Chapter 4 Normandy

Thomas and I were at the bar. We nearly get into the fight, and then the three of us have seats and a beer like we were all old friends. Thomas can do that sometimes, make friends with anyone. Don’t let his cocky, don’t give a shit, and joking attitude fool you. He is “game on” instantly when he needs to be and is every bit as deadly. His natural talent is in the water. Why he avoided talking about that little tidbit when he runs his mouth about everything else is beyond me. He was a high school all-state swim champion in the 100-meter freestyle and butterfly and an Olympic qualifier. I watched him hold his breath underwater for fifteen minutes once. He can do any activity that involves water to a high degree, surf, snorkel, fish, anything. After he passed his bar, he enlisted in the Navy to try out for the SEALS. His underwater combat ability is unmatched by anyone anywhere, including myself. He can slip behind someone and take them out, armed or unarmed. He taught me a lot about swimming and water survival. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have made it through BUDS if we hadn’t been in the circus together. My large physique doesn’t lend itself to be a world-class swimmer, so he did what he could. Now, I’m an excellent swimmer like any SEAL, but my natural talent is outside the water.

Women gravitate to him like a duck to water. His looks and his ever-present smile only match his outgoing charismatic personality. Several women have told me he looks like a Tommy Hilfiger model. Whatever the hell that means, I don’t know. What’s ironic is he HATES being referred to as Tom or Tommy. Unless a particular woman enamors him, I usually let them figure that out on their own. Call him Thomas, nothing else. A woman will typically be corrected once. If it happens twice, she’s gone. He won’t be rude, but he will be firm about his position. The problem stems from some cousins who used to torment him as a kid. We all have baggage. He isn’t an exception.

Back to topic, giving a pounding to a guy mourning a fallen brother didn’t call for a bar fight. I envy that aspect of Thomas’s personality. I just can’t bring myself to be as outgoing. Going out with him can be frustrating because we always attract women. His exuberant personality is a magnet. However, when they invariably turn to me, I am, as he would say, “too intense.” This has, on more than one occasion, created a premature end to the night. I don’t mind being his wingman. However, it makes a problem for me when I try to talk to the friend of the woman he is trying to hook up with and not wanting to have sex. As a result, I claim to be married a lot, and he’s gotten better at juggling more than one woman. You would think this might be inconsiderate on his part. I don’t see it that way, and I’ve slowly convinced him of my sincerity. I didn’t have real friends growing up. The few friends I possess give me a reason to go to great lengths. If I were sitting there mourning the loss of Thomas, I would want to fight too.

Putting that into perspective, we sat there while we swapped stories. It required truly little input on my part.

That’s when I felt a little different. It wasn’t the alcohol precisely. It was more like earlier in the dream, but it faded in a few moments.

My attention was drawn to an older man sitting with his family at a booth nearby. There was a sign celebrating his 100^th birthday. A few of the servers sang Happy Birthday. He had a giant smile, and I heard one of his grandkids mention he was in the Navy. I couldn’t help it. I yelled “Go Navy” and whistled with applause. His gaze turned to mine, and we locked eyes. He stared at me unabashedly. A few of his kids noticed his reaction and turned to see where he was looking. I felt a little awkward like I had just interrupted a private moment. I held up my hand to wave an apology when he stood up with his cane and made his way over to me. He didn’t take his eyes off mine the whole time.

One of his, I assume, grandsons stood to help the older man. He looked at me like he saw a ghost. Arriving at me in a few moments, he held out his hand to me. “Dear God, it’s you. How are you here?”

“Pardon me, sir, have we met?” I shifted my tone to something more respectful. I also tried not to keep his direct eye contact. It was clear he wasn’t threatening, but I wasn’t sure what was happening. His grandson was equally uncomfortable and tried to get him to retake his seat.

He looked shocked by my statement, and he was clearly at a loss what to say for a few moments. Finally, he just said. “You look EXACTLY like him.”

“Who do you think I am, sir?” I stood to greet the man properly.

“Petty Officer James Banner,” He answered, looking up at me.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir. My name is Isiah Daniel Banner. I was enlisted in the Navy but only recently got out. The individual you are referring to, I believe, is my great grandfather.”

“Your great grandfather?” He looked skeptical. “May I trouble you for a request?”

“Of course,” I answered simply.

“Will you show me your left shoulder? He was shot in the left shoulder.”

“May I ask your name before I do?”

“I’m sorry, it’s Lester Meyers” he looked a little chagrined.

