"Jesus reproved His disciples, He warned and cautioned them; but John and his brethren did not leave Him; they chose Jesus, notwithstanding the reproofs. The Saviour did not withdraw from them because of their weakness and errors. They continued to the end to share His trials and to learn the lessons of His life. By beholding Christ, they became transformed in character. . . . " 18
George shivered in the unaccustomed cold.
Waking in the morning, he stared at a cold, gray, rain soaked
world and groaned. Billy woke at the same time, but was more cheerful
and sanguine about their prospects.
“Good morning, Daddy,” he said
cheerfully, too cheerfully for his father who was definitely unaccustomed
to sleeping on the ground even on a thick layer of straw.
They spent three days in the barn as the
rain continued falling. The first morning, rummaging among some
moldy boxes at the back of the barn, George made two astonishing
discoveries, three actually. Despite the ferocity of the fire,
the barn was relatively undamaged. He praised the Lord for his
providential protection.
His second discovery was even more encouraging.
Beneath several boxes of discarded fruit jars, rusty nails and
assorted tools, he unearthed a dirty trunk containing several
pairs of overhauls, farmers shirts, and work boots The pants and
shirts were the wrong sizes, but they managed to wear them anyway.
After they changed, discarding their wet and dirty clothes, they
resembled two scare crows, but they were warm and dry.
Hunger drove George to make his third discovery
of the day. Digging further among the boxes and crates, he was
astonished to find a partial barrel of ripe apples. Never one
for eating fruit, he relished the apples, savoring every mouthful.
Neither of them complained of a steady diet of fruit for three
days, they were simply too happy to complain of the fare providence
had provided them in such an unexpected manner.
The second day, after entering the barn,
the rain ceased which George took as an omen to begin their hike
out to civilization. He could only image what Grace must be thinking,
her fears and prayers must be intense.
They left the next morning and walked all
that day in the strength of more apples until they reached an
undamaged stretch of road. George had no idea in which direction
they were headed, for the smoke and mists still obscured the sky
so thoroughly that he could not discern the sun, or the direction
of their travel.
Late in the afternoon, they heard the sound
of a tractor approaching, and shortly thereafter, met a farmer
who was as surprised to see them as they were glad to see him.
Offering them a ride, he took them to the vicinity of the Trust
general store, which was now only a pile of ashes but which also
served as a local communications center for the many volunteers
who were combing the woods for survivors. Here they met Hans and
Henry early in the evening for a truly happy and satisfying reunion
for all concerned. Even Henry was satisfied with the outcome of
their adventure.
* * *
Chet reveled in the cool breezes and beauty
of the country side as the truck rumbled along the mountain road.
Eighteen years old, light brown hair, freckled nose, he still
possessed a boyish charm that girls found irresistible. His smile
warmed many a famine heart while his athletic build was the envy
of football players.
“I’ve got a athletic scholarship
to Michigan State,” Chet was saying, as the truck swayed
rhythmically over the rough roads, “as soon as I’m discharged,
I’m headed for collage. The coach says, after several years
experience, I could be good enough for the pros.”
The other occupant of the army truck, gazed
at the passing scenery with mild curiosity, rifle slung over his
shoulder, he chewed a wad of gum. Also eighteen, wearing the distinctive
blue beret of the United Nations Forces command in Bosnia, he
was taller by a head then Chet, but considerably heavier despite
rigorous army discipline and training.
“Me,” Alex confided to his buddy,
“why I ain’t got so much as a family to go home to.
I’ve decided to make the army my life. Sarge says I can reenlist
next month, can select my own speciality. Think I might choose
communications. I liked to tinker with shortwave sets when I was
living in the orphanage.” Pointing to a tall transmitting
tower on a hill top several miles from the road, he said, “I
would love to get my hands on that equipment. They say its so
powerful, the Martians can hear us breath.”
Chet laughed, then shifted his rifle, removing
a pouch of chewing tobacco from his shirt pocket and inserting
a pinch into his cheek.
“How can you chew that stuff, I thought
players weren’t allowed to chew.”
Chet smiled broadly. “I picket up the
habit while I was in basic training. Sarge doesn’t like it,
but then he ain’t here to cuss me out, besides, when I get
home, I’ll quit.”
