—He drove back to the same SS captain on the Hamburg Highway near Spandau and got back out.
—Oh man, the poor son-of-a-bitch must have been shittin’ bricks.
—He went through Nauen, then swung northeast back toward Peenemunde. He wasn’t stopped once. Not even when he got to Wolgast.
The younger man’s face was more animated then it had been all night —She was there? His Katrina Mueller?
—She was there. Waiting for him.
—But what about the Gestapo?
—They believed her. She had an unblemished record. She had lost a brother on the Russian front. They just believed her.
—Man, oh … man, the younger man said, thinking about it. —But then what? They made it to the submarine?
—Her father arranged a boat for them.
—They came back to the States?
The older man nodded. They had reached his apartment in a rundown area of student housing. He had been here for a couple of years now. Trying to find himself, he supposed. Without much luck. Trying to live up to … what?
—Come on, he said, and he helped the younger man up the steps.
—No, wait a minute now.
—It’s all right. I want to show you something.
—I want to know about Deland and Katrina. They came back to the States. Did they get married?
—They got married, the older man said. They were in the corridor, and they continued up to the second floor and into the older man’s apartment. He turned on the lights.
—Jesus, the younger man said in awe.
There were a lot of photographs and maps pinned on the walls.
There were books and articles clipped from magazines lying everywhere. All of it the product of years of research by the older man.
For a long time both men were silent, each with his own thoughts, his own impressions of the moment.
Finally the older man went to the desk, picked up two small, polished wooden boxes and brought them back to the younger man.
He opened the first. It contained a Nazi Iron Cross. In gold.
The younger man’s eyes went wide.
—Colonel Dieter Schey’s award, the older man said.
The younger man’s eyes went to the other box. The older man opened it.
—Major Robert David Deland’s Congressional Medal of Honor.
—For service behind enemy lines, The older man could feel tears filling his eyes. His stomach ached, and his throat constricted. —For going back and killing … —Your father. You’re Robert Mordley, Junior.
The older man couldn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded.
—But then, how the fuck did you get Deland’s medal … the younger man began, but then another stunning revelation hit him. —Fucking far out, man, he said in awe.
The older man turned away. He had made the other man understand, hadn’t he? At last?
—You’re adopted. Your name now is Deland. Deland and Katrina were married, and they adopted you.
Deland nodded.
The younger man stepped farther into the room so that he could better see the maps and photos and other products of Deland’s research.
—And you were just told?
—A couple of years ago, Deland said.
The younger man was shaking his head. —You poor bastard.
Two fathers, both heroes, and one kills the other. And you think you understand now, about heroes? You think you’ve got it pegged?
Strangely, the younger man no longer seemed as stoned as before..He looked again at the two medals Deland held in his hands.
—Shit, you don’t understand a fuckin’ thing, my man. I suspect that if you go home to your father, he might be able to explain it to you, if you’ll listen. He gave you the medals. He must have already tried to make you understand.
The younger man waved his arm around at the things in the room.
—You sure as fuck won’t understand it from this shit.
—Better than you will ever understand.
The younger man laughed derisively. —You think it’s some kind of romantic bullshit? Tragic, and all that crap? He opened his coat and reached up under his sweater.
Deland watched him, and he knew now why the younger man seemed so familiar to him. He understood now what it was about the younger man that was so recognizable to him. He had studied heroes for so long he should have recognized it right off the bat.
—Pleiku, the younger man said, tossing his Medal of Honor across to Deland.
They were heroes all … men true to their ideals, right or wrong; men true to their countries and to their medals.
What waste, their lives in war!
