Dan Chabot

...The man at the pulpit eulogizing Victor Majeski looked down at the family in the first pews.

“Call it coincidence that I wound up here today, or call it fate, but I am going to tell you a story that you probably have not heard before. I did not see any mention of it on the easels out front. None of the previous speakers referred to it. You might not believe it. But I assure you that every word of it is true.”

He looked again at the family, took off his glasses, and spoke directly to them.

Fred Landau began a hair-raising story about a night in France in 1944 when he and Virgil hunkered down with the rest of their squad in an abandoned farmhouse as a firefight raged around them.

“Suddenly, a hand grenade rolled through the open doorway. As you all probably know, Virgil was an outstanding third baseman in his day. He reacted instantly, pouncing on that grenade like a Brooks Robinson in fatigues, bagging it like a hot grounder and in the same motion firing it back out through the door so fast that it exploded thirty feet away.”

Velma Majeski and her children sat up a little straighter. Landau was right; they had never heard this story. Victor and Vernon looked at each other with arched eyebrows.

Landau had everybody’s attention. There was more to come from this stranger who knew more about Virgil than they did.

“Virgil and I also were together in a little town in France later in 1944. The Allied invasion was driving the Nazis back toward Germany, but they were leaving a trail of destruction and vengeance and retribution behind.

“In this little town they had executed the mayor and the local priest, among others, in reprisal for a sabotage campaign by the local French Resistance. A huge Nazi flag had flown atop city hall, replacing the French tricolor. Before they fled, the Nazis, in a last insult to the villagers, had destroyed every French flag they could find.

“This was the situation we encountered when we liberated the little village on the heels of the fleeing Germans. Virgil had taken command of our platoon after our lieutenant was killed. The first thing he did was order that the Nazi flag be hauled down and burned in the public square. Then he ran up the Stars and Stripes instead, and the cheers from the villagers probably could be heard all the way to Paris.

“But he knew that didn’t look quite right either. ‘Find me a French flag,’ he said to a corporal. But there were no French flags, of course. So Virgil ordered all of us to scour the town and countryside for donations of blue, white and red fabric.

“Well, our guys brought in table cloths, sheets, dresses, draperies, blankets, even undergarments. A grandmother cheerfully and tearfully handed us the curtains from her kitchen windows. One obliging French patriot, a man in his eighties, stepped enthusiastically out of his red flannels when we told him about our mission, and handed them over with a salute and tears in his eyes.”

The people in the pews laughed nervously, acutely aware that “laughing mourners” was an uncomfortable oxymoron. But even Velma and her children had to smile at Landau’s engaging and vivid depiction.

“Virgil found a local seamstress, who worked for days to fashion a huge French flag out of all this material. She was so proficient that even the trap door flap in that pair of red flannel drawers was sealed shut with invisible stitches.

“At one point, surveying the mountain of cloth that our guys had brought in, she protested in halting English, ‘There is too much material here.’ Virgil told her to use it all.

“When it was finished, he summoned all of the townspeople to the village square, where an accordionist and a violinist stood by to participate in an elaborate ceremony. As they struck up the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise,” Virgil ordered Old Glory be taken down and that enormous, home-made, blue, white and red tricolor hung instead. You can imagine the scene as ten of our guys, working from the roof, unfurled that giant banner so it draped the facade of city hall.

“Well, you probably could hear the cheers and the cries on the other side of the Alps. The villagers weren’t actually singing the words to the anthem, in their rapture and joy they were shouting them. The church bell pealed so loudly and so long that it came loose from its moorings and crashed to the floor of the belfry. Men and women and children were sobbing. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place, and that included our entire platoon. Bottles of wine appeared from secret hiding places. The musicians struck up a frenzied pace and the townsfolk danced in the street, in and out of buildings and taverns around the square, even into and out of the church. And the girls!  Oh, my, the girls!  At one point I looked at Virgil and his face was bright red. I thought he was just embarrassed at all the attention. I looked closer and his face was covered with lipstick kisses. The party went on for three days.”

Landau paused and smiled wistfully.

“We sure hated to leave that place,” he said quietly, lost for a moment in thoughtful reverie.

There wasn’t a sound in the church. The nervous coughing had stopped. Mourners looked at each other in amazement. This was the quiet, unassuming Virgil Majeski that they knew as a neighbor and friend all these years?

Landau answered their universal, unspoken question. “You might not have heard these stories because like most veterans, Virgil no doubt was not eager to talk about his combat experiences. Even back then, Virgil was quite modest about his exploits, and I’m sure that was true throughout his life. His actions in France deserved a medal, but sometimes these things get lost or overlooked in the confusion and commotion of war.”

Victor and Vernon looked knowingly at each other. Despite their constant prodding, especially as children, their dad would not say much about his wartime experiences.

The mood in the church was electric. The atmosphere had changed from one of somber acceptance, depression and regret. Now there was an air of upbeat optimism and pride. Velma Majeski and Virginia wept softly through faint smiles. Victor and Vernon beamed proudly through their own tears. Both were sitting straighter, chests farther forward.

“This man was a true American hero,” Landau continued. “He embodied the best of what his country stands for. He was admired and esteemed by his comrades, he was a leader, he was humble, he was a patriot.  Godspeed, Virgil."

The Majeskis looked for Landau when the service concluded, but he was gone...