A Quilt for Jenna

by Patrick E. Craig

  “I retract my statement, Maggot Springer,” said the Sergeant. “I believe you when you say you will fight. Carry on.”

  And with that, the Gunnery Sergeant turned on his heel and walked away. Bobby and Reuben looked at each other in amazement.

  “I think you just passed a big test, my friend,” Bobby said.

  CHAPTER 20

  Looking Up

  THE LITTLE GIRL HEARD A SOUND, like a scraping at the window. She opened her eyes and looked up. The side window of the car was in front of her, and she could see something moving outside, brushing the snow away from the glass. The movement outside the car continued, and suddenly the little girl was looking up into the most beautiful face she had ever seen. The eyes in the face stared back at her, and the mouth opened in surprise.

  Bobby Halverson loved the Marines. To him it was the most natural thing in the world to endure rigorous training that strengthened mind and body to achieve a goal—in this case, to defeat an enemy that threatened his country’s way of life.

  The five weeks of boot camp was the most gut-wrenching and painful experience most of the men in his platoon had ever endured. For Bobby, it was heaven. He loved every minute of it because he had an inbred sense of discipline and order. Bobby understood that the best way to accomplish a great task was to put yourself under the direction of those who understood it completely and whose only desire was to impart that knowledge to you. He saw clearly the necessity of learning to obey orders without question—not the orders of foolish men but of those who had established themselves as effective leaders and who led by example. Bobby flourished during boot camp and soon became a squad leader, receiving a meritorious promotion for demonstrating leadership.

  The Marine experience was much more difficult for Reuben. He had grown up in a culture that taught its followers that to harm other men was wrong. He was also a free thinker whose mind grasped the sublime concepts in great writing, music, and art. The day-after-day repetitive teaching techniques of the Marine drill instructors wore him down. He didn’t lag behind and was among the best in any task, but his heart wasn’t in it the way Bobby’s was. Not until they came to rifle training did Reuben begin to excel. From the moment he was issued his M1903 Springfield, Reuben demonstrated a skill that showed a long familiarity with rifles.

  “I thought you Amish guys didn’t know about guns,” Bobby said one night as they lay in their bunks.

  “Just because we don’t kill people doesn’t mean we don’t know about guns,” Reuben replied. “The Amish have been hunting the woods of Pennsylvania and Ohio since we came here in the seventeen hundreds. My daed taught me how to shoot a rifle before I was six years old. This Springfield is a thirty-aught-six. That’s what I used to hunt deer almost all of my life.”

  “Well, you learn something every day,” Bobby said with a grin.

  Reuben grew to know his rifle intimately. He carried it every day, marching with it, running with it, drilling with it, and learning to handle it easily, gracefully, lovingly, and with respect. Reuben understood the power of his rifle. He knew it could be an extremely accurate and powerful extension of his mind and body by which he could inflict destruction on the enemy. He took comfort in it and soon felt naked without it.

  The Corps understood that before anything else, the Marine was a rifleman. So a large part of the training at Parris Island was teaching men how to shoot. The first time their platoon went to the rifle range, Reuben and Bobby sat together to fire their rifles. Reuben had been working on his rifle every day, and it was zeroed to perfection. He had steady hands and could hold his breath indefinitely, steadying the muzzle. He had twenty-ten vision and an inherent ability to factor wind and distance into his shooting. On that day he fired sixty-six shots, all but ten of them at rapid fire, at targets two hundred, three hundred, and five hundred yards away. Each bulls-eye counted five points with a maximum score of 330. When the smoke cleared, Reuben had scored 319 points. Bobby came in second in the platoon with 298.

  The next day Bobby and Reuben were taken aside and asked to shoot again. This time Bobby scored 305 and Reuben scored 314. Again on the third day, they were asked to shoot, and again they both made record high marks. On the fourth day, Reuben and Bobby were called into the base headquarters.

  Their company commander was seated at his desk. Standing behind him was a thin, handsome officer with dark brown hair. Reuben and Bobby snapped to attention.

