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Soulmender By: Doc B Thank you
to KT for suggesting the title, and for being a sounding board for the
story... Editorial
comment: Doc has been given a
real first name for this story, purely a figment of the author's
imagination.
His wife found him sitting on the front steps,
shoulders slumped, one hand covering his eyes.
Tears were streaming down his face as silent sobs rocked his frame.
In his other hand he held a yellowed and tattered envelope,
crumpled in his tight grasp. "John? Honey,
what's wrong?" She
hurried to his side, worried and scared.
As she knelt next to him and touched his shoulder, he flinched and
jerked away as though that light touch had been a vicious slap.
Then he realized who she was.
Drying his eyes on his sleeve, he silently handed her the envelope. "John? What
is it?" she pleaded. "What's
happened?" With a tear-choked voice, he said, "This came in
the mail today." She looked down at the envelope that he had thrust
into her hands, then looked back up at him.
Confusion creased her face. Frowning,
she said, "John, this was mailed forty years ago.
What do you mean it came in today's mail?" "The mailman said it must have been lost all
these years, stuck in a crack or under a counter or something.
He didn't know how it happened, but he said it came to the post
office with today's mail. It's
addressed to me at my folks' house." "They've been dead for twenty-five years.
How did he know to bring it here?" "He used to know my dad years ago.
He said we should call the newspaper and have them write this up.
A miracle, he called it. A
miracle that this letter was found after all these years, and that he was
able to deliver it to me." "That doesn't sound like a miracle, that sounds
more like bad service!" She
smoothed the envelope and turned it over in her hand. "What is it, anyway?" she asked. "A letter from a very old, dear friend of mine.
A man I thought was dead before this letter was ever written.
And for forty years I've had no reason to think otherwise." Tears welled in his eyes again. "Someone
you knew in the Army?" "Yes,
we called him the Preacher. He
was a good man." "What
happened to him? "I
left him for dead in a foxhole in France." ***** France,
1944 "Hey,
Preacher!" Kirby called over his shoulder.
"Put your Bible away and come play some poker with us!" "No,
thanks," the young GI in the corner said.
"I'm reading." "What'sa
matter? Ya think you're too
good fer us? C'mon!"
Kirby persisted. "Kirby,
leave 'im alone," Doc said quietly.
"He's not doin' you no harm." "Aw,
nuts, Doc, I was just messin' with 'im!"
Kirby grinned. "He's
in the Army, he should expect to be messed with!" "It's
his first day here, and you take some gettin' used to, Kirby!" Doc grinned back. The
newcomer sat propped on a cot reading a small New Testament.
He was a fair-haired man, large by any standards, rivaling
Littlejohn in stature. A
fresh red scar marred the man's classic Nordic features and his uniform
showed the wear of battle. He
absently rubbed the scar on his cheek with his thumb while he read.
As Doc approached, he looked up from his book. "Hey,
I'm Doc," the medic introduced himself and stuck out his hand. "Hi,
Doc, I'm Paul Blackwell," the younger man replied, shaking Doc's
hand. "Thanks for
sticking up for me, but it really wasn't necessary.
I just ignore those comments.
Get 'em all the time, ever since basic.
They're usually just blowing smoke.
I've found that the more scared a man is, the more ridicule he
dishes out to those he perceives to be 'brave.'
They don't realize that my 'bravery' is just faith in God." "That's
very perceptive," Doc replied. "I've
often thought that myself. But
with Kirby, it's just 'cause he's annoying by nature!" The
other man chuckled. "Well,
I've met a few of them, too. There's
always one in every outfit!" "Where
you from, Paul? Oh, and you
might as well get used to being called 'Preacher,' 'cause I have a feeling
that nickname is yours for good!" "I'm
from Missouri. Was studying
for the pulpit when I got drafted," the man replied.
"So I guess 'Preacher' is as good a name as any!" "Nice
to know ya, Preacher. You
need anything, just let me know, okay?" Doc turned to leave, then
stopped. "By the
way," he said loudly enough for the men at the poker table to hear,
"if Kirby gives you a hard time, just tell him you and Littlejohn
will meet him in a dark alley! That'll
shut 'im up! Right,
Kirby?" Caje
laughed and slapped Kirby on the back.
"Hey, Kirby, he's already got your number!" "Aw,
nuts to you guys," Kirby grumbled.
"Deal the cards, Caje." ***** Arkansas,
USA, 1984 He
picked at his food, mechanically swallowing a few bites.
He didn't taste what he ate, and didn't care whether he ate at all.
His wife watched him push his food around until the plate looked
like one of Picasso's canvasses. His
mind was forty years and thousands of miles away.
He stared at the plate, seeing instead a muddy foxhole and a torn
and bloody body. The scene
had plagued his dreams for years, but he thought he had finally laid it to
rest just as he thought the body had been laid to rest. He
seldom talked about his months on the front lines in France.
He'd never told his wife of the horrors he'd seen, but she knew.
