The phalanx code, p.12
The Phalanx Code, page 12
“My family is originally from Grenoble and Figeac in the mountainous part of the country. Over the years the fame and fortune had them migrating west toward Paris, the Sorbonne, the coast in Bordeaux and even a small village here on the peninsula called Sainte-Mère-Église. My father was a professor of linguistics, as one might expect a Champollion to be. My mother was an elementary school teacher. She taught both French and English and was the rock of the household. My parents eschewed the ancestral wealth at least for a bit, being the idealists they were, and moved to this town I’m going to show you and which I suspect you have read about in your history books.”
After thirty minutes of driving, we passed through the towns of Bayeux and Carentan-les-Marais. The terrain was mostly farmland dotted with tan, two-story homes with trapezoid-shaped roofs. Evelyn followed the coastline, climbing through the dunes and bluffs until we were north of Carentan-les-Marais and passed a large building that appeared to be new. Dozens of cars were exiting and entering a large parking lot. A construction crane swiveled under bright lights. Workers came and went, as if it were a factory at shift change.
“I’ll explain more about that later,” Evelyn said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“As I said,” she replied and continued staring straight ahead.
The mysteries were piling up. The tattoo. Her possession of Coop’s dog tags. The plane flight. And now the building. I was along for the ride but was I being taken for one?
I studied the building. The elevation attempted to blend with the farmhouse countryside motif that was native to the peninsula. It had a light brown stucco exterior with wooden beams crossing at key support areas. But whatever concessions the designer had made to the local architecture was lost in the sheer size of the rectangular building. It had to be over 200,000 square feet, or 18,500 square meters as they would measure it here. Large flatbed trucks coughed diesel as they powered into the large parking lot from a separate lane than the personnel were using and parked near the loading dock. As we rounded the corner, an unfinished section of the building was visible, a skeleton under construction. The tall construction crane was bent at right angles, pivoting over the framed area, lowering a wooden crate into place. The further we drove, the more massive the facility seemed with one oddity now visible.
A two-story farm home with the same Normandy architecture sat about a hundred meters away but within the fence of the construction area. A sidewalk led from the back of the home to the facility. The upper floor had a balcony that looked over the peninsula and, I was sure, the beaches of Normandy, most likely Utah Beach, which was closest to this part of the old battlefield. A short airfield divided the property in half, running from north to south. Lights surrounded the facility as at a football stadium.
When we entered the town center of Sainte-Mère-Église, I forgot about the monstrous building when I saw the church where Eighty-Second Airborne Division paratrooper Private John Steele had pretended to be shot when his parachute snagged on the steeple the night before D-Day in 1944. Today, there was a dummy parachutist snagged and hanging in the very same spot as a tourist attraction.
I pointed at the steeple and said, “H-minus. 505th parachute infantry regiment. Private John Steele. There was a fire that night and the entire town was lit up and being ordered around by the Germans to deploy a bucket brigade and put the thing out. Instead of everyone being asleep at night for a silent parachute assault from the sky, the entire town was wide awake, including the German occupiers.”
“You know your history. My family lived there,” she said. “That’s where I grew up. I was born long after World War Two, but your soldiers saved my mother and some other children. To be more precise, Coop saved my grandparents and my mother, who was just a frightened child. He was a twenty-five-year-old major in the Rangers, and they were advancing the day after Pointe du Hoc. My mother was eight and she was watching over our neighbor, Colette, who was six at the time. The Germans had rounded up the women and children while the men were on bucket brigade trying to put out the fire. I lost my grandfather in the battle, but thankfully my grandmother and mother survived.”
She continued driving past the church and pointed out the airborne museum, shaped like a deployed parachute. Given its pivotal role on D-Day and beyond, the town was a regular stop for tourists wanting to walk the battlefields of World War II. She slowed and turned on Le Vieux Chemin, then pulled into an asphalt driveway that cut through a fenced pasture and led to a large brick-and-stucco home with the same tan-and-brown trimmings around the rectangular windows and a steep, pitched roof. Cattle roamed aimlessly on either side of us as we approached. By the time we parked and I stepped out of the car, the galaxies swirled in the blackness above. With little ambient light, the resolution was stark. The north star was shining as if it were God’s lantern. The brisk wind swept from the ocean and tumbled over this peninsula that nearly eighty years before had been the stage upon which human history had been altered. Just standing here I could sense the tens of thousands of troops scratching up the cliffs, crawling through the beaches below, fighting from house to house, and quite literally saving freedom.
Evelyn came over and looped her arm through mine, pulling me with her through the side yard and up onto a slight rise where someone had built a gondola.
“If you listen closely, you can hear them,” Evelyn said.
The howling wind and crashing waves carried the faint echoes of the shouts and screams of the men on the beach. I felt Evelyn’s arms embrace me from behind.
“Come, let’s go inside,” she said. “You can see where I was born and meet some people.”
I had so completely let down my guard that I noticed for the first time two men carrying long rifles at the far corners of the property. I reached for my pistol, but Evelyn stopped me.
“Guards, Garrett,” she said. “I told you. We are safe. My brother is a very good man.”