I unbuttoned my shirt halfway. I pulled my shirt to my left, exposing my shoulder. I unintentionally revealed the SEAL Budweiser crest tattooed on my chest. The tattoo and lack of scar didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“You’re a Navy SEAL,” he said more like a statement.

“Yes, sir, I am.” Instinctively, I didn’t feel the need to hide it from this man.

“What do you know about your great grandfather’s military service?” he inquired, still looking at me intensely.

“Not much, sir. He was in the Navy during World War 2. He came home, then married a woman he met after the war. Had a son with her, and so on down to me.”

“Will you stop calling me, sir?” he looked annoyed by his grandson trying to pull him back to the table. Finally, the older man swatted at him to leave him alone.

“No sir, I won’t,” I responded. The frail older man’s vigor amused me.

“May I sit with you and tell you a story?” he asked.

“Of course! Take my seat, sir.”

“Now you’re just annoying.” looking sharply at me.

I relented by nodding with a chuckle, and he accepted my seat.

“I’m sitting here today because of your great grandfather. Lieutenant Commander Kaufmann, the Father of Naval Combat Demolition, put together a group of special individuals during World War 2 to eliminate obstacles on enemy-held beaches before an amphibious invasion. We were called Navy Combat Demolition Units or sometimes called a frogman. Your grandfather and I were one of 34 individuals trained by LCDR Kaufmann. We realized there was a big problem with amphibious landings in the World War if we didn’t reconnoiter the area properly. The allies spent quite a bit of time and money analyzing amphibious landings. The Germans during the second war lined the beach, surf, and beyond with explosive nasties making landings problematic. Kaufmann went to the Seabees, the Naval construction crew, Marines, and Army civil engineers. He put them through a one-week grueling physical fitness test. It would later become the very first Hell week, as you call it. Your great grandfather was exceptionally good with a rifle and was a Seabee carpenter. I was a machinist mate. The unit to which we belonged was given the title NCDU 45. Three others, along with some jackass Ensign Karnowski, were all assigned as a unit. I can’t describe what happened all those weeks in Normandy other than pure hell. Your father had the sense to keep us alive with his amazing shooting, quick speed, and a natural sense for the weakness of our obstacles. He took a bullet to the shoulder for his trouble. When all was done, the Ensign received the Navy Cross and the French Croix de Guerre. I received a silver star, and your great grandfather got nothing. He didn’t care about medals, he was too preoccupied with this French woman, and nothing could dissuade him from marrying her as soon as he could. It was sad because he lived through Normandy and Utah beach only to have his beloved gunned down in the street in front of him. For all his sacrifice, he deserved some happiness. He tracked down the gunman, who was part of some local gang. He killed them brutally, I heard. I’m guessing he brought home some of the German’s methods of torture. That was the last I ever heard of him until now. You’re telling me he did eventually marry and have a son. Good for him. Here you are, in the flesh. You can be his damned twin, and the legacy of Navy Special Warfare lives in your blood.” He looked lost in thought. He was reflecting on the details of Normandy, which he was avoiding saying aloud.

Some of the story he told me I already knew but wasn’t going to interrupt. He looked at me intently, and for a moment, I could see the fire of the man’s youth and his bravery on the battlefield. The man lived a long life, and a long-lost relative of mine was the reason. I felt a fantastic sense of pride at that moment and opened my hand in an unmistakable gesture to shake hands. Instead, he leaned in to hug me. When I let him hug me, things around me changed in an instant.

Paris 1943 Petty Officer James Banner

We were trying to meet up with French resistance before the invasion of Normandy. We have been practicing on the beaches in England before our Paris arrival. The codename given to the Invasion was Overlord, and the French resistance was instrumental in getting Allied soldiers back to their units. On this occasion, they were going to lead us to a staging area before the invasion. We would clear the beach and surf so the rest of the amphibious assault could arrive unmolested by mines. There were five of us. Ensign Karnowski was our “fearless” leader. I say that with obvious sarcasm because he barely held it together during practice. He was physically fit and intelligent, but unfortunately, it didn’t serve him under pressure. His engineering background gave him some fascinating insight into what might happen during the assault. Machinist Mate Lester Meyers always had his head on straight and knew what to do at any time. The rest of the men scoffed at Karnowski behind his back but followed him as ordered. Meyers was also the only one who could speak French fluently, so he was to act as our translator if the resistance didn’t have one.

Paris suffered under German occupation, and getting around required special knowledge of the city itself. Therefore, we didn’t enter Paris. Instead, we were on the city’s outskirts in residence given to us by our briefing. We were to wait there until someone arrived from the resistance.