She was with him at night when the nightmares overtook his tired
body and tired mind. She was at his side when he yelled out in the night, or when
he awoke trembling and drenched with sweat.
She'd heard him call out the names of his squad mates, or of the
men he'd seen killed. Gradually,
over the years, the nightmares had subsided.
She had hoped that he'd finally been able to release the emotional
and psychological pain that those terrible months had inflicted.
Now she could see that he'd only buried the pain so deeply that it
took a bombshell like the letter today to unearth it. Reaching
across the table, she took one of his hands in hers.
He looked up at her, and she could see the unfathomable sadness on
his face. She longed to
comfort him, as she had done for years whenever the memories were too much
for him, but she knew this pain was different. "Honey,
what are you going to do?" she asked. He
shook his head and whispered, "I don't know.
I just don't know." In
the middle of the night she awoke with a start.
She reached over and found his side of the bed empty.
She was startled by muffled thumps coming from the attic.
Quickly slipping into a robe and slippers, she made her way up the
narrow, dusty attic steps. There, in the dim light of a single 40-watt bulb, John was
emptying a trunk, pawing through it like a madman. She could hear him muttering to himself. "It's
here. It's gotta be here.
I know I didn't throw it away.
Where is it?" He frantically dug out object after object, throwing some
immediately on the floor, examining the others more closely.
He thrust his hand into every pocket of every jacket and pair of
trousers, pulling the pockets inside out.
He riffled through all the books, holding them upside down and
flipping the pages. Then,
sinking to his knees, he reached into the bottom of the trunk and slowly
lifted out a medic's rucksack. Reverently,
he held it at arm's length for a long moment before clutching it to his
chest. Rocking back on his
heels, he let the memories flood his mind. ***** France,
1944 "Okay,
saddle up," Sergeant Saunders called.
"We're going on a little walk in the woods this morning!" "Hey,
Sarge, where we goin'? I
mean, do I have to get prettied up or anything?" Kirby asked. "Kirby,
you're plenty pretty already," Caje laughed.
"Only thing you need is a little soap and water!" "Let's
go, guys. No time for
breakfast. Grab some rations
and ammo," Saunders commanded. "Uh,
Sergeant Saunders, do you mind if I pray before we go?" Preacher
asked quietly. Kirby
looked at him in amazement. "What...
you mean out loud???" The
NCO glanced from Kirby to Preacher. The
tall man's clear, earnest gaze held Saunders', and the sergeant gave him a
brief nod. "Aw,
Sarge, you ain't gonna let 'im do that, are you?" Kirby asked. "That's like goin' to church in dirty clothes.
I mean, look at us!" "Well,
Kirby, I figure it this way," Saunders said.
"Who needs prayer more than we do?
We're going on a patrol into Kraut territory, they're going to try
to kill us if they can, and they just might succeed.
So a quick prayer isn't going to hurt anything, and it might just
help. And we can sure use all
the help we can get." He
nodded again to Preacher. "Gather
'round, everyone. Preacher's
got somethin' to say before we take off." "Thanks,
Sarge." Preacher cleared
his throat. "I know I'm
new here and you all aren't familiar with my ways yet, but I like to start
every patrol with a short prayer asking for God's protection." He
took off his helmet and cradled it in his arms as he bowed his head. He offered a simple and direct prayer, naming each squad mate
and asking for Divine providence. He
prayed as though he were speaking to a good friend standing nearby.
His words were spoken with a familiarity and intimacy gained only
by long experience. As he uttered the 'amen,' Caje crossed himself and assumed the
point position. Kirby
scratched his head and mumbled, "Don't that beat all..." as Doc
came up beside him. "What
do you mean, Kirby?" the medic asked. "Huh?
Oh, sorry, Doc, I didn't see ya there," Kirby stammered.
"I just meant, all of a sudden I feel kinda... good about this
patrol. Relaxed, I guess. Like nothing bad is gonna happen today." "Well,
don't let your guard down. Remember,
the Lord helps those who help themselves!" Doc chuckled. "Hey,
Preacher," Doc hurried to catch up with the new man.
"Thanks for the prayer. It's
kinda nice to hear it said out loud once in a while!" "I
know. It's good to pray
aloud—keeps me in practice," Preacher agreed.
"Seems like there's never enough time for spiritual things
around here. We're too busy
trying to stay alive to worry about keeping body and soul together!" ***** Arkansas,
USA, 1984 He'd
fallen into a fitful sleep just as the palest hues of pink were creeping
over the horizon. His wife
slipped quietly from the bed, pausing long enough to draw the blanket up
over his shoulders. Even in
sleep his eyelashes were damp with unshed tears and his hands twitched
convulsively. He
awoke a few hours later, no more rested than when he'd lain down. His face was lined and drawn, and fatigue rimmed his eyes.
