Behind The Forgotten Front by Barbara Hawkins Spotlight!

Publication Date: August 22, 2014
e-book: ISBN 978-0-9915984-2-7 (309 pages)
Paperback: ISBN 978-0-9915984-1-0 (318 pages)

Genre: Historical Fiction/World War II



It’s 1942 and Harry Flynn enlists to fight in the war expecting to find the thrill of danger and honor of military service. He leaves behind the love of his life to journey into a world of tigers, elephants and Himalayan Mountains. Instead of a fighting position, Harry is sent to the Forgotten Front in the Indian subcontinent as an ordinary supply officer. There, General Joseph ‘Vinegar Joe’ Stilwell is constructing a ‘road to nowhere’ through Japanese-occupied Burma. The general will do anything to get the road built.

In this exotic world with Naga headhunters, opium-smoking Kachin tribesmen, and marauders who scorn both life and death, Harry forges unlikely friendships. He’s forced to obey orders that challenge his principles and is torn between being true to himself or ‘no man at all.’ Eventually, not willing to let Uncle Sam needlessly condemn the road crew to death, he rebels.

He tries to sabotage the road’s progress where an Afro-American construction regiment is losing a man a mile due to disease and crumbling mountain slopes. Then a commanding officer spots his unconventional skills. Immediately he’s transferred to America’s first guerrilla-supported unit: Merrill’s Marauders and later the Mars Task Force. Here, he must entrust his life to others. During a time when boys were forced to come of age on the battlefield, Harry must find what makes his life worth living or die.

The lessons learned in World War II apply to all wars, where men walk away carrying unspeakable memories and lives that ‘could have been’ haunt those that lived. Behind the Forgotten Front brings them all back to life and shows that history is about facts driven by passions and sometimes the mistakes of real people.

Praise for Behind the Forgotten Front

"Barbara's debut novel is a compelling examination of man and war and the interaction between them. The miracle of this novel is how Barbara brings this `forgotten front' to life. Barbara accomplishes her goals in this her debut - bringing to our attention the impact war has on all soldiers, no matter their assignment. She also sets a very high standard for her next book. Brava!" - Grady Harp, Amazon Reviewer

Buy the Book

Amazon (eBook)
Amazon (Paperback)

About the Author

Barbara Hawkins started writing a pseudo-memoir about her time spent in Guatemala during the 1970’s-1980’s civil war. It was too close to her heart, so she had to switch to something she wanted to tell a story about but also had a worthwhile message. Her father had always wanted to write a book about the time he’d spent in World War II but died before he could reach that goal. So she thought she’d give it a try.

She knew he was stationed in Sri Lanka, but she didn’t find much to write about there. So she gravitated to what she knew best, engineering and jungles. The story of the Afro-American construction regiment building Stilwell’s Road grabbed her attention and who could not be mesmerized by American’s first guerrilla supported units: Merrill’s Marauders and the Mars Task Force? Half-way through the book her sister found her dad’s diary from the War. He was actually in the Mars Task Force. The scene with Lt. Jack Knight was taken from his diary and the ending was from a conversation she had with her dad just before he died. Having given a promise to keep his WWII missions a secret for fifty years, it was the only time her father spoke of the War.

Ms. Hawkins holds BS degrees from the University of Minnesota where she studied Botany and Mathematics. She taught mathematics and science in High School until she realized she hated being a disciplinarian. From there she traveled to jungles in Latin America collecting plant specimens for several universities. She also has a MS in Civil Engineering. For the last twenty-five-years she has worked as a professional engineer. Her hobbies vary from cooking and yoga to bicycling and adventure travel.

For more information visit Barbara Hawkins' website.

Read an Excerpt:

CHAPTER 42

April 9, 1944: Easter   

“Dear Lord, on this day of yer greatest miracle, we thank ye for life and pray for world peace.”  Father Stuart clasps his hands in prayer over a makeshift altar.  He has taken off his Aussie outback hat and replaced his vest with a clerical stole.  A pleasant breeze offers a false sense of comfort. The sun settles in the western horizon as it has for an eternity. But today’s no ordinary day.

The grassy, rolling field surrounding the command post at Hsamshingyang is thick with thousands of kneeling soldiers from every denomination. Pfeifer’s shiny, balding head; Preacher’s floppy black mane; Sam’s youthful, round face; Roy Matsumoto’s thick eyeglasses; Mr. Doyer’s slow, steady smile; Major Johnson’s wild, red beard—they’re all in this crowd. Even the Kachin, Nau, is here somewhere, and we’re all fused as one.

