The Confession by James E. McGreevey Read Free Book Online

assault tanks. Shortly thereafter, he and his squad were taken under a smashing mortar bombardment supplemented by raking machine-gun fire from strategically placed hostile weapons covering the mine field, with resulting casualties to all but two of his men. Aided by one of the two remaining Marines, Sergeant McGreevey evacuated all casualties who could be moved, and then returned to his task of removing mines. Working desperately, he consistently disregarded the blasting Japanese bombardment and, when the surviving members of his squad were killed by the merciless enemy gunfire, staunchly continued to probe and disarm the dangerous weapons alone. Although instantly killed by a shellburst as he cleared the last of the mines from the beach, SergeantMcGreevey had succeeded in fulfilling his vital mission despite the loss of his entire squad, and his unfailing skill, indomitable determination and valiant devotion to duty in the face of tremendous odds reflect the highest credit upon himself and the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life in the service of his country.
    Dad looked at me. “My mother and father come off the boat from Ireland. Nothing could have made them prouder than to lose a son this way, defending freedom for their adopted homeland. He is an American hero.”
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    IN THE SUMMER BETWEEN THIRD AND FOURTH GRADES, I BEGAN feeling more comfortable with my peers. A handful of pals and I spent countless hours riding our bikes through the woods around our homes, building a vast city of forts and make-believe hospitals. There was a marshy pond back there, brimming with wildlife, and before long we turned our attention to the business of catching frogs. We’d take them home and watch them hop around all afternoon (or longer, though we soon discovered their shelf life was very short back in our rooms).
    After a time, though, we lost interest in watching them hop—and for some inexplicable reason the boredom turned to cruelty. One hot day we brought our pet frogs down to the end of a block where we knew there was a surplus of tar left behind by the public works department. One of the boys had heard that if you put a frog in the tar, it would eventually dry up and then you could “pop” it by stepping on the dehydrated frog.
    It was stupid, cruel, and immature; my stomach still turns to think about it. We all took the frogs we had caught down to the “tar pits” and tossed them at the sticky trap. I can still see it now, watching the frogs jump once or twice before their webbed feet became stuck in the tar. Maybe they didn’t know fear; maybe it’s true that they don’t feel the gradual onslaught of pain. But I could see in their eyes, as these poor creatures baked in the hot summer sun, that they were reacting—that they wanted to get away. But the longer they stayed in one spot the deeper they sank.
    Later that day we returned to the scene of the crime, and my pals set about crushing the dead animals under their heels. I don’t think I joined in the stomping party, that day or thereafter. But I did spend many days that summer gathering up the poor things and flinging them to their death in the tar.
    Why do I include this story? To show that at some point in a boy’s childhood he may find himself in need of a wake-up call, a lesson to explain the value of life. For me this lesson came, indirectly and unexpectedly, through the Cub Scouts.
    I loved everything about the Scouts—wearing the uniform, reciting the Oath, gathering merit badges. The safety badge, the family life badge, the woodworking badge: each presented a discrete challenge, a defined path for achievement, and a recognized reward. These for me were like practicums for my father’s adage, Plan your work and work your plan. I also very consciously thought of them as credentials: If I work hard enough , I thought, I can become a Webelo, then a Boy Scout, and beyond.
    One day we learned