“When I signed up,” Alex spoke
sadly, shielding his face from the wind which was freshening as
the truck, part of a multi-truck convoy of ammunition and supplies,
ascended the steep road, “I didn’t expect to be sent
here,” he gestured at the heavily forested mountains and
ravines they were passing.
“Sure is beautiful, though,” Chet
commented with admiration, “reminds me of the mountains back
home.”
“I thought you was from Kansas, they
don’t have mountains in Kansas,” Alex observed.
“I was born in Kansas,” Chet replied,
“but my Daddy moved to New Mexico when I was six. They got
real mountains out there.”
The UN convoy of eighteen trucks and two
jeeps, ferrying supplies from the base camp to the communications
outpost, was making slow time up the steep ascent on the winding,
rutted dirt road.
Forty seven men and 52 tons of food, uniforms,
medicines, ammunition, and assorted miscellaneous gear for the
250 man garrison was being transported as part of the peacekeeping
mission in this troubled corner of the world.
“I head the Serbs ambushed a convoy
the other day,” Chet commented causally, “killed or
wounded most of the men. If this is a war, I wish someone would
declare it, so we can get on with our job of securing this area.”
“Can you understand that Polish officer,
Wajinski, is that his name,” Alex asked? “I can never
remember how to pronounce it, even the Sarge has trouble with
it.”
“Why can’t they give us American
officers,” Chet complained. “At least a guy can make
sense of their orders.”
Alex grunted. “If a guy is going to
get killed defending some stupid country that nobody wants, anyway,
better have American officers who understand you then these jerks.
Besides, they don’t know nothing about war.”
Chet laughed sarcastically, then waved to
a peasant woman who was wearing a blue scarf and long, flowing
blue skirt.
“Did you get a look at her face,”
Alex asked?
“No. But she looked young. I didn’t
think civilians lived in this area. Wonder where she’s from.”
“I was talking to a man last week,
think he was a Croat, but couldn’t tell, he spoke broken
English, but we managed to communicate, after a fashion,”
Alex replied. “Seemed like a nice guy, said he was a farmer,
but the Serbs came and stole his crops, burned down his house,
killed his pigs, and raped his wife. Can you believe that?”
Chet shrugged. “Everybody over here
seems to hate someone or something, always fighting and bickering.
Why don’t they just draw straws and let the looser have the
country, then they can stop all this killing and go back to planting
corn.”
“Do they raise corn here,” Alex
asked out of curiosity?
“I don’t know what they raise.
They could raise marijuana for all I know or care. Me, I just
wanna go home, play football, and marry a cute girl.”
“Got any one picket out,” Alex
asked?
Chet shrugged. “There’s lots of
pretty faces on campus, a guy can have his pick.”
The convoy paused in a narrow defile between
a forested hillside to the left and a steep rock wall to the right
as the lead truck attempted to bypass an especially deep pot whole.
Each man instinctively grasped his rifle, ever alert for snipers.
“Perfect place for an ambush,”
Chet observed, scanning the rock ledges, “beautiful though,
I should have brought my camera.”
Both men expected it, therefore, at the
first shots, they dropped behind the little protection the food
crates afforded, as bullets whizzed overhead.
Firing broke out all along the convoy as
men sought whatever shelter they could find while endeavoring
to locate the enemy who was hidden high up on the mountain side
behind a dense growth of trees and brush. Probably well dug in,
they thought, as the first mortar rounds fell among the trucks.
“Where are they,” Chet cursed,
his heart pounding in fear and rage?
A machine gun started firing at the lead
truck. Officers shouted orders in a language neither man could
understand. The truck jerked violently as a mortar struck the
left front fender, killing the driver and knocking the vehicle
sideways in the road.
Chet and Alex began firing indiscriminately
at the hillside, hoping they could hold off the attackers until
relief arrived from the camp which was scarcely two miles away.
Certainly the Polish commander had radioed a request for help?
Chet could see men, wearing dark clothes,
moving down the mountain side, darting from tree to tree as they
fired at him. Their trying to enfilade us, he thought, glancing
at the trucks behind them.
The noise, confined between the rock wall
and mountain side, was terrific. Explosions resounded off the
stone cliff, burning pieces of rubber and metal fragments rained
down everywhere, as, one by one, the trucks were hit and destroyed.
Alex’s mouth felt like cotton, as fear
gnawed at his stomach. His muscles tensed as he fired methodically
at the men who had now gained the lower slops of the mountains.