This is the best Easter of my life because I’m still alive.  I’m not sure if it’s real. Looking up into the cloudless sky, I blink back the tears that choke my throat, and swallow hard. Throughout the gathering, scattered coughs attempt to mask heavy emotions.

In his Irish accent, the priest continues, “Why did these young lads need to die before our countries can make peace?  Seems to me that fighting for peace is an oxymoron.”  Extending his arms in an open embrace, he says, “Peace comes when yer willing to listen to what ye don’t understand; when ye let yer heart and spirit talk, instead of yer mind.”

Digging my nails into my folded arms, I close my ears to shut out the grief.  I picture Maggot Hill from early this morning. 

“Harry, are you walking around in broad daylight, out of your bunker and out of your mind, for some particular reason other than to get killed?” Pfeifer had asked with a twinge of sympathy. He slumped against the wall of his crumbling foxhole.

The morning’s enemy artillery bombardment hadn’t started, and I didn’t give a damn why it was late. “I got a Buddha in my pocket.  The Nips dare not attack me,” I answered, then continued to pace back and forth between Pfeifer’s hole and Collin’s grave.

“I thought you were Christian,” Pfeifer commented, not one to let anything drop.

“I’ll believe in any god that brings me luck,” I said, fingering the gilded talisman before turning and walking from our knoll towards the path through the center of the village.

The decomposing mules and maggots had gotten worse, but my nose was deadened to the stink and my eyes ignored what I didn’t want to see. Nothing had changed on the outside since yesterday: the supply tarp flapped in the wind, the central path still connected the north to the south, a cloudy sky cast bad luck over us all, and Doc Winnie’s rows of litters continued to grow.

I couldn’t look at the pain these men had to endure without wanting to break down.  It reminded me of when Ruthie and I had gone to a movie and she had cried so hard, I had to take her home.

“How can you get so upset about something that’s not real?” I asked.

“Don’t you ever see grief in someone else that reminds you of yourself?” she replied.

“I don’t see anyone else who’s like me.  And I think everyone’s suffering is their own business.”

“No, there is no one like you. And you wouldn’t want others knowing how you feel. But others welcome the sympathy.  Can’t you understand?”

My laugh was unsure, my feelings hurt. I told her I didn’t know, but I did. I had been hurt too many times before. Still, she made me feel incomplete, because I couldn’t open up my heart to suffering. But I feel it now, and it’s crushing me.

Behind me, crunching shards on the path caught my attention.  Pfeifer and Preacher approached me.

“Flynn, why aren’t you in your foxhole?” Preacher demanded. His voice was stern, but he looked as apathetic as I felt.

I rolled my eyes with an insolence that warranted a good ass-kicking, then said, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather get out of the enemy’s line of fire than be buried in my ass-pissing hole.”  As an afterthought, I added, “Sir.”

We all staggered forward towards the south, along the path, in the hot, muggy morning.  Probably pulled by the devil.  I could hear voices.

“Sounds like God’s coming to get me,” I heard myself say distantly.  Depressed and lathered with sweat, I thought, “So this is what it’s like turning into a fruitcake.”  Who could blame my mind from straying from the world we were stuck in?  “I’ll let you know what He looks like when He gets here.”  I received vacant stares in response.

The reverberations in my mind grew louder.  Cynically, I said, “It sounds like the saints are marching in with him.” My high-pitched, and erratic voice frightened me, but it did sound like a battalion of stomping boots. There was huffing, grunting, snorting, and a sneeze.

“Saints sneeze?” Pfeifer whispered, breaking his silence. We reached for guns that weren’t there, and, finding ourselves defenseless, crouched low.

From the southern bamboo forest marched a six-foot-four skeleton with a rangy red beard and eyes too big for its emaciated body.  It looked a lot like Major Johnson. Two feet in front of us, it stopped and studied us like we were the ghosts.

            I wanted to believe my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me, but I didn’t trust anything. So I froze like a cornered animal and just stared. No one else budged, either. The morning’s rays sparkled off shrapnel shards in a rainbow of colors. Transfixed, I expected the apparition to dissolve in the sunlight’s reflection. 

At Maggot Hill, the only colors in my mind’s optical kaleidoscope were grey clouds, black mud, and red blood. Yet, at that moment, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a rainbow of colors: lime green from supply parachutes, a pocket of royal blue skies peeking through, a bursting orange sun, and red hair.

Then the skeleton said, “Vacation’s over, boys. Time to pack up and move on.” It was Johnson! He paused to see if anything registered in our emotionless faces, then added, “We’re here to get ya out.”

Behind Johnson was Sam, then Osborne, then the whole White battalion. I stretched out my arm to touch them, but my feet wouldn’t move.  Nervous sweat prickled my forehead, but the Whites didn’t vanish or evaporate.  They just looked back at us, smiling dumbly.  I closed my eyes, and my insides crumbled.