“Speaking of which—”
“He and Philippe are safe. With our own capabilities, they saw two Phalanx squads in Bordeaux descending on the car lot where they took the motorcycle. Charles and Philippe picked up the dogs and are staying at another home for a few days. Such is life under Blanc.”
As we were walking back, I asked, “Is Charles married? Girlfriend? Kids?”
“No, on all accounts. He’s a lovely brother but nothing has stuck for him … or me, for that matter.”
My windbreaker flapped in a gust as we ascended the back deck of the home. Evelyn inserted a key into the door and walked in. We were in a kitchen, then a living room where two elderly women sat. They were wearing long floral dresses. Both had gray hair, though the one who looked like Evelyn had blond highlights. The room was fitted with a sofa and two oversized chairs. A guard was standing at the door, and he remained focused outward beyond the glassed-in storm door, which given the security, I imagined was bulletproof.
Both stood as soon as they saw Evelyn and began blurting French in rapid fire, coupled with hugs and kisses. Then they were upon me with hugs and more French quickly transitioning to English.
“Garrett, this is my mother, Marguerite.” She lowered her voice to speak in my ear. “She’s almost ninety and hasn’t lost a step,” Evelyn said, smiling. She walked toward the other woman and embraced her. “And this is Colette, her best friend and a second mother to me.”
“Oh, be quiet, child,” Marguerite said. “Let me see this big strong man.”
She placed her hands on me with a firm grip and assessed me as she might greet a future son-in-law.
“Mon Dieu,” she said. She looked at Colette, who was motionless. When Colette placed her trembling hand to her mouth, Marguerite let go of me and embraced her friend.
Evelyn stood next to me and said, “Now the hard part.”
The three women were looking from one to another, as if they were determining where to start.
“Hi Marguerite, I’m Garrett Sinclair,” I said, shaking her hand and trying to remove some of the awkwardness.
She said, “Je sais, je sais.” I know. I know.
“And Colette, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.
“Mon dieu, il sonne comme lui quand-même.” My God, he even sounds like him.
My basic understanding of French allowed me some interpretative skills that perhaps they didn’t know I had, but that didn’t mean I knew what they were talking about. To make sure they knew I had some language understanding I had used to good effect at the Eye of Africa, I said, “Comme qui?” Like who?
They were staring at one another now, clearly wanting someone else to talk first. As was her style, Evelyn took charge.
“Mama, Colette, let’s speak in English. While Garrett has some understanding of French, I prefer he not miss anything. It’s too important. And, where are your manners? We are all standing. Let’s sit down.”
We arranged some chairs facing the sofa with a mahogany coffee table separating Evelyn and me from Marguerite and Colette, who held hands in mutual support. Their eyes were, however, staring at the coffee table. They were looking at a stack of old-school photo albums. Then they looked up at me.
“Can I get anyone something to drink?” I asked. “I could use a glass of water.” I was flying blind here. They obviously had something they wanted to discuss with me but were having a hard time articulating it. I stood and walked into the kitchen. No one stopped me. I retrieved four bottles of water from the refrigerator and sat down, passing them around. My brief absence seemed to allow them to reorganize after the initial shock of meeting me. Evelyn took charge again.
“Garrett,” Evelyn began. “Remember I told you in the airplane that Colette and my mother were little girls when the paratroopers and Rangers came to Sainte-Mère-Église? About day three of the battle, the Germans were still holding women and children captive. The Eighty-Second Airborne Division was fighting hard but they were focused on blocking the German tanks from counterattacking onto the beachhead at Normandy just over the bluffs here.” She pointed toward the backyard, where we had been standing before entering the house.
“As the paratroopers’ mission carried them toward the tank units west of here, the Rangers that had scaled Pointe du Hoc came up the main road to assist. When the Germans felt the pressure from the paratroopers and the Rangers, they must have known their hours were numbered.”
Evelyn paused. She was looking me in the eyes with the most soulful expression I could imagine. The pain she was muting in my defense was obvious. I just had no idea what it was.
“So, the Germans, being the bastards that they were, set the home on fire where they had trapped all of the women and children. A group of men braved the fire to rescue who they could. Your grandfather was the first into the building and he began carrying two children at a time through the smoke and flames. He made four trips before it was untenable.”
Marguerite and Colette were openly sobbing now as Evelyn told what I presumed was their story. I recalled Coop’s diary and pieced it with what Evelyn had told me.
“He saved us,” Marguerite said through her tears. “He was the bravest man. A god to us. He almost died from the smoke. He saved fifteen children in four trips into the flames. He was badly burned. His comrades had done the same but not nearly as much as him. Many died, but more lived because of Garrett Sinclair. His story was in the museum.”
Was in the museum.
“I’m listening,” I said. So far, this was nothing but something I could be proud of, not an embarrassing tale that would besmirch Coop. I suspected there was more to the story, and I was right. I just didn’t realize at the time how bad it could be.
Colette finally found the courage to speak.