Bullets ripped through the thin wooden siding of his truck. Sounding
like hail, they tore through the crates.
Now he could hear the screams of the wounded,
feel the heat of burning fuel tanks, smell diesel fuel and burning
rubber, and he knew they were in desperate trouble.
Firing, reloading, firing, crouching, Alex
concentrated his full attention upon a man partially hidden by
a rock who was firing a bazooka.
“Come on,” he cursed, “show
yourself and die.”
He could see the end of the tube, bobbing
up and down, as the man readied another round. Alex leveled his
rifle at the spot where he assumed the man would appear to fire
his weapon.
A sharp crack momentarily distracted him,
but leveling his full concentration upon the man behind the rock,
he gently squeezed the trigger at the precise moment a head appeared.
Alex was intensely satisfied with his first kill of the Bosnian
war. But it would be his last. Somebody had declared war but had
neglected to inform Alex.
* * *
A woman’s voice, low and melodious
was cooing a lullaby to her baby who could be seen smiling up
at its mother. Holding the infant close to her breast, the mother
spoke, “fret not, dearest, take your rest, your future is
in good hands, except for those mean-spirited Republicans, your
happiness is secure, but Victor will care for you while Mommy
is away. His heart is big for babies and children. The Protovich
administration will provide for your future and defend you from
the dark forces who would destroy it. Protovich loves you, my
dearest, but those hard-hearted Republicans, lead by their stingy
candidate will pollute your drinking water, destroy your food,
tax us into poverty, and rob us of our love for you. Shame on
him, my dearest little one, shame on those selfish, greedy Republicans.
Victor B. Petrovitch was sent by God to preserve your happiness.”
A man’s calm, reassuring voice spoke
over the picture of the baby, who was vigorously waving its little
arms and smiling contentedly, urging support for Victor B. Protovich,
savior of our children.
Molly turned off the television as her husband
entered the house and washed his hands at the sink. “Them
Democrats sure are anxious to elect their candidate,” her
husband observed?
Molly frowned. “I don’t know what
to think. I like Baines and what he stands for, but Republicans
just don’t understand our concerns. Protovich has proposed
several agriculture reforms that will boost our income, increase
the subsidies, reduce our taxes. I’ve heard that he even
proposed increased day care subsidies, so Brenda can work instead
of staying home with her baby. J.P. tries to earn enough to support
his family but they need her income, also.
Her husband didn’t respond as he scanned
the mail.
“We can’t make it on the farm
income, either,” Molly sighed, not wanting to insult her
husband. But she was worried. “Under his proposals, Brenda
could afford to go to work, knowing that their kids are provided
for during the day, but those Republicans want to cut day care,
reduce farm subsidies, and raise taxes. How can we live if Baines
is elected.”
Herb tossed the mail aside and seated himself
at the kitchen table. Accepting a cup of coffee from his wife
he furrowed his brow in concentration. “Time’s sure
are getting harder these days. This here rain has nearly ruined
the ‘baccer crop. That Green fellow, down the road, says
he’s lost everything, wiped out, but he thinks the government
will help him. Says disaster relief will cover his crop loss.”
“That’s what I mean,” Molly
replied. “Only Democrats understand the problems us farmers
have while them mean-spirited Republicans want to cut subsidies,
let the market determine the prices we get for our crops. If that
happens, we couldn’t afford to plant another crop next spring.”
The small, sun tanned woman brushed a wisp of gray hair off her
wrinkled forehead as she considered their future under a Republican
administration.
“Besides your getting too old to work
at them factories in town,” she continued. “The only
thing we know is farming. We gotta support the Democrats. They
look out for the little feller like us.”
Herb removed his faded hat, tossing it on
top of the wood stove that sat in the corner, then reclined in
his chair to study his thoughts. Old, like his wife, stout of
build, wearing bib overhauls, large, gnarled hands firmly planted
deep in his pockets, he gazed absently at the wall.
“Things are getting bad, Molly, not
just for us but for everyone. I hear talk about an economic slow
down, don’t believe it none, the economy seems in good condition,
but kids just can’t find work around here anymore.”
Scratching his chin, while Molly remained quiet, he swore in exasperation.
“Politicians, their all alike, promise you the sky, then
raise taxes.”
“But Protovich has promised free day
care and universal medical insurance. We ain’t getting any
younger. We need all the help we can get. The Democrats is offering
plenty this time around.”