  “At ease, gentlemen,” said Colonel Robertson. “I want to talk with you for a moment. Halverson, you have demonstrated real leadership and are quickly becoming the kind of Marine that will be of great service to the Corps. You are to be commended.”

  “Sir, thank you, sir,” Bobby replied.

  “As for you, Springer, I must say we had our doubts. Given your background and the fact that most Amish are conscientious objectors and won’t lift a finger to defend this country, we have honestly debated whether it would be simpler to send you home rather than put you out in the field where these issues might present a clear and present danger to the men fighting alongside you. However, your DI assures me that you have spunk and determination and have performed your duties well, if not quite masterfully.

  “This was enough for us to concede to letting you finish your training and be assigned with the rest of your platoon to the First Division, which—and I say this in strictest confidence—will be seeing action soon. Now, it has also come to our attention that you’re not only a competent marksman, but that your scores have earned you the rating of Expert Rifleman, a ranking that your friend Halverson here also carries.

  “Gentlemen, this officer behind me is Lieutenant Colonel Whaling, affectionately known to his troops as Wild Bill. Colonel Whaling has been placed in charge of the newly formed scout and sniper unit and will be moving some of the top marksmen in this company and others to an elite school, where they will receive additional training.

  “If they pass the training, they will be placed into special scout and sniper platoons within each company. Their duty will be to reconnoiter ahead of the advancing troops and scout out enemy troop concentrations and strongholds. The duty will be hazardous, the life miserable, and the rewards few. But only the best will be picked. I am asking if you men would like to volunteer for this duty.”

  Reuben looked at Bobby for only a moment. The two men responded in one voice.

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Another thing you need to know is that having basic familiarity with the outdoors is a plus,” said Colonel Whaling. “Do you?”

  “Sir, we come from rural Ohio and have been hunting and fishing all of our lives. I don’t know about Reuben, but I was in the scouting movement and spent many days tramping the woods and camping, sir,” Bobby answered.

  “Sir, my father introduced me to camping when I was barely old enough to walk. He loved the outdoors and so do I, sir,” Reuben said.

  “That’s good, gentlemen,” Colonel Whaling said. “Once you have completed your basic training, you will be transferred to the scout and sniper school. There your M1903 rifles will be fitted with Winchester A-five scopes, and you will receive intensive training in their use. I can’t say more than this, but it is my belief that you will be seeing action by the middle of this year. Thank you for your devotion to duty. Your country is proud to have men like you.”

  Reuben and Bobby saluted Colonel Whaling, and he returned the salute.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Colonel Robertson. “You may return to your duties.”

  Bobby and Reuben left the CO’s office and walked toward the mess hall.

  “So where did you learn to shoot?” asked Reuben.

  “Same place you did,” Bobby said. “Hunting with my dad. I had a Winchester 94 that loaded thirty-thirty shells. I could hit a deer in the eye at three hundred yards with that rifle. A real beauty.”

  Just then Gunnery Sergeant Thompkins walked up. Both men stopped and saluted.

  “At ease, men,” said Thompkins. “I u
nderstand you’ve been assigned to Wild Bill’s scout school.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “I said ‘at ease,’” Thompkins said. “I just wanted you to know that I’ll be going along as your instructor. It just so happens that my last score on the range was 324. I look forward to punishing you two for a few more weeks. You’re not done with me yet, boys, and the truth is, we’ll probably be shipping out together. So get used to this plug-ugly face because you’ll be seeing a lot of me. Now get back to the barracks. I noticed that you ‘expert marksmen’ are on latrine duty tonight, and I’ll be wearing my white gloves for inspection.” He flashed a wicked grin and sent them on their way with an explosive, “On the double!”

  The rest of boot camp flew by quickly. Things were looking up. Gunnery Sergeant Thompkins, while still a strict disciplinarian, directed his most critical comments to the men who were just struggling to get by. Bobby and Reuben, having earned a spot in the elite scout and sniper unit, weren’t exactly treated with deference, but at least they were no longer regarded with disdain.

