The Uvalde Raider

by Ben H. English

  Snapping out short bursts from the M16 in the general direction of the enemy, Micah waded with a physical force that churned and frothed the near hip high water. Paying no mind to everything else happening around him, the Marine strode over to where the flailing aviator was trying to get back up.

  Micah grabbed him by the back of his collar, jerking him upright. He found himself surprised at how little the battered man weighed.

  “Are you hit?” bellowed Micah above the din of gunfire and mortar impacts.

  The aviator shook his head vehemently. “No…I just slipped…and fell” he rasped in reply.

  Micah noted a huge bump rising on the side of the officer’s head, crowned by an ugly gash caused by some sort of blow. Most likely it had been done by a submerged rock just under the water swirling around them. It was the kind of impact that would have knocked many a man out cold.

  “Can you move?” yelled Micah above the gunfire from both directions.

  “Watch me!” retorted the aviator in return, the fire now lit again in those dark, penetrating eyes.

  Slinging the rifle, Micah draped the man’s right arm over his own neck and grabbed him around the waist. Together as one they turned and began the bullet-laced trek back to where Micah had come from.

  As they trudged forward Micah looked up and saw Lieutenant Johnson and Chapo standing at the top of the embankment, firing their weapons rapidly toward the other side. Struggling through the water while supporting the extra weight of the injured officer, it came to Micah’s mind that just as he had gone after this man who he did not even know, a friend and another man whom he barely knew were in turn risking their own lives to come after him.

  He also knew that he could never explain adequately in words why, even if he managed to survive all of this. But they had come and he was not alone. And for as long as he might last, he would always be grateful for that.

  The Marine sergeant and the faltering aviator began to slowly climb the steep embankment, finding themselves met more than halfway by strong arms and hands that pulled them up and over the top. Those same arms and hands continued to thrust them past the brush line and into the defiladed cover Micah had found before. Once there, all four men collapsed into a spent heap close beside each other.

  Micah and the navy officer could do nothing more than breathe in huge gasps of humid jungle air. Chapo looked at them both, then at his sergeant in particular and just shook his head. Lieutenant Johnson, realizing he had survived his baptism by hostile fire, giggled nervously. The shooting from across the river began to decrease. The cover fire from the Marines above them, along with the incoming mortar rounds, continued to sweep the opposing area with fire, steel and lead as the 105s from Fox Battery finally joined in.

  As Micah began to get his breathing back under control, he glanced over at the aviator who lay there with chest heaving, still looking hard at Templar. The sergeant reached into a side pocket of his jungle utes, producing a round chocolate treat saved from his breakfast of C-rats. The grunts referred to them as “shit discs,” but the emaciated naval officer gobbled it up like it was a sixteen-ounce Kansas City steak. The Marine reached back on his war belt for one of his canteens, twisted the cap off, and handed it over. The man drank the water greedily, small rivulets running out both corners of his mouth.

  Temporarily satiated, the straggly man in the ruined flight suit leaned back and continued to stare bullet holes through the Marine as the incoming fire slacked dramatically. On their side of the river, the sounds of grenade launchers, machine guns and rifles also began to fall silent. Only the shrieks and roars of the exploding mortar and artillery rounds kept on. But they were walking away from the opposite bank, pursuing whatever was left of the enemy back to where he had come from.

  Still looking straight into Micah’s own eyes, the exhausted naval aviator finally spoke.

  “Sergeant, you have a really big mouth,” he stated in an emphatic, almost insulted tone through cracked and sunburned lips.

  “Yes sir,” replied Micah laconically. “And you are?”

  “Lieutenant JG Thomas A. Eggers III, lately of VA-164 ‘The Ghost Riders’, off the USS Hancock.” The hard look disappeared from the man’s face, replaced with a large, beaming smile. He offered a grimy right hand and Micah took it.

  “Welcome back, sir” was all that Micah could think to say.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The four of them laid there under cover for some time. Micah and the two other Marines listened to Egger’s harrowing tale of being shot down in pitch blackness and of his long journey in solitude from his crash area, traveling generally north and away from Laos.

  But the naval aviator had never really been totally by himself, the unwanted company behind him had pursued doggedly throughout his ordeal. Day and night they played an unending, torturous game of cat and mouse through the unforgiving mountains, valleys and jungles along his escape route. Each time the young LTJG thought he had lost them; they would reappear on his back trail like some mixed breed of human bloodhounds.

  The emergency rescue transmitter he was issued had been lost when he punched out of the rapidly disintegrating Skyhawk. His survival rations had given out, and his issued water did the same sometime before that. He ate what little he could find along the way, and drank wherever it looked safe enough to do so. Sleep became a lost luxury, he grabbed small, fitful naps when and where he could. The one time he managed to sleep well, he had come within an eye blink of being captured.

  This went on for over ten days, and the young pilot had just about given up hope of ever getting away when he saw the most beautiful sight in the world. It was a Marine Huey chopper off in the distance, and he knew that someone other than his enemies were in the area. On occasion, he also began to hear the far-off sounds of a ground war making its way toward him.