A cloud passed between the sun, casting
a shadow over the dining room, as husband and wife talked on.
“Want another cup of coffee,”
Molly inquired?”
“Sure could use some,” Herb replied.
“I hear that Middle East war is going badly for the Jews,
sure hope the President helps them. I sure would hate to see them
Jews killed like Hitter did to them in the second world war.
Molly was perplexed Interrupting her husband,
she asked, “seems like the water ain’t working, have
a look at it, will ya Herb?”
Herb reluctantly rose and walked toward
the door. Grasping the knob, he attempted to shove the door outward,
but it wouldn’t budge. Momentarily perplexed, he tried again
with the same results. “Something’s blocking the door.
Must have left my tool box on the porch.” He shoved again
but the door remained obstinately closed.
“What’s the matter,” Molly
asked, as she sliced potatoes for their noon meal. “Turn
on the lights, will you, its getting dark outside.”
He flicked the light switch next to the
door but nothing happened. “We’ve got a power failure,”
he said, pushing against the door with his shoulder.
Molly walked toward the cupboard for a plate
then shrieked.
“What’s gotten into you, woman,”
Herb said, allowing his irritation to show?
“Look,” she said, pointing to
the window.
Herb stared at it in disbelief. Only moments
earlier, he had watched his few remaining cows munching on dry
grass, now the window was obscured by a wall of dirt and rocks.
“What is it,” Molly asked in fear.
“Don’t know,” Herb replied
on his way to the front door. But it too was blocked. With mounting
frustration and not a little fear, he made the rounds of the house
only to find that every exist was blocked by a wall of dirt. Seizing
a flashlight, he lowered the trap door to the attic and ascended
the steps. Molly listened to him moving toward the back of the
house where she knew there was a boarded up window. She could
hear him pounding at the boards, heard the nails pulling loose,
heard the boards drop to the floor and listened to his muttered
curses.
Regaining her sense, she ran for the telephone,
but it was dead.
Herb reappeared in the kitchen, a hammer
in his hand, and a puzzled look on his face.
“What is it,” Molly demanded again?
“We seem to be in a whole,” her
husband replied. “I can see the sky when I stuck my head
out of the window, but the house seems to be surrounded by walls
of dirt and rock, like we just sunk into the ground.”
Molly stared at him, her mouth open in disbelief.
“I think I can get on the roof, maybe...”
Molly interrupted him, pointing to a pool
of muddy brown water that was rapidly over spreading the kitchen.
Seizing her arm, Herb led his wife to the
attic steps as the water, now flooding into their house, rose
rapidly around their ankles.
Hesitating only for a moment, Molly followed
her husband into the darkened interior of the attic, careful not
to step between the rafters, she followed him in the illumination
provided by his flashlight to the open window.
Herb eased himself through the small opening,
gingerly stepping on the slopping shingled roof over the kitchen
then helped Molly through the window.
They were certainly in a whole, figuratively
and literally. Like a pebble at the bottom of a post whole, the
house sat at the bottom of an eighty foot deep whole, surrounded
on all sides by solid ground. Looking down, Molly was astonished
to see water rising to the bottom of the kitchen windows.
“Hay, Herb, what are you doing down
there.”
They looked up to see Sam Green’s face
staring at them from over the edge of the pit.”
“That’s a stupid question,”
Herb hollered up at his friend. “Get us out of here before
we drown.”
The county rescue squad arrived moments
later. Molly then Herb were drawn up to the surface in time to
watch their house being submerged under water.
The sink whole and the misfortunes of Herb
and Molly made the news all across America that evening. The next
day, accompanied by a group of reporters, they returned to their
home to find a pair of Herb’s shoes floating in the lake
where only yesterday their house stood.
Herb embraced his wife as she shed tears
over the loss of their home. “I never dreamed the ground
would sink beneath us, this way,” she cried softly. In the
pasture, their cows chewed their cud contentedly, undisturbed
by the human tragedy.
Geologists began an intensive examination
of the ground in the vicinity of Herb’s house, finding at
least a dozen other potential sink wholes, many of which were
under occupied buildings. As Herb watched his neighbors evacuating
their supposedly secure homes, possessions loaded on trucks and
in trailers, he echoed his wife’s sentiments. Solid ground,
he scoffed, solid ground, indeed.
