Prologue

 

February 2011

Royse City, Texas

 

            Countless people around the world, not to mention around the Dallas Metroplex, were talking about Superbowl XLV that had been played the day before in Arlington. It was the topic around business watercoolers and school classrooms alike. Even stay-at-home moms shared tweets and emails chatting about their favorite commercials. Ultimately, Packer fans basked in their team’s victory while Steelers fans experienced bitter disappointment.

            Even though Jim sometimes enjoyed football, and of course the commercials, he was thinking of something completely different and unrelated while driving home from work that day.

            Instead of watching football, he had spent his Sunday afternoon with family celebrating his youngest daughter Casey’s twenty-ninth birthday. He and his wife Jo Nell found much more happiness with loved ones surrounding the dinner table than in watching grown men throwing an inflated pigskin around a field.

            It was actually dinner Jim was thinking about; or rather, the leftovers he hoped to find in the refrigerator.

            Jo Nell was an excellent cook. Casey had requested chicken and dumplings, fresh spinach salad, and crescent rolls made from scratch, but it was dessert that was Jim’s goal. The peach cobbler made him salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs when his house finally came into view.

            As he turned into his driveway, he noticed the grass was finally showing signs of recovery after the winter’s uncharacteristic ice. He made a mental note that it would soon be time to fertilize.

            Leaving the engine running, he got out to check the mailbox. Since he usually beat Jo Nell home from work, this had been his job, which he had performed faithfully and lovingly for years.

            Expecting to see nothing but bills and advertisements, he scanned the various letters until his eyes came across something he couldn’t immediately identify.

            “Who would be writing me from Mauritius? Where the heck is Mauritius, anyway?” he said to himself.

            The sender was someone named Phillipe Mourand. He lowered the hand holding the mail and looked down the street trying to remember if the name was familiar.

            There was a good chance it was junk mail. Jim frequently got mail that looked different on the outside than the advertisement on the inside.

            He got back in his car and pulled it forward into the garage. Still not recollecting the sender’s name he was tempted to drop the letter into an open garbage can but took it inside with the rest of the mail. Something prompted him to keep it.

            Even though he intended to put the mail aside and go to the kitchen, his curiosity got the better of him. He sat down in his living room recliner and opened the envelope—his stomach growling in protest.

            Opening the folded pages revealed a black and white photograph he’d never seen before. He sat the picture on the table next to him and began to read the enclosed letter.

 

 

 

 

James W Mellody

2071 Oak Ave.

Royse City, Texas

United States

 

January 3, 2011

 

Dear James

 

My name is Philippe Mourand. I am French, and I currently live in Mauritius in the Indian Ocean.

 

My aunt recently forwarded me the fascinating photo herewith attached; the photo was taken during WWII in Élisabethville, Aubergenville, twenty-five miles west of Paris. You can see six German soldiers with an American POW that they just arrested. Facing the soldiers, a French civilian makes a military salute to cheer up the POW and tease the German soldiers: Robert Mourand, my grandfather.

 

The POW landed in a tree near Aubergenville-Élisabethville railway station and was immediately arrested by the Germans.

 

I am currently doing some historical research in order to identify the POW, get in touch with him and his family, and forward them a copy of this photo. The evidence I have gathered so far indicates that the photo was probably taken on June 24, 1944, shortly after the successful bombing of the railway bridge between Sartrouville and Maison-Laffitte.

 

During the mission, two B26 bombers crashed in the Paris area. Thirteen American airmen bailed out. ten were made prisoner. and three managed to avoid being captured. Sgt. James Weldon Mellody is among the ten that were made prisoner and there is therefore a slight possibility he could be the man on the photo. The MACR (Missing Aircraft Report) filed in the USAF archive indicates that he is from Royse City. I found your address in the phone book and thought you could be related to Sgt. Mellody. I apologize if this letter reached you in error.

 

I would be very happy if you could email me back so that we can further discuss this fascinating subject.

 

I will be looking forward to hearing from you.

 

I wish you all the best for 2011.

 

Best regards,

 

Philippe

 

 

 

            Stunned, Jim picked up the old photograph and studied it for a long moment. Was it really possible the man being marched through the city was his father?

            He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear Jo Nell’s arrival home and her calling him from the garage door.

            “Jim, can you help me with these groceries?”

            She could see her husband sitting in his chair and became a little concerned when he didn’t respond or even acknowledge her.

            She tried again. “Jim, can you help me please?”

            Again, there wasn’t any response from her husband. She became very concerned.

            She assumed something was wrong and quickly closed the gap between them. She noticed a letter in one hand and an old black and white photograph in the other.

            This time, standing right above him, she tried again.

            “Jim, is there something wrong honey?”

            The stress in her voice was enough to bring his mind back to the present. He looked up at her but didn’t know what to say.

            Finally, he managed, “Nothing is wrong. Either someone is playing a joke on me or I’ve just been given the surprise of my life. Do you think this looks like my dad?”

            She took the picture from his hand and worriedly looked at Jim’s face before glancing at it. After just a few seconds of studying the photograph, she commented, “That is Weldon. You can tell by how tall he is compared to those around him, and those ears are definitely his. Where did this picture come from?”

            He handed her the letter and watched her face as she read it. She finished it and looked at Jim again for a moment before re-reading it.

            He noticed her eyes become moist and realized he was feeling emotional himself.

            “Jim,” she said. “This is incredible! Your father never talked much about the war and now, years after he’s gone, you can find out what happened to him yourself. Maybe this is a chance to fill in some of the gaps.”

            Jim nodded. He knew his dad had been shot down over France, and that he’d been a POW for almost a year, but not much more than that.

            The old photograph whispered to his spirit. He suddenly felt closer to his father than he had in years.

            The peach cobbler wasn’t thought about again that night and Jo Nell found her groceries in the car the next morning before she left for work.