A Quilt for Jenna (18 page)

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 understand 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.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-O
NE

Into the Storm

B
OBBY AND
M
ARK SAT AT
H
ENRY
'
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!”