  Then he saw more helicopters from afar. They were a variety of Hueys, Sea Horses and Chinooks, like worker bees going to and from a hive. Eggers changed his northerly course to follow those dull green bees of salvation, and to find their hive which turned out to be Firebase Razor. He knew the NVA were hard on his heels that morning, close enough to hear them to his rear. He was searching for a relatively safe place to cross the river and struggling with the rising fear of having to expose himself in doing so, when Micah called out to him.

  Once deemed safe to do so, the four men cautiously moved out of the defilade and back through the perimeter set up by First Squad. After a ‘well done’ for all they continued up the slope, accompanied now by a corpsman who kept a sharp eye on Eggers. While off to the side, the corpsman advised Micah and Lieutenant Johnson the aviator was in far worse shape than he would allow for, and needed to be medevacked as soon as possible.

  The lieutenant and his sergeant agreed. A stretcher was brought up despite Eggers’ protestations and the corpsman started an IV feed to replace badly needed body nutrients for the wizened, sickly man. Four Marines from Third Squad were assigned to the stretcher by Lieutenant Johnson and stood ready to carry the JG up the ascent to Firebase Razor. Before leaving under the power of his newly acquired ‘four by’ mode of transportation, he asked to speak with Micah.

  ”Sergeant Templar, I just want to say thanks for everything” the JG said.

  “Well sir, I wasn’t the only one. You might say you were a community project from the get-go” replied Micah good naturedly.

  “I know Sergeant, thank the others again for me.”

  “Will do, Lieutenant,” acknowledged Micah, “and if you get the chance, you might also thank that 81 section at Razor. Those guys laid down a solid wall of bad juju and it was dead on. Without them, we would have had a really rough deal. Might also thank Fox Battery, too. Every little bit helped.”

  “I’ll do that, Sergeant” said Eggers. The aviator was silent for a moment, lost in his innermost thoughts.

  He looked up at Micah. “You know, I never really understood loneliness until that first night in Laos. The things that go thr
ough your head and what your imagination can do to you. It’s as if you’re the only one of your kind left on earth. Everything else around you is either an enemy or simply does not care, one way or the other.”

  The JG looked away from Micah for a moment, blinking rapidly several times. “Every one of you Marines took that feeling away from me today.” Once settled again, he turned back to the grunt NCO.

  “But especially you, sergeant. Because you were the one who came for me. I won’t ever forget that.”

  “For whatever I did, sir, you are welcome” replied Micah and the two men shook hands one last time.

  “Okay, Corpsman, ready to hit the road,” announced the LTJG. The Marines at each corner of the stretcher stepped off as one in the direction of Firebase Razor. The corpsman walked closely alongside, holding the IV bottle above.

  As the six men made their way up the trail, Eggers rolled partially over and looked back.

  “I still say you have a really big mouth, sergeant” the A4 driver stated in a raised voice. He waved weakly with one hand.

  Micah returned the wave and grinned. He picked up the M14, feeling the heartening surge of something really good filling him inside. The Marine sergeant savored it, as he knew that in war such feelings would not last long.

  Templar’s attention shifted to Lieutenant Johnson and Chapo standing off to the side, in deep conversation. The new lieutenant had learned a good deal today, and was proving to be an eager pupil to his seasoned veterans like Corporal Gonzales. There are all manners of education, what is learned in the classroom as well as the hard lessons of life experience. One dealt by and large in theories in the way the world should work, the other in the facts of pragmatic realities. It was a wise man indeed who sought out the value in both.

  Between the promising second lieutenant and his hard-bitten corporal a special bond was forming, a bond that few would understand and even fewer ever experience. Watching them helped Micah to more fully enjoy that uplifting feeling, and let his spirit lap up the sensation for all that it was worth.

  Because the bad times would return, in full force and making up for the space gone missing. In less than three more weeks the two men now quietly talking, the young lieutenant and his corporal, would join those other good Marines who never made it back from the Da Krong alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The outcurved clouds hung low over the southwest Texas town of Uvalde, their slate gray color speaking of the possible chance of rain to come. Already a light mist drifted around in wafts and Micah, like all native sons of this region, silently welcomed the slightest hint of moisture.

  It rained most of the time he spent in Germany, attending the funeral of Max Grephardt. Max had requested to be buried by the ruins of a small Lutheran church in a family plot, along the banks of a river called the Werra. It was explained to the Texan this immediate area had only recently re-emerged from under the iron fist of Communist control, and evidently there was an involved process to get the interment done at the site.

  But the revered Luftwaffe fighter ace, holder of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves, had possessed many friends in high places. They saw to it that his wishes were honored, as was the man himself. Max’s family mentioned to Micah this was the area where their father grew up and always wanted to return to. They said work was taking place to rebuild the old church into what it once was, as well as efforts to locate a suitable pastor to serve there. Micah well understood their innate need to do so, and why.

  Max’s family members and many friends were grateful to Micah Templar, and for his traveling so far to pay his respects while so much was happening in his own life. Furthermore, hearing firsthand about some of what had occurred and how Max died meant a great deal to them. His personal knowledge and heartfelt grieving for their kinsman provided solace, and the final defining act proved a fitting eulogy for a man who remained true to who and what he was to the very end.