“After we cut off their supplies from the south, the Nips made a quick retreat. Want some hot breakfast?  It’s still cooking down there,” Colonel Osborne said, and clapped each of us on the back. “Shit, you guys smell like you don’t know how to dig a latrine.”

“And you look like you’ve been hitting the bottle. It’s time we take you out of here so you can sleep it off,” Sam jabbed lightly. 

As we marched through the village, a trembling soldier jabbered, “It’s about goddamn time you got here.” 

“I had to take a few piss breaks,” Johnson said.  “Sorry we’re late.”  Nervous laughter broke out among the men.   

“Welcome to Maggot Hill Resort,” another said, beaming like he’d just won the lottery.

A private from the Blue team grabbed a White soldier’s chin between his hands and silently studied every pore of the man’s face.  Grinning with satisfaction he finally said, “Yep, you’ve got to be real. No ghost would be that ugly.”

My eyes burned, and my lips struggled to hold down the gasp rising from my chest. Then I spotted Mr. Doyer, who came up to me, wordlessly touching me with his confident, caring smile. Eventually, he asked, “How are you doing, Harry?”

The lump in my throat snapped like a brittle rubber band, releasing all the tension from the last two weeks.  I wanted to say something clever, something that would hide the fact I could barely breathe.  But I just smiled like I had no brain left.

Gently, Mr. Doyer slung an arm over my shoulder and asked, “Harry, where’s your bunker?” 

Instead of answering, I said, “I need to get the rations passed out before we leave. I’ve got to track everything.”

Mr. Doyer led me by my elbow and said, “Let the other guys get that stuff later. You look like you need a shot of something strong.  Now, tell me how your face ran into a meat cleaver.” 

“Aaw, I just tripped.”  The glib answer rolled off my tongue, but my cheeks were still raw from yesterday shelling.

“What you boys went through here was no small feat,” Doyer said with concern.

Too exhausted to joke, I asked, “Where do we go from here?”

Doyer smiled. “Are you speaking philosophically or literally?’ He lit the cigarette I didn’t want, shoved it between my lips, and pushed me into motion. “Either way, I’d say the only way to go is forward.”

Father Stuart’s brogue pulls my mind back to the Easter evening’s sermon. “Lads, the cold, the hunger, the sickness, and the fatigue ye have suffered has changed ye into men. Tis a tough way to become a man, fighting the crusades of others. It’s the ordinary man, trapped between earth and hell, who wins the war. And, while we can’t choose when we die, let our death be worth our lives.”

In front of the gathering lies a field of wounded men, their tortured eyes holding tough questions for God.  I think of those who didn’t make it and wonder why I was spared.

“But let God open yer eyes to the beauty that refuses to surrender.” With a sweeping arc, the priest encompasses everything within the hills and valleys.  Silver-tipped fruit pigeons swoop in for an evening’s meal, cooing gently. Perfumed, yellow-fringed flowers rustle with the leaves. “Ye know that long after yer gone, this valley will be here. And the children of this country will walk in yer path. But yer struggle will not be theirs. God will hand them their own burdens. Hopefully, the seed of peace will have been nourished by yer blood, and life’s beauty will lighten their load.”  With that, the priest steps down from the altar to the injured.  As he moves among them, he finishes the sermon with, “Let the war wait!  Let us rejoice in life today! And tomorrow, give the Japs a good kick in the ass.  In the name of God. Amen.”

Watching Father Stuart bless the boys as he meanders through the network of litters, I realize I’ll smell the stench of Maggot Hill for the rest of my life. Water will always taste better because I know its value. Nothing will be insurmountable, because I landed on my feet—okay, my face—when I thought it was the end. But it was only another beginning.

Finally, the tears break loose as my mind sees Collin’s grave and what I said to him as I knelt by it for my final farewell. “Oh, little buddy, I wish you could’ve waited one more day.”

Behind the Forgotten Front Blog Tour Schedule

Monday, May 11
Review at Flashlight Commentary
Interview at Boom Baby Reviews

Tuesday, May 12
Review at With Her Nose Stuck in a Book

Wednesday, May 13
Review & Giveaway at Forever Ashley
Spotlight at A Literary Vacation

Thursday, May 14
Spotlight at CelticLady's Reviews

Friday, May 15
Review & Giveaway at Teddy Rose Book Reviews Plus More

Saturday, May 16
Review at Impressions in Ink
Spotlight at Just One More Chapter

Monday, May 18
Review & Giveaway at Unshelfish

Tuesday, May 19
Spotlight & Giveaway at Passages to the Past