Bridge to Haven Page 7

  Write soon. I love you.

  Abra

  Zeke entered Bessie’s café and found the booths all full of early morning customers. He spotted Dutch on a stool at the counter and took one next to him. “Good morning.”

  Susan Wells stood a few yards away, jotting down an order. She glanced at Zeke. “Be right with you, Pastor Freeman.”

  Dutch looked at him solemnly. “Any word from that boy of yours?”

  “He’s in Texas, training to be a medic.”

  Dutch rubbed his head and rested his arms on the counter. “Not much I can say to that, is there?” He sipped his coffee.

  “How’s Marjorie?”

  “She won’t set a date yet.”

  Zeke knew what the problem was. “Have you put away Sharon’s picture?”

  Dutch frowned as though thinking about it. “Is that what’s bothering her?”

  Bessie came out of the kitchen with plates stacked up her arm and delivered the breakfast platters to a booth near the front. “Mornin’, Zeke. Susan, see he gets what he wants.”

  Susan set a mug in front of Zeke and filled it with steaming hot coffee. She refilled Dutch’s. A bell sounded, and Susan headed for the kitchen.

  She came back and asked Zeke if he was ready to order. He said he’d like the lumberjack breakfast with orange juice. She didn’t linger.

  Dutch watched her go. “I don’t think she likes you.”

  “I make her nervous.”

  He laughed. “You used to make me nervous, too. I knew you were after my soul.” Dutch raised his hand for the check. “Gotta get back to work.” Susan put his bill on the counter in front of him. As she headed for the register, Dutch stood and slapped Zeke on the back. “Good luck, my friend. I think you’re going to need it.”

  Zeke took Joshua’s latest letter out of his jacket pocket. He’d read it a dozen times already and would read it a dozen more before he received another.

  He wondered what war would do to Joshua. Some men survived physically, but came home soul-wounded. Gil MacPherson still had episodes of deep depression. The onset of the Korean War had stirred up his nightmares again. The poor man still dreamed of the carnage of Normandy and friends who’d died there, one in his arms. Several others manifested battle fatigue in lesser degrees. Michael Weir worked constantly, leaving his wife alone and lonely. Patrick McKenna drank heavily.

  Oh, Lord, my son, my son . . .

  His son was a man of peace being called into war. He’d be in the middle of the fighting, traveling with his unit, carrying medical supplies. He had to be ready to give emergency aid to the wounded. Zeke had to remind himself frequently that no matter what happened, Joshua would never be lost. His future was safe and secure, even if his body wasn’t. Despite knowing that, fear could be a relentless enemy, attacking him when he was tired and most vulnerable.

  “A letter from your son?”

  Startled, Zeke glanced up. Susan held his breakfast platter and a pot of coffee. “Yes.” He folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

  She set his plate down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “I see it as a kindness that you did.” He smiled. “He’s doing well, but asking for prayer that he will be up to the job they’re giving him.”

  “What job will he have?”

  “Medic.”

  “Oh.” She closed her eyes.

  Her reaction allowed one of Satan’s darts to get through a chink in his armor. Fear clawed at him. Lord! Zeke prayed. Lord, I know You love him even more than I do. “God is sovereign, even in times of war.” He took up the napkin and unrolled the silverware.

  “You’re not afraid for him?”

  “Oh, I know fear, but every time it hits me, I pray.”

  “Prayer never did me any good.” Her expression grew troubled. “But I guess God listens to ministers more than someone like me.” She moved away before he could comment, and she kept her distance. She filled his cup one more time and left his check on the counter. Zeke left enough to cover breakfast and a generous tip. He turned over the check and wrote, God listens to everyone, Susan.

  1951

  Dear Joshua,

  Peter said training to be a medic means you will be going to Korea. Is that true? I hope he’s wrong about that. If he isn’t, I hope the war ends before you finish training! Peter listens to the news every night, and Edward R. Murrow never says anything good about Korea.