We waited a full day until we finally heard a knock at the door. Meyers went to the door to greet and relay the codewords. When satisfied, he returned with three women and a man. In the event we were stopped, we were to pretend to be close friends. Karnowski was supposed to be an Italian sculptor, and we were the construction crew. The women paired off with us pretending to be our escorts while in town. We only hoped no one noticed we all carried a Colt M1911, a standard American sidearm.

“Bonjour,” came a sweet feminine voice from behind me. I turned to see a beautiful blonde French woman in a long floral dress and a wide French-style hat adorned with feathers and flowers. I was speechless for a long moment when we made eye contact. Her eyes widened slightly, and her brilliant smile lit up even more, if possible.

“Um, bonjour,” I replied feebly in an American accent. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”

Her tinkling laugh and hand on my arm sent tingles everywhere it shouldn’t. “That’s quite ok, monsieur. My English is quite good. I am Yvonne.” Her accent was heavy, but I understood her well enough. Her flowery French accent I found immensely charming. Her words flowed into one another with little space in between, creating a nearly musical sound. She periodically intoned some words in a higher pitch than the rest, sometimes making some statements sound like a question. Even if she said nothing at all, I would find her to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes upon. Her thick platinum blonde hair was styled to accommodate her hat. Her dress, although conservative, did little cover-up that she was very curvy where it counted. I was dumbstruck again and said nothing for a few moments.

One of the other French women noticed my reaction and whispered to her in French. Yvonne turned a little red, and while the other woman giggled, Yvonne gently chastised her.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, where are my manners. My name is James Banner.”

For her part, she seemed to be staring at me too. Her smile lifted me to emotional places I’d never considered before then. It wasn’t lost on the others; we walked along arm in arm, oblivious to everyone else shortly after we left.

When we got to the safehouse, it didn’t end there. We sat together while Yvonne told me stories of French culture, and I relayed my American culture in return. She was particularly enchanted with the music of Frank Sinatra.

“Will you teach me to shoot?” she asked at the safehouse.

I showed the stance for her first before I removed the magazine and emptied the chamber of my Colt. Placing it in her hands, I stood behind her with my hands on her elbows, guiding her extended arms to help her aim, then her hand to demonstrate squeezing the trigger. The closeness of the position wasn’t lost on either of us. It was the first close contact since we met. Her arm relaxed a little, and her head tilted back toward me. She looked up into my eyes. “I’m afraid I’m going to need many more lessons.” She looked said, looking at my lips.

“As many as you like,” I responded, then leaned down to greet her lips with mine.

If her smile had a lifting effect, I wasn’t at all prepared for the impact of her full lips to touch mine for the first time. We lost track of everything around us. The immediate danger, the war, the Germans all went away for those few moments of unbelievable bliss with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Something inside me changed at that moment. I couldn’t say what it was, but I felt it. An awareness of her soul wanting to merge with mine and mine with hers. A deep longing for a woman I’ve only met for less than 24 hours.

When our lips parted, we stood there looking at each other. Yvonne’s emotional vulnerability is just as apparent. Tucking the weapon away, she said to me. “You know, I was always under the impression Americans had no idea how to use their mouth properly.”

“You kiss many Americans?” I say teasingly

“Oh, the things you say! Certainly not!” she slapped my chest, and I could see her fiery personality. She said, I assumed, a few unflattering things to me in French before she curled into me again face to face.

She looked at me seriously a moment, then looked away.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. Sadly, she responded, “It’s not fair you leave so soon. Worse is, you will be in terrible danger. I find someone like you and turns out to be temporaire.”

“It doesn’t need to be temporary.” I countered, assuming the French translation.

“How? You cannot stay in Paris as a deserter.” She admonished.

“No, my obligation is only for another year. After that, we can be together permanently.”

“Do you think me a silly girl for falling in love so quickly? She asked, looking at me with a little vulnerability. “Such things are not done this way. A lot can happen in a year.”

“No sillier than I am. Yvonne.” When I said that, she looked at me a little sheepish. “What’s wrong?” I ask, concerned.

“Yvonne isn’t my real name. It’s only used in case we were stopped and needed to show papers.”

“What’s your real name?” I ask

“Laure,” she pronounced, making it sound like Laurie and tilting the pitch up at the end of her name.

“Are you upset with me?” she asked a little timidly, to which I replied quickly, “No, I understand why you did.” She looked relieved.

“Are you serious about being together when you get out? My heart cannot take it if you are careless with me.” In response, I lifted my hand to her cheek. “What does your heart tell you about me?” She tilted her head to lean against my palm and looked into my eyes, trying to read me. She came to her conclusion because she leaned up for another kiss.