  Finally, after completing their training, the brand-new Marines gathered around their drill instructor to receive their orders for further training or assignment directly to the Fleet Marine Force. Then the recruit platoons formed one last time for their graduation parade. Down the huge parade ground they marched, feeling the thrill of the title they had earned with hard work—United States Marine. As they passed the reviewing stand the command rang out: “Eyes right!” and battalion banners and sabers dipped and flashed in salute. The band struck up the “Marine’s Hymn” as the colonel returned the salute.

  Reuben felt a strange thrill run throughout his body as he marched. He was a soldier! Not only was he a soldier, he was a member of an elite fighting unit in the United States military. For an Amish boy from rural Ohio, Reuben had certainly come a long way. Even though everything he had learned as a youth spoke against it, pride welled up in Reuben’s heart.

  If only Jerusha could see me now, he thought, and then a flash of sorrow knifed through his heart. She would hate everything I’ve become.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Into the Storm

  BOBBY AND MARK SAT AT HENRY’S BEDSIDE, hoping for Henry’s scrambled brain to organize itself long enough to allow Henry to tell them where he had left Jerusha. Henry continued to mumble about Jenna and Reuben, and then he said something that didn’t make much sense.

  “Hid a cow, Bovvy...hid a cow.”

  “You hid a cow, Henry?” Bobby asked. “You said that before.”

  “Inna car...hid a cow inna car.” Henry was trying to push himself up.

  “Easy, Henry,” said Dr. Samuels. “Go slow and think it through. You’ve got to help Bobby understand.”

  “Okay, Henry, you hid a cow in the car,” Bobby said. “You seem to think that’s important, but what does it mean?”

  “Hid a cow inna car, slid a ditch,” Henry said.

  Suddenly Henry reached up and jerked Bobby down close. Gathering himself up, he spoke as loudly as he could. “Hid a cow inna car... slid a ditch! Bovvy! Hid a cow inna car...slid a ditch!”

  Bobby stared at Henry.

  What is he trying to tell me? Suddenly a picture of a frozen cow in a ditch with its legs sticking up popped into Bobby’s mind. Mother Nature’s deep freeze!

  “Henry! Did you hit a cow on Kidron Road?” Bobby asked excitedly.

  Henry sighed and fell back on the bed and offered a lopsided smile.

  “Hid a cow...slid a ditch, Kidron...”

  Henry closed his eyes. He had delivered his message, and now he could rest.

  “I know where the car is!” Bobby shouted. “I must have driven right past it while I was looking at that cow. It’s on the other side of the road right up from the county highway. Mark, take me back to my tractor!”

  “Sure, Bobby,” Mark said. “Let’s go get ’er.”

  They drove back to Betty’s house and around back to the shed. Bobby turned the glow plugs on. The battery had a good charge, so they began to heat up right away. They went inside to tell Betty about Henry and to wait for the plugs to heat up.

  “He’s okay, Betty,” said Bobby. “The doctor says he just needs to rest. And he was able to give me a pretty good idea where the car is.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord,” whispered Betty.

  They waited ten minutes, and then Bobby went out to the tractor, jumped in the cab, and cranked her over. After a momentary hesitation, the old diesel motor fired up and started running.

  Bobby backed out of the shed and swung out onto the street. Mark followed in the Ford.

  The wind had picked up to near gale force, and the light was failing as Bobby and Mark headed down the township highway toward Kidron Road.

  The battering of the rough seas beneath the hull of the decrepit troop transport played havoc with Bobby Halverson’s churning stomach. A true landlubber, Bobby had never seen the ocean before April of 1942. When he finally stood on the shore of the Pacific after the First Division landed in San Diego, he stared in awe at the vast blue expanse. The sound of the gulls wheeling in the air above his head was as plaintive and mournful as if they were lamenting the loss of something that was never to be found again, and the cries called to something deep in his spirit that was unnamable and sublime.

  It’s like my old life is gone and nothing will ever be the same again, he thought.