  Christmas was nice. Mitzi helped with the pageant. Mr. Brubaker played piano this year. Did you know he used to be a concert pianist? Mitzi says he played at Carnegie Hall. She told Priscilla and Peter I should take lessons from him once a week. I asked her if she wants to get rid of me. She says we can concentrate on ragtime now. Penny and I went to Cinderella.

  Other than that, I study and do my chores and practice piano like a good little girl. That is the sum total of my boring, pathetic life. Haven is the dullest town on earth.

  When I grow up, I am moving far away to a big city. You will have to come and visit me in New York or New Orleans and see the Mardi Gras! Maybe I’ll go to Hollywood and become a movie star. I want to live somewhere exciting where people have fun! You owe me two letters now.

  Love, Abra

  Abra came home from Mitzi’s after a long lesson with Mr. Brubaker. Priscilla greeted her and went on peeling potatoes. “There’s a letter from Joshua on your bed.”

  Abra ran upstairs. She hadn’t seen or heard from Joshua since he came home on leave before Thanksgiving. He had taken her to Bessie’s Corner Café once, and she felt oddly shy with him. He looked different. He stood straighter and seemed older, more reserved. He wasn’t a boy anymore, and she was very aware of their five-year age difference. She had never before been tongue-tied with Joshua, nor felt the strange swirling tingles in her stomach when he looked at her.

  Dumping her books on the desk, she grabbed for the thin blue- and red-striped military mailer. She tore it open carefully. Only a few lines this time.

  Dear Abra,

  By the time you read this, I’ll be in the air and on my way to Korea. I told Dad I didn’t want anyone knowing I had my orders. It would have spoiled my time at home. I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye. I thought it best at the time. Now I’m sorry I didn’t.

  I’m praying you will fix your mind steadfastly on Jesus and trust Him no matter what happens. God has a plan for each of us, and this is His plan for me. I will do my best to fulfill my duty and come home in one piece.

  Please thank your mom for the picture.

  I’ll love you forever.

  Joshua

  Abra wept.

  Zeke took his place in the pastor’s chair to the right of the pulpit as Abra finished a medley of hymns and the congregation settled into their seats. Abra’s playing had improved markedly since Ian Brubaker had begun working with her. She played with more skill than Marianne ever had, but mechanical skill could not replace the outpouring of one’s spirit into the music. Zeke prayed as he watched and listened. Lord, what will it take to open this child’s heart to the depth, breadth, and height of Your love for her?

  Zeke spotted a new face among the familiar. Susan Wells sat in the back pew, moving slightly to the right to hide behind the Beamers and the Callaghans. Zeke almost smiled, but thought better of it. Let her think he hadn’t noticed her. He didn’t want her to slip out the door and run away. She had been running for a long time, and she looked weary of it.

  Opening his Bible, Zeke turned to the Sermon on the Mount. Pages rustled as Zeke began to read aloud. “‘Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.’”

  Everyone sat waiting as Zeke sent up a silent plea for the Lord to give him the words that needed to be said, and then he began to speak. Ross Beamer settled back in the pew, and Zeke ca
ught a glimpse of Susan behind him. Nothing showed in her face, but he sensed her brokenness and yearning.

  His heart ached at what he saw in her expression. Would she be gone before he had an opportunity to welcome her? Perhaps others would offer friendship if she wouldn’t accept it from him.

  The service was at an end. People stood and moved toward the center aisle as Abra played the postlude. Zeke thought Susan would be gone before he passed the last pew, but she was hedged in by little old Fern Daniels, who always kept watch for newcomers. Mitzi would be along soon, too. Zeke hoped their focused, loving attention wouldn’t frighten Susan away. He stood outside, shaking hands and speaking with parishioners as they filed out of the church. Most thanked him, made kind observations, or chatted briefly before heading for the fellowship hall, where refreshments awaited.

  Marjorie Baxter slipped her arm through Dutch’s as they reached him. “We have good news, Zeke.” She looked happy. So did Dutch.

  “I saw the Haven Chronicle announcement of your engagement. Congratulations.”

  Fern Daniels had Susan by the arm as she introduced her to Mrs. Vanderhooten and Gil and Sadie MacPherson. They all moved toward the front door. Susan avoided looking at him. Fern smiled brightly. “Zeke, I want you to meet Susan Wells. Susan . . .”