All the nightmares and horrors of France had been replayed in his
dreams, leaving him as exhausted as he had been on all those night patrols
forty years ago. He
scratched at his stubbled cheek and sipped the cup of strong black coffee
that his wife had brought him. She,
sensitive to his moods after nearly forty years of married life, watched
him with affection and concern. "Did
you find what you were looking for last night?" she asked gently. He
nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. "I
found more than I was looking for," he replied.
"And I know what I have to do." "What's
that?" "I
have to find him." John
sighed as he put the coffee cup in the sink.
"I have to know what happened.
I have to know if he's still alive." "I
realized that when you showed me the letter yesterday," she replied.
"I was hoping you would come to that conclusion yourself.
Maybe then you can put the nightmares behind you once and for
all." "Maybe,"
he whispered. "Or maybe
the nightmares have just begun." ***** France,
1944 "Kirby,
cover me!" called Preacher. They
had stumbled into a machine gun nest, well hidden in the underbrush, and
now the squad was pinned down. Sarge
was moving along the flank, crawling through the tall grass.
The Thompson was cradled in his arms as he shimmied forward.
He wanted to get a grenade into the nest, but he had little cover
and would be easy prey if he was spotted. Caje
was behind a log at the other flank and was drawing most of the fire. He kept his head down, only lifting it occasionally to take a
hurried shot with his rifle. The
constant firing of the machine gun was kicking up clouds of dust and wood
chips, obscuring his line of sight. Usually
the marksman of the squad, today his shooting was ineffective. "What
are you gonna do?" Kirby called back. "I'm
going right up the middle—they won't expect that!"
Preacher started crawling forward. "Hey,
wait a minute! You can't do
that!" Kirby hollered. "You'll
be cut to ribbons!" "No,
I won't. Just cover me!"
Preacher continued his advance, slithering through the grass like a
giant blond snake. The
booming of the BAR behind him and the answering chatter of the machine gun
in front of him covered the sounds of his movements.
Kirby couldn't believe that the Krauts didn't see Preacher—he was
right in front of them, yet might as well have been invisible.
The BAR man kept up a continual curtain of fire, glancing around
occasionally to see where Sarge and Caje were.
The rest of the squad, stupefied by Preacher's boldness, fired off
their M1's as rapidly as they could.
Empty shell casings and magazines pinging to the ground added to
the cacophony. Preacher's
long arm swung in a slow arc as he released a grenade.
The missile sailed into the nest and detonated, rocking the ground
with its lethal power. Showers
of dirt mixed with white-hot shrapnel sent a geyser of death into the air.
The vacuum of sudden silence was broken by a single moan, cut short
by a choking gasp as a final breath was wrenched from the machine gunner's
lungs. Preacher
stood, looking down into the faces of the dead Germans, and prayed. "Ho,
boy, Preacher, am I glad you're on our side!"
Kirby clapped the taller man on the back. Smoke
rose from the crater torn by the grenade, lending a backdrop to the
tableau of war-weary soldiers. Caje
and Sarge checked the Germans, turning over the torn bodies to look for
signs of life. Kirby,
Littlejohn, and Billy were clustered around Preacher, who was shaking his
head. "I
hated to do it, to kill another human being, but sometimes that's what
we're called to do," he murmured. Doc
stood off to one side and watched the man.
'He's an enigma,' the medic thought.
'Kill a man and then pray over his body.'
Preacher glanced over at him, and Doc was stunned to see intense
pain and sorrow in the man's eyes. 'But
he doesn't take either killing or praying lightly.' ***** Arkansas,
USA, 1984 "I
found my notebook, where I wrote down the addresses of the men in my
squad," John told his wife. "I
guess that's where I'll have to start looking for Preacher.
I know what his address was forty years ago.
I'll write a letter... or better yet, it's only a few hour's drive.
Maybe we can make a day of it." "Are
you sure you're up to it? You
didn't sleep very well," she said. "I
don't want to put this off any longer.
The sooner I start looking, the sooner I'm likely to find out what
happened to him." She
packed a picnic lunch while he was shaving, and they were on the road by
mid-morning. They drove north
on Hwy. 71 toward Missouri and passed through some of the most beautiful
country God ever created. Limestone
bluffs towered, overhanging the road and, as they approached southwestern
Missouri, the panorama of the Elk River was breathtaking.
Small campsites and ca bins dotted the banks of the river,
providing stopping points for canoers along the water's edge.
Timbered mountains ringed the small town of Noel, and the trees
were ablaze with fiery fall colors. At
the post office, John received his first disappointing news. "Blackwell,
Blackwell. No, no one by that
name in town. Least not that
we deliver any mail to," the postmaster told him.
"Seems to me I remember that name from years ago, though.
I've been working at this post office for almost forty years, ever
since I graduated high school. But
that name does ring a bell. Let
me check our files." He
soon returned with a huge, dusty ledger, which he plopped open on the
counter. He hummed to himself
as he flipped through the brittle pages, stopping occasionally to moisten
his index finger with his tongue. Finally
he jabbed at one page with the same grubby finger. "Um-hmmm,
um-hmmm, just what I thought. My
memory isn't so bad after all. The
last time we had any Blackwells to deliver to was way back in 1956.