  Micah saw it only as the very least he could do. Like Tio Zeke, Max Grephardt sacrificed himself and all his tomorrows for countless others who had no idea of what these two men had actually done. Nor in all likelihood would much be ever known of their other many heroisms, and just how much was really owed to both of them.

  While in Germany, Micah was haunted regularly by the same questions he had asked himself before leaving home. Questions that not only defied any clear cut answers but also evaded any adequate explanations, or any erudite words of wisdom when queried about being saved only by the ultimate, personally witnessed sacrifice of another. More than one night found him staring at a wall well into the wee hours of the morning, wrestling mightily with what recently occurred at the Bar JA as well as what happened all those years ago along the Da Krong.

  How can one ever hope to even begin to repay the memory of another for such a selfless act? For Micah the topic went far beyond that of a simple philosophical quandary, for it had been Max who deliberately stepped in front of those bullets meant for him. Much like after his final return from Vietnam, Micah Templar was now spending a good deal of time in his Bible, searching for those answers. They would not come easy and his quest would likely last for a long time to come.

  And now he was back on his own soil for another funeral, in a private cemetery west of town overlooking the Nueces River. For this was the day they buried Ezekiel Templar, a native son who had gone out into the world and made good. Though Tio Zeke had not lived in the Uvalde area for many years, he still considered this historic community home and requested in his will placement alongside his wife and son.

  They were not the only ones buried in this plot. Standing at graveside in the soft mist Micah looked around at the ranger stars, military headstones, decorative memorial markers and simple crosses that all shared one common bond, the last name of Templar. In this ground was the final resting place for many of his kin over the past hundred and fifty years. Not too far away on a solitary low rise stood a weathered stone that read ‘Blackstone Templar,’ his dates for living and dying and a simple inscription that read ‘Land worth dying for.’

  Blackstone was the first Templar who had come to Texas, at a time when it was called Tejas and under Spanish rule. There were stories still told about him around campfires and in the history books, and he set a high mark for those descendants bearing his last name. Each one in turn remained true to those same qualities, and many carried them to faraway places and into events that Blackstone himself might never have envisioned. But when their time came, one by one they returned here to take their place alongside him.

  Micah’s father, Jeremiah, rested close by, waiting with the others for the sound of that final trumpet. His was a stone inscribed with the Marine Corps emblem and the likeness of a pair of gal leg spurs.

  Tio Zeke was the latest. Of course, there was no real body to be buried, just a small jar of ashes emplaced inside a casket. It had to be that way, as his body had been part of a hazardous materials operation without parallel. What could be recovered was systematically incinerated and reduced to ashes to avoid any possible contamination.

  The rest burned at the scene, other than those fragmentary remains gathered up while being mixed in with Texas Hill Country dirt, sand and rock. There were many who might have been bothered by this, who in this situation probably wanted more to place in that freshly dug grave. But Ezekiel Templar would have understood, and Micah and the rest of his family knew that what was left was more than enough.

  Faith ran strong in the Templar blood. Each one in his own way or another had realized that no man, no matter how proud or self-reliant, ever stood so tall as when on bended knee before His Maker. Some of them, like Jeremiah, had ridden a dark trail and suffered great loss to get to that realization. Then there were those like Gideon Hood Templar, whom no one was really sure about except maybe for himself.

  In his own faith Micah learned the body of a man is only a temporary shell in which the spirit resides. His father had taught him that early on and as he grew
older, Micah held fast to that belief for all the years of his adulthood. He knew he would see Tio Zeke again, same as he would see Max Grephardt, Amos A. Johnson, Enrique ‘Chapo’ Gonzales and so many others who had meant so much to him during his life’s journey on this earth.

  Because each in their individual walks shared that same core system of beliefs, so much so that in the end they proved willing to die for them. A man wasn’t just a lump of soil and clay that went away when his body returned to whence it came. He was far more than that, especially a good man and he lived on in ways that stretched on through the eternities. That was the way it was, you either believed or you didn’t.

  As those who had come to pay their last respects gathered round, Micah and the other pall bearers took their places behind the hearse. Once the casket was put in place at graveside, he made his way to where his immediate family waited. His two sons, both in their Marine blues, stood on either side of Abby adorned in a black dress. Behind them were Solomon and Kate Zacatecas, with Jamie Zacatecas beside his mother in his midshipman’s winter uniform. Other family members, both close and distant, flanked out into the swirling mist.

  The aged Baptist preacher had spoken over Templars before and had known Tio Zeke for most of his life. His words were simple and direct, reflecting the intimate knowledge of a man whom he both respected as well as admired. Micah reflected that when his time came, he hoped that whoever spoke over him was as knowledgeable on the subject. Be they words good or bad, a man deserved honest ones when this chapter of living was done.

  After the pastor was finished there was a short pause. The honor guard was called to attention and three crisp volleys of rifle fire echoed out toward the Nueces. Seconds later the slow, sad notes of Taps filled the air. The mournful lament of the lone bugle carried something that ventured far beyond what words alone could ever convey. Micah had heard those same melancholy notes too many times before. As he grew older, they only seemed to grip harder down deep inside.