“We were so frightened, thinking that this was it. We were going to die as little girls. The Germans were going to kill us. They poured gas throughout the house. We were in the basement and the back bedrooms. Scattered everywhere. Garrett shot the two German guards who had lit the fire and were outside the house watching us burn. Then he came running through the flames and just started grabbing children and yelling at the mothers, ‘Run with me! Run with me!’ We were scared because our two options were being shot or burning alive with our mothers and friends. But, mon Dieu, I can still see Garrett come through the smoke and flames in slow motion. He grabbed me and Marguerite under his strong arms. Our mothers followed him out. He put us down on the edge of the forest, checked us briefly to make sure we were alive, then went back in. Other soldiers came to our side, but Garrett went back in, each time coming out with four or five children, their mothers following. Finally, he didn’t come out and we thought he had died. Other soldiers, the Rangers he commanded, went into the almost completely destroyed home and found him. I had gone back to the opening with Marguerite and saw the Rangers dragging him out. He was barely alive, coughing, but saying, ‘There’s more. Get them,’ to his men. But as soon as his men dragged him beyond the foyer of the house, it collapsed, killing another twelve of our friends.”
Marguerite and Colette both wiped tears from their eyes. The trauma they experienced as children was unimaginable. Colette opened a scrapbook and turned it to face me and Evelyn.
“The house before and after,” she said. Black-and-white photos showed a two-story farmhouse similar to the one in which we were sitting. It was in perfect condition with its tan stucco and dark beams and shutters, looking almost Bavarian. Brickwork was five feet high around the foundation and footings. The after picture showed smoking embers and a barren piece of land. A German artillery piece sat in the distance in what would have been the backyard. The view looked similar to where Evelyn and I had been standing, and I got the distinct impression that we were on the very same piece of property.
She flipped a page, and it showed young girls in stained T-shirts and jeans huddled with army blankets around them sitting in a cluster of trees, eyes wide, and faces streaked with black soot from the fire. Some were holding canteen cups with butterfly handles filled with dark liquid, probably the precious coffee that the troops gave up to the girls and mothers. The images were heartbreaking black-and-white stills of innocence lost amidst the carnage of war and evil. Yet, there was something reassuring about seeing these young faces peering up at the camera. They had endured, and, indeed, some had lived full lives filled with happiness and, to be sure, sadness and loss.
Coop had saved many of the children in the picture, risking his own life to do so. He had always avoided discussing his combat time other than high-level concepts like “it was tough … there’s no luck in living … the things I’ve seen.” For my grandfather, this was an era he wanted to forget but would always remember.
She flipped another page, and there he was on one knee handing a chocolate bar to the same group of kids, who were now smiling. How he found the energy to do that having nearly died himself, I would never know. Perhaps he needed the purity of children to wash away the sins of what carnage he had already delivered on the Germans, or maybe he was just happy to see them alive, the result of his bravery.
Colette placed her hand on the album as I was about to flip the next page. She looked at Marguerite and then Evelyn.
“Garrett,” Evelyn began. “This is where it gets difficult. You know as well as anyone the high regard in which the French on the Cotentin Peninsula hold the American soldiers, especially your grandfather. Every year many would come back for the reunions. These men here were all frequent returnees. We came to know many of them.” She paused for a moment. “Your grandfather came often.”
Evelyn nodded at Colette, who removed her hand from the scrapbook.
I flipped the page and there was a picture of Coop wearing his green-and-tan uniform with his combat infantryman’s badge for action in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. He had a gold star on his jump wings for a parachute assault with the Rakkasans in Korea. His chest was filled with medals that he had never shown me but that I knew he must have earned, including the Distinguished Service Cross. I had read about his exploits in history books and had stumbled across his diary after his funeral, but I had never seen these pictures of him.
The next page showed Coop when he was probably mid-fifties, thirty-plus years into his career. He was a three-star general in charge of the XVIIIth Airborne Corps, the nation’s rapid deployment force consisting of the rival Eighty-Second and 101st Airborne Divisions. Coop had served in both, and there was no better leader to command our elite forces. He was smiling with his crooked grin, which I personally didn’t see much, which made the photo a bit awkward. My memories were of a serious man, troubled by the losses of his men in combat. Or maybe I had just presumed that. He had never really told me.
Coop had his arm around a young woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She had wavy blond hair and a giant smile. Perfect straight teeth were visible in her open mouth, as if she was laughing. The nose really gave it away, though. It was a slender ski slope that added intrigue and beauty to a remarkable face, and it took me a moment to realize it was Colette.
I looked up and she nodded. I suddenly didn’t like where this was going.
“I loved him,” Colette said calmly. “He saved my life, and I got to know him every year when he would come for a week during the D-Day reunion. He was always respectful. It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties that it became romantic. I think it surprised him more than me. He was this larger-than-life character. He saved many of the people who still live here today. When we pray we call him ‘Saint Sinclair.’”
I nodded and swallowed as I turned the next page and saw the happy couple, holding a baby.
13
“YOU HAD A CHILD with my grandfather?” I asked.
Colette nodded, and I felt Evelyn’s hand on my back, but I didn’t want that. I didn’t want these people to destroy the image I had of my grandfather. Worse, it was entirely possible that they actually knew him better than I did. To me, he was an iconic figure. A World War II hero lauded by every general to come after him.