And that was Joseph and Mary Blackwell.
Joseph and Mary... now ain't that funny! A wonder I didn't remember THAT!" He chuckled at his own humor.
"Them the folks you're lookin' for?" he asked. John
shook his head. "No, I
wanted to find Paul Blackwell." "Paul.
Now why didn't you say so in the first place?
'Course I knew Paul way back when.
He was ahead of me in high school, but they had all kinda trophies
in the trophy case from him playin' football and basketball.
That was quite some kid! What
an athlete! A legend in his
own time." John
felt his heart quicken. "Was
there a forwarding address? Do
you know what happened to him? Where
he is now?" "No,
can't say that I do. Leastways
not for the last forty years. Knew
he went in the Army. Knew he
came back all busted up. Knew
he was in a German P.O.W. camp till the end of the war.
Had a chest full o' medals when he finally got home.
But that's all. Oh, I
think maybe he went to seminary somewheres.
Always wanted to be a preacher, ever since he was a young
'un." John
tried not to show his disappointment.
"Well, thank you for your time.
I appreciate it." "Oh,
one more thing," the postmaster said.
"You might try checking at the library for old back issues of
the newspaper. That might
tell you something." "I'll
do that. Thanks again."
John shook the postmaster's hand and walked out into the sunshine. The disappointment had turned to hope in his mind.
At least he had something to go on now. At
the library, he was told that back issues of the newspaper were on
microfiche. The librarian set the machine up for him, and he and his wife
spent the rest of the afternoon reading small-town gossip and war news
from four decades ago. He had
never discussed or read about the war after he came home. The memories were just too painful to be dredged up once he'd
buried them in his subconscious. If
the letter that he had received yesterday had cracked the dam that held
back the memories, then the first-hand newspaper accounts of the war that
he read today broke the dam wide open and let the memories flood out.
It was almost more than he could bear. Finally
they found an article written after Preacher had come home from the war.
He was the hero of the town. The
writer of the article had listed Preacher's wounds along with the medals
that he had won. The worst of
his injuries were a chest wound, a leg wound from which he had a permanent
limp, and facial burns with scarring of one side of his face.
He had won several purple hearts, a bronze star, and a silver star. Most
heart-wrenching to John was the account of Preacher's time in the German
P.O.W. camp. His life had
been saved by a German doctor after he had been found near death, lying in
a foxhole. John forced
himself to read the details, even though the words blurred through the
tears in his eyes. The
soldier had nearly bled to death from a bullet wound to the chest.
It had pierced one lung and exited out his back.
When he was found, he was unconscious, barely breathing, and
clutching a small Bible in one hand. Once
Preacher's condition had stabilized in the German field hospital, he had
been placed on a hospital train and sent on his way to Germany to a P.O.W.
camp. The train had been
bombed by the Allies, and Preacher had suffered horrendous burns to the
face and a shattered leg. Without
proper medical treatment, the leg had healed poorly, and the burns had
scarred and contorted his handsome face. The
newspaper article showed a picture of Preacher arriving home from the war.
John caught his breath when he saw how wasted the once-robust man
had become. In the picture,
he was leaning heavily on a cane, and had self-consciously turned the
scarred side of his face away from the camera.
His dress uniform hung on him like a sack, accentuating his
skeletal thinness. 'I
could have spared him this,' John thought.
'I could have saved him from this anguish and pain...' ***** France,
1944 "Hey,
Preacher, what're you gonna do on your three-day pass?" Doc asked as
he watched the man pack his duffel. "Well,
Doc, I just talked to the company chaplain, and he says there's a church
over in Belvoir that can use some help.
They run an orphanage and soup kitchen, and the building was pretty
heavily damaged from shelling a couple of days ago.
I thought I'd go over and see what I can do to help.
How 'bout you?" "Oh,
I don't know. I haven't
really decided what to do. Seems
like an awful lot of fuss to try to get to Paris for just a couple of
days. But I don't really want
to stick around here either." Doc
paused, thoughtful. "Say,
do you think they could use more help over there in Belvoir?
I know how to swing a hammer...." "Sure,
the more the merrier! Jeep
leaves in twenty minutes—think you can be ready?" "You
bet!" Doc grinned, grabbing his duffel. "Don't
forget to bring your Bible, too," Preacher reminded him.
Doc patted his jacket pocket. Belvoir
was a sleepy little medieval village tucked into the rolling hills of
Normandy farmland. It
straddled the banks of an indolent mossy river where generations of young
boys and old men had fished and daydreamed.
A stone bridge, once used by horses and mules, arched across the
stream. The town's main
street stretched from the bridge at one end to the gothic spired church at
the other. Lining the street
were small shops and patisseries, usually thronged with busy shoppers
hurrying to finish their errands, or taking time for a pleasant repast. The
recent heavy shelling had decimated the street.
Windows had been blown out, leaving most of the shops exposed to
the elements. Broken glass
and building debris littered the thoroughfare.