  “We’ve met,” Susan said, and Fern looked surprised and then so interested, Susan was quick to explain. “I work at Bessie’s Corner Café. Pastor Freeman comes in for breakfast a couple times a week.”

  “Oh, no one calls him Pastor Freeman, dear. He’s Pastor Zeke to everyone in town.” She gave him a motherly pat. “We’re all family around here, and we’d love to have you join us.”

  “I’m just visiting, ma’am.”

  “Well, of course you are. You visit as many times as you want. Oh, and here’s our little Abra. Honey, come on over here.” She beckoned. “Susan, this is Abra Matthews. Isn’t she a marvelous piano player?”

  “Yes. She is.”

  “Not as good as Ian Brubaker, Mrs. Daniels.” Abra shook hands with Susan.

  “Oh, stuff and nonsense.” Fern waved the comment away like a pesky fly. “He went to Juilliard. You shine, too.” She leaned toward Susan. “Abra’s been playing since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. She used to be scared half to death sitting up there in front, but she just keeps getting better every week.” Fern looked around for others to introduce. Susan seemed ready to duck for cover.

  “Mitzi! Come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Zeke chuckled. “You’ll be fine, Susan. They don’t bite.”

  Mitzi and Fern both guided Susan toward the fellowship hall.

  Abra lingered. “Have you heard anything from Joshua, Pastor Zeke?”

  Joshua was the only common ground they trod. “I had a short letter that said he made it to Japan and would be transported by ship across the Korean Strait to Pusan. How about you?”

  “Nothing.” She looked worried. “Peter said Hoengseong was destroyed. Joshua wouldn’t be there, would he? Peter said the Communists were overrunning our units like a human wave.”

  Zeke had been reading the paper and listening to news broadcasts, too. “Hoengseong is in the middle of South Korea. He wouldn’t have been there when the battle happened, though he may have gone in after. He didn’t say whether he’d be with a unit or in an aid station. We’ll just have to wait until he writes, and pray God keeps him safe.”

  She looked angry now, close to tears. “Well, I hope God hears you. He’s never listened to me.” Turning away, she rushed down the steps.

  Joshua had only been in country a week and already felt dead on his feet. And it got worse every day. He’d never been so tired in his life. The advance on Chipyong-ni and mountains to the southeast had been grueling. His back and legs screamed for relief. The terrain was rough, the temperature barely warming to fifty degrees by midday. Joshua carried a metal kit, pouches, and an M1911 .45 ACP he would only use to save himself or a patient.

  He’d already been warned Communists didn’t respect the Geneva Convention and would use the red cross on his white helmet as a bull’s-eye. As a precaution, he covered it with mud, but rain just washed it away. He’d been pinned down more than once, enemy fire plucking the ground around him. His comrades said they were lucky the Commies were lousy shots, but Joshua credited God and whatever band of angels He’d sent for keeping him alive.

  Gunfire came from the hill above. Joshua dove for cover. “Keep your heads down!” Grenades were flung up the hill. A man cried out and went down. An explosion hit nearby. Surging to his feet, Joshua bent low and ran uphill to get to the fallen man.

  “Boomer!” They’d prayed together and talked about their families back home. Boomer’s folks raised corn and eight kids, five of whom were sons, back in Iowa. Boomer shared Joshua’s faith, but he’d had a feeling things wouldn’t go well for him today. He’d given Joshua a letter to send home if anything happened to him. Joshua had it in his jacket pocket.

  Boomer lay sprawled on his back, a red blossom in the center of his chest, his eyes wide-open, staring up at the steel-gray sky. Joshua gently closed them as a machine gun rat-a-tatted. Explosions shook the ground on which he knelt. He heard other men cry out.

