Bridge to Haven (12 page)

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 caught 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 worried 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.

Tell Abra I love her. I dream about her sometimes. Tell her I’m sorry I’m not writing much. The truth is, I don’t know what to say to her anymore. I live in a world so different from hers, and I don’t want to invite her into it. All she needs to know is I love her. I’m still doing my best to serve God and my country. I’m alive.