Not one building or shop was left intact.
Roofs had collapsed; walls crumbled into mounds of rubble.
Café tables and chairs had been twisted into useless pieces of
metal; bits of crockery and masonry were strewn as far as the river. The
church hadn't escaped lightly either.
Its main steeple lay on its side at the base of the church.
The vagaries of the bombing had left the steeple neatly detached
but otherwise intact. The
doors of the church had been burst open by the tremendous pressure surge
of a bomb detonating at roof level. Miraculously,
one stained glass window was unbroken—its shimmering colors of golds,
reds, and blues were reflected outwards by the sunlight streaming through
the hole in the roof. The
window depicted Jesus welcoming the little children into His arms. "Boy,
when you said heavily damaged, you weren't kidding," Doc remarked as
he surveyed the town's damage. "Are
you sure that bridge will hold us?" "'Course
I am, Doc, I have it on divine authority!" Preacher replied. Doc
glanced at him in surprise, then realized that he was teasing. "I
don't doubt it," Doc chuckled. "Well,
shall we see if we can find the priest?"
Preacher inched the jeep slowly across the narrow bridge. The fenders of the jeep scraped both sides of the bridge, and
Doc was afraid the vehicle would get wedged like a cork. The bridge groaned under the weight of the loaded jeep, but
held fast. They
wove the jeep around craters blasted out of the cobble-stoned avenue and
parked near the church. As
they picked their way through the rubble and up the steps, they could hear
sounds of construction from inside. Sharp
hammer blows were accompanied by shouts and laughter as villagers worked
to clear away debris and repair the damage. Preacher
tested the listing doors and inspected the hinges and carved wooden
reliefs. The heavy brass
hardware was intact, but the wooden jambs had been splintered. "This
shouldn't be too hard to fix," he commented.
"We'll just have to take the doors down and replace the jambs,
then re-hang the doors." "Yep,
we can do that," Doc agreed. Suspicious
faces peered at them from inside the church, and silence descended. A muscular young man in a cassock approached them and asked
them something in French. Doc
and Preacher looked at each other and shrugged. "Do
you speak English?" they asked the priest in unison. "But
of course. I'm Father
Dominic. How may I help
you?" the priest asked. "We
came to help YOU," Preacher said.
"We're from the 361st, and we have a three-day
pass. Thought we'd come help
you rebuild your church." "Merci,
gentlemen, merci!" The
priest explained to the villagers, who gathered around the two, shaking
their hands and clapping them on the back.
The chattering resumed as the people returned to work. "Let's
go unload the jeep," Preacher suggested. As
they carried in heavy crates of food and supplies, Doc asked,
"Where'd you get all this stuff?" Preacher
smiled. "Well, my Army
pay was burning a hole in my pocket, so I put it to good use.
And I hit Kirby up for a donation at the poker game last
night." "Kirby?
Donate to a church? How'd
you get him to do that?" "Told
him I was going to pray out loud specifically for him before the next
patrol. He gave me money just
to shut me up!" "Is
that what they call 'hush money?'" Doc snorted. "You
said it, brother!" Preacher
laughed. They
finished unloading the jeep, and Preacher handed Doc a hammer. "Let's
get to work," he said. They
joined Father Dominic on the roof, patching the holes inflicted from the
shelling. A certain rhythm
developed among the three, their hammers singing a madrigal as they
repaired the damage. The
agile priest scuttled up and down the ladder, carrying bundles of wood
shingles and buckets of nails as effortlessly as a mother would carry her
child. He chattered
endlessly, keeping the soldiers entertained with tales of the follies of
the German army. "They
tried to conscript me," he told them, winking and nodding cheerfully.
"Oh, they tried, but I..." he paused dramatically.
"I have a secret weapon!" Doc
and Preacher stopped hammering and glanced at each other. "Secret
weapon?" Doc asked. "What's
that?" "Aha!"
Father Dominic crowed. "Even
you could not discern it, and you are a medical man.
I hide it well, no?" Doc
scratched his head. "I
guess you do. What is
it?" The
priest stood to his full height on the sloping roof, and rapped himself
sharply on the left shin with the hammer. "Hey!"
Preacher exclaimed, starting toward the priest.
"Don't do that—you'll hurt yourself!" Doc
grabbed Preacher's arm, as much to keep him from falling off the roof as
to keep him from knocking Father Dominic off. "No,
he won't," Doc said. "I
think I understand. When did
it happen?" he asked the priest. "When
I was a young child. I grew
up this way, and I am used to it." Preacher
was puzzled. "When did
what happen?" he asked. "I
lost my leg in an accident, and I've had an artificial one ever since. And though I function better on a wooden leg than many people
do on two normal legs, no army in the world would want me.
I use that to my advantage, and the advantage of my people." ***** Arkansas,
USA, 1984 John
had the librarian make copies of the article.
