Finally Coming Home

Monday, I hated that day. Especially, a snowy, freezing, miserable December day in Michigan. As I made my way to our break room, I heard the usual. “Morning LT, Morning Lieutenant Flynn, nice day, isn’t it LT?” My people loved to aggravate me. All of them knew until I had my first cup of coffee, I hated to talk. I went into our breakroom, grabbed a coffee mug, and poured a cup of the Elixir of the Gods. Just as I took my first sip, Detective Ellen Johnson interrupted me.

“Lieutenant, this letter came in the mail addressed to you. The postmark is Leipzig, Germany.” As she handed it to me. I saw the sender was Klaus Neumann in Leipzig.

“Thank you, Ellen.”

I started towards my office, with Ellen right behind me. I sat behind my desk and shook my head when I saw the stack of reports I needed to review. Ellen just stood there. “Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

“Yes, but right now I have cases to assign, and if you don’t get back to work, I have a few I can assign to you.” By the time I said you, Ellen was gone.

I picked up the envelope and felt it. It was thick, so I knew there had to be several pages inside. Setting it aside, I began going through the reports. Before I even thought about opening the mystery letter. I had three homicide reports to read and then meet with the detectives handling them to see where they were at with each case.

As the Detective Lieutenant of Detroit PD’s ninth precinct homicide division, I had little free time. We had the second-highest homicide rate in the city. Over eighty percent were drug related.

As I finished with the last report, I picked up the envelope. Just then, my phone rang. It was our dispatch calling to tell me there was a homicide at the Greenwood apartments at Seven Mile and Gratiot. Someone had stabbed the victim to death in a back alley. I told them what detectives would be on the way there along with me.

When I arrived, my guys were already on the scene. A witness told them a junkie owed his dealer. When the dealer went to collect, the junkie stabbed him and took off on foot. Uniform officers acting on the witness description of the suspect had already picked him up in a back alley off Seven Mile and Chatham. Since my guys had everything under control. I spoke to the media that had shown up and then headed home.

As soon as I walked in the side door, I was almost knocked over by my boys. All I could understand from their excitement was I had a package from Germany. I made my way to the kitchen. There was my wife, Denise. With the look of sheer frustration on her face.

“Thank God you are home. The boys are driving me nuts over the package. The lady that owns your mom’s old house stopped Brendan on his way home from school and gave it to him. They addressed it to your mother and is from Germany. I left it for you on the front coffee table.”

I walked into the living room and looked at the package. The sender was the same as the letter. I had totally forgotten about the envelope. I pulled it out from my inside suit coat pocket.

Before, I opened either. I started thinking. Leipzig, Germany? Then it came to me. Leipzig had been the bombing target my father was flying towards when his B-17 bomber was shot down over a town called Zeitz.

Dad was the pilot of a B-17 bomber. German flak hit his plane and caused it to crash. At the end of the war, they found the wreckage. They recovered eight bodies. However, my father’s remains were never found.

My mother never remarried and spent the rest of her life praying my father would come home. My grandparents, like my mother, held out hope he would return. Sadly, they died never knowing what happened to him.

As I thought about my father, I cried. I was only two when he died in 1944. I had a few photographs. All I knew about him was what my mother and grandparents told me.

I tore open the envelope with my family standing next to me. Inside was a letter, and a badly faded picture of my mother. Written on the back was, “To Jack with all my love. Yours forever Dolores.” I handed the picture to Denise, and I read the letter.

The handwriting in the letter was shaky, almost impossible to read. It was from Klaus Neumann. He had been assigned to a Flak crew near Zeitz Germany on November 30, 1944. They saw a B-17 crash close to them. He and several others went to the crash site and found nine dead Americans.

German orders at the time were to leave the bodies. Klaus noticed the pilot was wearing a blue beaded wristband that had the name John Flynn–Boy. Being a new father himself. He risked disobeying orders and, with the help of his buddies, brought the pilot to the Catholic cemetery a kilometer away. They put the body in an open grave for the unknown and covered it. Klaus had taken a few belongings from the flier and put them into a knapsack. He gave it to the parish priest so after the war, the flier could be returned to his family. Unfortunately, the priest had been killed. He left the knapsack hidden in the rectory attic. That was until last month when it was found.

I cried as I read further. My tears soaking the paper.

Thankfully, the priest had written Klaus’s name and address on a paper and put it into the pack. The parish secretary located Klaus and returned the long-forgotten bag to him.

