, although other parts of his story are credible. However, we connected Mr. Rhodes, or the person who calls himself Rhodes, to the multiple suicide bombers a few years ago that killed around 700 people in New York, Miami, Chicago, St. Paul, New Orleans, Seattle, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Las Vegas, and Cleveland. Don’t ask me why they chose Cleveland. We have connected Mr. Madani’s brother to the explosion in the Federal Building around the same time. Mr. Madani’s story of the kidnapping and visits by Mr. Rhodes are backed up by independent evidence and information from other outside sources. Rhodes passport has been used several times over the last few years, but never to enter or exit the country. The passport photo we have on file is for a blond woman. The real Darby Rhodes died about ten years ago. Most recently the passport was used to rent a vehicle in Canada about ten days ago. The vehicle turned up at the Toronto Airport after it was returned to the car rental agency, but no outbound ticket was purchased by a Darby Rhodes. By coincidence, possibly, there was an outbound flight two hours after the vehicle was turned in at the Toronto Airport with two reservations for two Middle Eastern names traveling to London. Independently, the tickets provide no information, except the accumulation of circumstantial evidence which hopefully is leading in a direction that may allow us to close in on Rhodes. The London airport surveillance cameras were fuzzy and of no practical value. We still don’t know what Rhodes looks like.”
Misdemeanor Trials Page 14