At home later that night, he reread the story slowly, carefully,
devouring every word, and pausing occasionally to wipe the tears from his
eyes. The phrase, "He had been left for dead in a
foxhole," pierced his soul. His
memories of that fateful day had played in his nightmares over and over
like a stuck movie reel for the last forty years. He
knew the search would be painful, and would probably drain every ounce of
mental strength that he possessed. He
also knew that he'd continue to have the nightmares till his dying day if
he quit the search now. Then
he'd have the added burden of feeling like he'd abandoned his friend all
over again. The
last paragraph of the article was about Preacher's future plans.
'God has kept me alive for a reason.
I believe that reason is to proclaim His word. I
wanted to be a minister before the war, and that desire hasn't changed.
I plan to enroll in seminary this fall.' Well,
that was a starting point. He
could try to find the seminary that Preacher attended.
They might have some information about what happened to him. ***** France,
1944 "Here,
Doc, catch," Preacher called as he tossed a carton of rations to the
medic. "Mmmm...
eggs and sausage," Doc grimaced.
"Well, at least it's not sausage and eggs!" "Are
you sorry you came with me, Doc? You
could be in Paris right now eating real food, enjoying the company of a
warm cuddly woman, drinking a bottle of wine...." Preacher grinned
around a forkful of stew. "What?
And miss all this?" Doc
smiled. "Did you see the
looks on those kids' faces when we unpacked the toys you brought?
Boy, that sure makes you feel good.
Besides, one bottle of wine is pretty much like another." "Yeah,
those kids were pretty happy. And
that makes ME happy. Not many
people understand the value of giving.
The more of yourself you give, the more blessings you
receive." Preacher sighed with contentment. "We did a good job on that roof today, huh?
Should be able to finish it tomorrow if it doesn't rain." Doc
settled his weary bones into a bedroll late that night, glad for the ache
between the shoulder blades that told him he'd done something
constructive. An afternoon of swinging a heavy hammer reminded him that
there was more to the world than shooting and killing. Patching a damaged building was easy compared to patching a
damaged body. He
slept heavily, feeling safe in the womb of the church.
When he awoke, refreshed, the next morning, he found Preacher
reading his Bible by the feeble early morning light filtering through the
stained glass window. He
reached for his jacket and extricated his own small Bible from the pocket. "What're
you reading, Preacher?" he asked. "Reading
what Paul has to say to the Philippian church—I like this passage, and
try to live it the best that I can. Listen:
'Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory, but in lowliness
of mind let each esteem others better than themselves.
Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the
things of others.' Don't you
think this would be a better and more peaceful world if people would just
follow that one principle?" he asked. Doc
nodded his agreement and bent to read his own Bible.
After a few minutes of silent reading, he looked up and asked,
"Say, what kind of preacher are you going to be after the war?
I mean, what kind of church?" "I
was accepted into a Methodist seminary before I joined up.
Hopefully they'll still have me when I get home," Preacher
replied before returning to his morning's devotions. That
day they not only finished the roof, but re-hung the doors and helped the
priest remove debris and broken glass from the chapel.
They uprighted the overturned pulpit and straightened pews.
The crucifix had fallen off the wall and been smashed beyond
repair, but several of the statues needed only a good dusting to restore
them to their pre-bombing beauty. By the end of the day, the chapel was ready for worship. When
the work was finished, Father Dominic said, "I have a surprise for
you. The villagers wanted to show their appreciation for what
you've done, so they've arranged a party in your honor." "A
party! That's real friendly
of them," Doc declared. Preacher
smiled. "Let us get
cleaned up a little, and we'll be ready!" The
whole village turned out for the party.
They had had little to celebrate in the last few months.
This fete was a release for them, an expression of hope for the
future. They knew the war
wasn't over, but they could sense German defeat and an end to the
brutalization and terror. The
repaired church was a symbol of the repair to their lives and return to
normalcy that they knew was coming. The
music was lively, and the dancing was spirited.
The two men were drawn into the circle of villagers, sharing their
bonhomie and their wine. The
children from the orphanage surrounded the pair, clamoring for their
attention and presenting them with small homemade gifts and flowers.
Some of the ladies had baked cakes and pastries, which rapidly
disappeared into hungry mouths until only crumbs were left as evidence of
their sweetness. The
night was clear and the air was still.
Stars twinkled overhead, lending their blessing to the village.
The party spilled out onto the street in front of the church and
had the atmosphere of a street carnival.
The moon shone down on the roof of the newly repaired church, and
even though the steeple hadn't yet been replaced, the building had an
ethereal glow of goodwill. Hours
into the party, one of the village men motioned Father Dominic over and
whispered something to him. The
priest's head, bent to catch the man's quiet words, jerked up and he
glanced around in alarm. He
hurried over to John and Preacher and drew them off to the side. "Bad
news, I fear," he whispered. "Our
lookouts have spotted German troops moving in the direction of the
village." "What
do you want us to do?" Preacher asked. "We
must hide you. The Germans
are between the village and your lines, and it would be suicide if you
tried to drive back to your headquarters.