  “Medic!” someone shouted from higher up the hill. Joshua snapped the chain around Boomer’s neck. He wedged one dog tag between Boomer’s two front teeth and pocketed the other. Shifting his pack, he made the run. Two men had been shot. Joshua called for help, signaling another medic to take the closest wounded while he headed for the one farther up. Bullets pelted the ground around him. He saw a blast from above, heard shouts and screams. Heart pounding, legs burning with exertion, he kept running, fixing his mind on reaching the men who needed him.

  Abra hadn’t received a letter from Joshua in a month, and all Peter could talk about was the number of men dying in Korea. He turned on the radio the minute he came in the door, eager to hear the latest news reports. President Truman had relieved General MacArthur of duty. The Communist Chinese forces drove through the 2nd, 3rd, 7th, and 24th divisions and on toward Seoul while MacArthur faced congressional hearings for his outspoken views on how the war should be fought.

  Joshua’s last letter had been short, almost perfunctory, as though he wrote out of duty. He asked about her. Had she worked things out with Penny? Life was too short to carry a grudge. He hadn’t answered any of her questions about his life as a soldier or his friends or what was happening around him. And Pastor Zeke wasn’t sharing his letters anymore. She had been rude to him. Maybe this was his way of punishing her.

  When she apologized, he still wouldn’t let her read Joshua’s letters. “I’m not withholding them out of spite, Abra. Joshua writes different things to me than he does to you. That’s all.”

  She grew even more determined with that. “That’s why we’ve been sharing, isn’t it?”

  “Some things you don’t need to know.”

  “Like what?”

  “What it’s like to be in the middle of a battle.”

  “You could tell me something, couldn’t you?”

  “I can tell you Joshua needs your prayers. I can tell you he’s been transferred to an aid station near the front.”

  Peter thought being in an aid station sounded safer than being on a battlefield. “At least he’s not running with a unit and taking fire.” She worried less until she overheard him talking to the next-door neighbor about the Communists targeting MASH units. She didn’t have to ask if that meant Joshua might be in danger. She had nightmares of him lying in a casket and being lowered into a hole in the ground next to Marianne Freeman’s marble headstone.

  Priscilla awakened her in the middle of the night. “I heard you crying.”

  Abra went into her arms, sobbing.

  Penny, bleary-eyed, stood in the doorway. “Is she okay, Mom?”

  “Just a nightmare, honey. Go on back to bed.” Priscilla’s arms tightened around Abra, and she spoke softly. “I know you’re wor
ried about Joshua, Abra. We all are. All we can do is pray.” Priscilla did just that as Abra clung to her. She could only hope the God who hadn’t been there for her wouldn’t let Joshua down.

  Staring into the darkness outside her bedroom window, she prayed, too.

  If You let him die, God, I’ll hate You forever. I swear I will.

  Dear Dad,

  It’s been rough. Had no sleep for 92 hours. Woke up a little while ago in the tent barracks and didn’t know how I got here. Joe said I collapsed. I don’t remember anything. Gil often comes to mind. I understand him better now. I pray for him every time I think of it.

  I’m under orders to rest for eight more hours, but I wanted to get a letter off to you. It may be a while before I can write again.

  I thought the freezing rain and snows were bad, but now we have the heat. Insects are a problem, fleas the worst. Every patient we get in from the front is infested. We have to dust and spray them with DDT. Every Korean in the country is infested with worms and parasites. The minute a doc opens up a Korean patient, worms start crawling out, some more than two feet long. The docs just drop them into a bucket.

  We’re short on water, and what’s available is polluted with night soil. Lots of men down with dysentery and enteric fever. Even had a couple of cases of encephalitis. Lots of refugees in poverty, hungry, looking for shelter anywhere they find it and living in filth. Women turn to prostitution to survive. Every soldier who goes looking for “comfort” comes back with VD. Doc is doing short-arm inspections on every man coming back from leave.

  I have my pocket Gideon Bible on me at all times and read it every chance I get. It calms me, gives me hope. Men call me “Preacher,” and not in the mocking way they did in boot camp. When death hunts men, they look for God. They want to hear the gospel.

  Pray for me, Dad. I’ve seen so many die, I no longer feel anything when it happens. It’s probably just as well, though. I need a cool head. I need to work fast. One dies, but another waits on a gurney.