The banner stretched across the living room read “Bon Voyage Josh.” Below the banner a large punch bowl and assorted snacks adorned a long table covered with a white linen table cloth.

In the living room Josh, his mother, Vinny and his parents, Bridget, and a handful of other friends and relatives were drinking, snacking and chatting as Artie Shaw’s soaring clarinet played on the phonograph in the corner.

Everyone was well dressed except Josh. He wore jeans, a red long-sleeved flannel shirt, and sneakers. He and Bridget were in conversation.

“There’s still time to change your mind Josh.”

“What, and spoil my own party?”

“This is serious. I won’t sleep a wink until you come back.”

“You’ll be awful tired.”

“I’ll be exhausted, and it’ll be your fault.”

“I’ll be writing letters.”

She sharpened her tone. “Josh, you don’t have to join this war to prove something, to me or to your dad.”

“My dad? What makes you think I’m doing this to prove something to my dad?”

“Doesn’t every boy want to be as good or better than his father at some point in his life?”

“Maybe so, but I’m doing this for myself, for the country. If I wanted to be like my father I’d be joining the infantry. I’d be a foot soldier, carrying a rifle. I don’t ever want to have a gun in my hand. I decided to fly, to be a pilot. I can see better up there, Bridget. I can see more of the enemy, and they won’t be able to see me. I’ll be the eagle eye in the sky.”

Bridget felt reassured. “You’ll be a darn good pilot. I only hope this war ends soon.”

“It will. I’ll make sure of it.”

“It better end soon. I can’t wait for too long. You will come back, won’t you?”

“I have to. I may want to marry you some day.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re going to be that serious you could have at least dressed up a little. Look at those boys. They’re all dressed in coats and ties, for you!”

“I’ll be dressed up soon enough, in a tailor-made uniform, compliments of the Army Air Force. I’ll send you a photo.”

Vinny, who’d been talking to some other boys around the same age, excused himself and went over to Josh and Bridget.

“You two love birds want to dance? We have Artie Shaw on the record player. Sweet music for dancing.”

Josh looked at Bridget. “You want to?”

“Why not?”

As they started to dance Josh’s mother and Vinny’s parents looked on, smiling.

“Susan, your Joshua, he’s such a handsome boy,” said Vinny’s mother.

“But he could use a few dancing tips from an old pro,” said Luigi, as he strolled over to the dancing duo. “May I cut in?” Josh graciously consented.

Chris Roper, a big, burly, blond-haired kid, almost as big as Josh, walked over to Vinny.

“Hey Vinny, your dad’s quite a dancer. But doesn’t he look a little like that Dictator Mussolini?”

Vinny turned to the boy, who was half a foot taller. “No, he doesn’t look like Mussolini. He looks like my dad.”

“If they draft me, I may be going over to fight your own people. I didn’t know you Italians were such Fascists.”

Vinny became incensed. “I’m no Fascist, Chris. And neither are my parents.”

“What about your grandparents? They’re still over there in the old country, aren’t they? I’ll bet they like Mussolini.”

“You better take that back,” said Vinny.

Josh walked toward them as he heard Vinny raising his voice.

“What’s going on, boys?”

“Vinny can’t take a joke.”

“Those didn’t sound like jokes,” replied Vinny. “We’re every bit as American as you are.”

“Chris, go get yourself some fruit punch,” said Josh. “And there’s plenty of food left.”

“Aye Aye, Captain. But shouldn’t we have some spaghetti?”

“That does it!” yelled Vinny, as he lunged at the bigger kid. Josh stepped in between them. “Knock it off! Chris, you won’t last a day in the Army! You used to be a decent kid. A good teammate when we played football together. What happened to you?”

“War…that’s what happened to me.”

Chris Roper turned away from them and walked out of the apartment. Vinny’s folks came over; his mother put her arm around Vinny.

“He meant no harm.”

“He’s scared,” said Vinny’s father. “First the depression…now another war. Everyone is scared.”

That evening, after everyone had left, Susan Sanders knocked on the door to Josh’s room.

Josh lay on his bed, his hands behind his head, looking at the ceiling. His suitcase stood on the floor beside his bed.

His mother came in carrying a small wooden box. “I thought you might want to look at this before you leave tomorrow.”

Josh sat up on his bed. “What is it?”

“Your father’s medals.” She opened the box and sat beside Josh. “There’s also a photo of him, taken in France in 1918.”

She held up the photo, showing Josh’s father in uniform, holding a rifle, an open trench behind him. Josh looked at the photo, then he picked up the three medals.

“Why didn’t Dad ever show these to me?”

She took his hand as she spoke. “Your father once told me, after the war ended, that receiving medals wasn’t something to be proud of. No one goes to war to win medals, Josh. But I brought them to you because these medals were given to your father for saving the lives of people who might have been killed if he hadn’t acted as he did on the battlefield. War can’t be about destroying lives…it has to be about saving them. I want you to remember that when you’re over there.”