You must gather your things and come with me.
We have places that the Germans will not find you.
Later we will try to get you back to your lines." "What
about the jeep?" asked Doc. "They'll
know we're here if they see the jeep." "Leave
that to us. We'll take care
of it," Father Dominic assured him.
"Come with me." ***** Arkansas,
USA, 1984 John
picked up a thin telephone book from the shelf under the phone.
He flipped the pages until he found the number to the local
Methodist church. He dialed
the first three digits, then hesitated.
He wasn't sure that he was ready to involve strangers in his quest,
but could see no other option. Steeling
himself, he finished dialing. His
wife accompanied him to his appointment with the Methodist minister later
that day. She held his arm as
they entered the church, and her quiet strength seemed to flow into him. The minister greeted them at the door to his office, inviting
them to take seats on the sofa opposite his desk. He pulled an easy chair around to face them, and said,
"Now, John, what can I do to help you?" John
looked into Pastor Harding's solemn face.
The minister's vibrant blue eyes were startling in their similarity
to Preacher's, radiating the same compassion and kindness.
John suddenly felt at ease, and began his story.
He omitted no detail, telling the minister things that he hadn't
told his wife. He pulled the
copies of the newspaper clippings from his pocket, unfolded them, and
handed them to Pastor Harding. As
the minister was reading the article, a small smile played on his lips.
When he finished reading, he refolded the papers and held them out
to John. "I
know Paul Blackwell's story well," Pastor Harding said. "In fact, I could add a few things to that article.
Things like... Paul never held a grudge in his life.
He believed that whatever happened to him was ordained of God.
He wasn't ashamed or embarrassed about what happened to him in the
war, but he didn't brag about it either.
It was just a part of him, a part of what went into making him who
he was. "Paul
taught one of my classes in the seminary that I attended," the
minister continued. "He
was a beloved and admired man, gentle but firm at the same time.
I told him once that I wanted to pattern my ministry after him.
He was offended and said that he was just a fallible man, and that
I should try to pattern my ministry after our Lord.
I never forgot that. A
very humble man...." the minister's voice trailed off as he reflected
back. "I
lost touch with Paul many years ago, much to my shame.
I don't know where he is now, or if he's still alive.
I can tell you he graduated from Central Methodist College in
Missouri. I have their
address here somewhere. Write
to them—they may have more information.
And promise me that if and when you find Paul, you will give him
greetings from me." Shuffling
through the paperwork on his desk, the minister found a notepad and copied
down the address of the seminary. He
and John shook hands and John promised to let him know when he found Paul. ***** France,
1944 "Hey,
Sarge, the lieutenant's lookin' for ya," Caje called. Saunders
nodded and ambled toward the CP. "You
wanted to see me, Lieutenant?"
he asked as he ducked into the tent. "I
have a mission for your squad, Saunders.
How soon can you be ready?" Lt Hanley was tapping a pencil
impatiently on the map spread on the table in front of him.
He had heavily circled a point to the east of their present
position. "Well,
Lieutenant, we can be ready in fifteen minutes," Saunders replied. "Make
it ten, Saunders," Hanley said. The
NCO's curious glance took in the penciled marks.
"Belvoir... isn't that where Doc and Preacher went on their
pass?" "Yes,
and that's what's so urgent," Hanley sighed.
"S2 reports heavy Kraut buildup between Belvoir and here.
We need to get there fast or Doc and Preacher are going to be
trapped and cut off from our lines. I
need you to hustle to get to them. You'll
take a truck as far as here," he pointed to another circle on the
map, "then double-time it the rest of the way.
The Krauts may already be in the town.
We received word that they may be using that church for an
observation post." Saunders
and Hanley looked at each other. Neither
had to say what was on both their minds—that this was going to be bad.
Very bad. "They
were due back a half-hour ago," Saunders said.
"They haven't shown up yet." Hanley
nodded, looking grim. "You'd
better get moving," he said. "I'll
get you some help as soon as I can. Take
a radio and keep in touch." "Right,
Lieutenant." Saunders
barked out orders, conveying with his tone the urgency of the mission. "Double
basic load of ammo, grenades, smoke grenades, a day's worth of rations.
Let's move!" he shouted. Men
scurried for equipment, then assembled at the CP. "What's
up, Sarge? Why the
rush?" Kirby asked. "Doc
and Preacher are somewhere behind Kraut lines, that's what," Saunders
said. "We need to go
find them. The Krauts have
moved into Belvoir, and they're using the church for an OP." "Is
that the church where Doc and Preacher...." Caje started to say, but
was interrupted. "Yeah,
that's the church. Let's
go!" Saunders snapped. ***** Arkansas,
USA, 1984 The
emaciated face from the newspaper photo had filled out, and the scars had
faded and softened with time. The
hair was thinner and grayer, but still in a military-style cut.