  Since Pearl Harbor, the Japanese army had battered Wake Island into submission, captured Bataan and Corregidor, set the British troops on the run in Burma and Singapore, and easily taken the Dutch East Indies. Their dominion stretched in a two-thousand-mile-long arc that was now dangerously close to Australia and New Zealand. It seemed that nothing could stop the swarming millions of battle-hardened Japanese soldiers. The US fighting forces received a momentary respite when the American Navy defeated the Japanese invasion fleet at Midway Island. Now the powers in Washington desperately needed to do something to stop the rising tide of Japanese Imperialism, and the Marines were ready to go.

  Unfortunately, there was another front, and the consensus was that Europe was where the most crucial battles would be fought. Much of the supplies and manpower had therefore been allocated to the European theater, leaving only two divisions of Marines totaling 40,000 men for use in the Pacific. After much discussion it was decided that the attack would come somewhere in the southern part of the Japanese area of control.

  The First Marine Division, which included the scout and sniper platoons, had been sent to San Diego, from there to Hawaii, and then on to a beautiful South Sea harbor called Nuku’alofa. There the Marines waited while the top brass made the final decision, which they did in July of 1942.

  Thus it was that Bobby and Reuben found themselves on an ancient transport, tossing on rough seas beneath a concealing cover of clouds somewhere in the South Pacific, steaming toward their first engagement with the Japanese army.

  Although it normally took more than a year to earn rapid promotion, Bobby had been promoted to lance corporal because of his outstanding leadership qualities and because of the shortage of ranking leaders. Reuben had been promoted to private first class. The two men were assigned to Gunnery Sergeant Thompkins’ platoon of snipers, and after basic training, the three men had become close friends.

  On Monday, July 27, Ed Thompkins came over to Bobby and Reuben and motioned them aside.

  “I just sat in on a briefing session in Colonel Hunt’s cabin,” he said quietly. “We’re headed for the island of Guadalcanal. It’s a strategic objective because the enemy has just finished building an airfield on the island, and they plan to use it to disrupt our supply lines to northern Australia. We have to take the island and hold it until we get reinforced.”

  “How many Japanese are on the island?” asked Bobby.

  “The word is that we have them outnumbered, but they can bring more men in from a dozen locations.”

  “When are we going in?” Bobby asked.


  “A week to ten days. It’s a big island, so our platoon is going to see a lot of action.”

  Reuben felt uncertainty begin to rise up in him. He had been so confident while he was being trained for the very purpose ahead of him—killing the enemy. Could he really do this? It’s one thing to shoot at an outline of a man on a target range, but it’s something entirely different to shoot another human being or thrust a bayonet through him. What would Jerusha say if she knew?

  Bobby saw the troubled look on his face, and when Thompkins left he drew Reuben aside.

  “Okay, what’s going on in that complicated brain of yours?” Bobby asked.

  Reuben hesitated but then said, “I don’t know really how to describe this except to say that it’s like I’m fighting a constant battle inside my head. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to respond when the bullets are zipping around me or when I put a man in the sights of my rifle for the first time.” He looked down at the deck.

  “If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one who goes through these struggles,” Bobby said. “We all wonder how we’ll respond when the moment finally comes. It seems to me that courage isn’t something you carry around in your pocket like a silver dollar. My guess is that nobody finds out what he’ll really do until the moment he has to do it.”

  When Reuben didn’t say anything, Bobby continued. “When I was a kid, I went hunting one time with my dad. I had shot plenty of deer in my life and didn’t expect to have any problems that day. My dad and I spent three hours slow-crawling up on this big buck. He was in a stand of trees scratching the ground to attract some females, and he didn’t see us. We got around on the downwind side of him so he couldn’t get our scent. We would crawl a foot or two and then lie still. We worked our way through a thick stand of pine that had all kinds of elderberry and scrub brush, so we couldn’t see him until we got right up on him. One minute he was completely hidden, and then I crawled forward one more time and there he was, not more than fifteen feet away. I had my gun cradled in my arms so it was easy to bring it up to firing position. Just as I was ready to shoot, he turned his head and looked straight into my eyes. I froze. My mouth went dry and my skin got cold. It was like someone turned the sun down about twenty degrees. There I was with my dad behind me giving me little nudges on the sole of my boot. I couldn’t pull the trigger. It was as simple as that. I just couldn’t do it.