Klaus wrote that his son, Franz, was a police captain in Leipzig, along with his phone number. Franz would help him find his father.

As I finished reading the last word, my tears turned into uncontrollable sobbing. Denise put her arms around me. I wiped my eyes and looked at the package lying on the table. It was the size of a telephone book, wrapped with brown paper. It was dirty and torn in places from shipping.

The boys stood there staring, expressionless, as I tore apart the paper. The box was a faded white, almost a yellow. It smelled of mildew.

I sat for a moment clutching it, afraid to see what was inside. I knew my father was dead, but somehow, like my mother, I hung on to the dream that he was still alive. Herr Neumann’s letter ended that dream.

Denise whispered into my ear. “Sweetie, you need to open it.”

I lifted the top off and pulled back tissue paper. The first thing I saw was the powder-blue baby bracelet that my father wore that November day. As I lifted it up closer to my tear-filled eyes, I read John Flynn–Boy.

I gripped it in my hands as the tears flowed down my cheeks. I handed it to Denise and looked inside the box. There were my father’s gold captain’s bars, his wallet, one dog tag, and the shoulder patch of the Eighth Air Force.

I handed everything over to Denise and the boys except the black leather wallet. I sat back in my chair and slowly opened it.

The first thing I saw was his military identification card. Right behind were pictures of my mother and one of me being held by my mother. I laughed when I saw the last picture. It was my mother standing outside of their house, holding up a rolling pin. On the back, she had written. “Jack don’t even think of any other woman. Love Dolores.”

Just as I was feeling better. In the billfold, I found a folded yellowish piece of writing paper in between some dollar bills. I unfolded the small piece of paper. Written on it were these words. “To my Dolores and John. We cannot choose when it is our time, only God knows when. If my time comes. I want you to know I love you both. I will never leave your sides. Just think of me and I will be there.”

I collapsed back into my chair, crying so hard and sobbing that it hurt. Denise put her arms around me. “John, what is it?”

I handed her the paper. She started crying as she read the words.

I finally could stand up. I looked at my boys and Denise. “My dad will come home.”

The next morning as I headed into the office. I made a stop at the Holy Redeemer cemetery to visit my mother. There, on the headstone inscribed, was my mother’s birth and death dates. Next to her was my father’s name, with his death date left blank. I spoke to my mother. “My wondering is over; I know dad died. You two are together in heaven. We can finally finish your stone.” I stood there in the bitter cold of December, thinking what a wonderful Christmas this might be, knowing we found my father.

I said my goodbyes and drove to my precinct with only one thought. Calling Franz Neumann. As soon as I walked into the squad room, I headed directly to my office. I dialed his number. When he answered, he said he had been waiting for my call. He had already begun the paperwork necessary to open a grave. I gave him all the information I had about my father. He would personally supervise the recovery of my father’s remains. With any luck, we should know by Christmas.

The next several days were a blur. We had three more homicides to investigate. Although I only supervised the detectives, I still was actively involved. However, in the back of my mind was Germany. I took Christmas Eve and Christmas day off just in case I heard from Franz Neumann. Try as hard as I could not to think about Franz’s call, I could not.

Finally, about noon on Christmas day, our home phone rang. My heart sunk as I reached for the handle. I lifted it and said “Hello.”

“John, this is Franz Neumann.”

I froze when I heard his voice.

“Merry Christmas John, we have him. The information you provided, and his military records, verified the identity. Plus, he still had on one dog tag. Congratulations, I will help work through the US Army Office of Graves and Registration to get your father brought home.”

I could not thank him enough for finding my father. I asked how his dad was doing. There was a pause, and he said: “My father passed away this morning, but not before I could tell him the good news. John, I think he only lasted this long to make sure they found your father.”

I told him I was sorry about his father’s passing.

“John, think of this. My father is with your father now. No longer enemies, they are friends.”

We said our goodbyes and hung up.

Denise and the boys were all standing around me. I hugged them all and said, “My father is coming home. Denise, I need to go see mom.”

She smiled and gave me a kiss. “Go tell mom the good news.”

The rest of the winter went by fast, and soon spring had arrived. On the way to the office, I stopped by the cemetery. What a beautiful spring day it was! As I stood looking at their headstone, the sun seemed to make it sparkle. There finally etched below my father’s name, Died: November 30, 1944.

The tears I once shed were gone, replaced with happiness knowing my father was home with his family.