The mouth was quirked in a wry grin, but the eyes... the eyes still radiated that warmth and love for God and man
that John remembered so well. John
had found a bulky manila envelope stuffed into the mailbox today, with the
Central Methodist College address on the return label.
His hands shook as he tore the envelope open and emptied its
contents onto the kitchen table. Several
pamphlets and booklets tumbled out, along with a single sheet of
letterhead. "Dear
John," the letter read, "in answer to your request I have
enclosed several pieces of literature authored by Rev. Paul Blackwell.
Also enclosed is the official short biographical sketch of Rev.
Blackwell that is used by the college in its prospectus and catalogue. "Although
we do not give out the addresses and phone numbers of our alumni without
their written consent, I can tell you that he pastors a church near our
campus. I hope this
information helps you in your search. "Sincerely,
"Dr.
Thomas Hannes, President" John
picked up one of the booklets and read the title, "The Love of God
Transcends the Evil of Man." Another pamphlet was titled,
"Gaining God's Victory." A third, thicker, pamphlet read,
"Living Holy In an Unholy World." He
turned one of the pamphlets over and found himself gazing into eyes that
he'd never forgotten. He'd
seen those eyes in his dreams for forty years. ***** France,
1944 "They'll
be okay," Kirby said. "They
probably already prayed the Krauts into retreat!" "Knock
it off, Kirby," Sarge barked. "Move
it!" They
were racing across an open field, heading for the cover of a hedgerow. Caje, in the lead, reached the hedgerow first, and motioned
the others to a halt. They
instantly dropped into the tall grain, their OD uniforms blending with the
ripening stalks. Caje went on
the alert, sniffing the air around him and holding his position like a
pointer dog. Then, step by
cautious step, he advanced into the trees until he was swallowed up by the
overgrowth. Sarge
crawled through the grain on his belly, tapping each soldier on the back
and pointing to where that man should position himself.
Like silent tendrils they wove their way through the grass,
creeping slowly toward the tree line.
Caje appeared, specter-like, at the edge of the hedgerow.
He motioned with his hands to indicate three enemy soldiers
approaching. Then he slid his
bayonet from the scabbard and crouched, ready to pounce. The
fight was over before it began. The
three German soldiers had no time to react or shout a warning before they
were dead. Caje let them pass
him before he struck, thrusting his knife deep into the last man's chest. Dropping him to the ground, he sprang as the second Kraut
turned in his direction. The
momentum of Caje's leap propelled him into the man, sending them both
crashing to the ground. A
look of surprise crossed the man's face just as Caje's knife tore through
him. A spurt of blood, and another life was extinguished. The
third Kraut had turned back toward his companions.
He raised his rifle, but Caje was too close for him to be able to
swing it around for a good shot. The
German smashed his rifle butt into Caje's shoulder and the scout's bayonet
flew into the underbrush. A
searing pain exploded in Caje's shoulder and he dropped back to the
ground, his left arm useless. Grimacing
and clutching his arm, he tried to roll away from the rifle aimed at his
chest. Then
the German's eyes widened in shock, and his mouth formed a silent "Ooooh."
He toppled forward, dropping his rifle at Caje's feet.
A bayonet protruded from his back, buried to the hilt in his flesh.
Littlejohn calmly stooped and pulled the bayonet out, wiping it on
the grass before re-sheathing it. Sarge
hurried to Caje's side. The
scout sat on the ground cradling his left arm and rocking back and forth,
moaning in pain. "How
bad is it?" Saunders asked. "Give
me a minute," Caje grunted. "I
think it's just bruised, but I can't feel my fingers." The
NCO opened the scout's shirt and felt the collar bone and shoulder. "I
don't think anything's broken. See
if you can move it." "It's
okay, Sarge. I'll be
okay." Caje rose to his knees, then to his feet, swaying slightly as
the pain intensified. "Here's
your bayonet, Caje," Kirby said as he handed the scout his knife. With
clumsy fingers, Caje was able to sheath the knife, then bent to pick up
his rifle. "Okay?"
Saunders asked. "Yeah,
Sarge, let's go. We gotta
find Doc so he can give me some morphine," Caje grinned. ***** Arkansas,
USA, 1984 John
sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a road atlas, shaking his head. "There's
no direct route," he sighed. "We'll
have to take a lot of state and county highways.
Looks to be about two hundred miles, if we take 65 out of
Springfield and then get on 73." His
wife looked over his shoulder. "That
looks like the best way to go," she agreed.
"When do you want to leave?" "We
have to be there for Sunday service, so we should leave on Saturday and
find a hotel in town for the night." "Fayette
looks pretty small. Do you
think they have a hotel in town?" she asked. "If
not, Jefferson City isn't that far," he mused.
"They'll have plenty to choose from there." "Are
you sure you're ready for this?"
She caressed his shoulder affectionately. He
reached around and held her hand, squeezing it gently. "I'm
not sure about anything, except that I love you," he said. "I couldn't do this without your support.
How I was ever blessed with such a wonderful wife, I'll never
know." ***** France,
1944 They had |
