Stories of Faith and Courage From World War II (50 page)

Quick to spot a wounded Marine lying in an open field beyond the front lines…Lester unhesitatingly crawled toward the casualty under a concentrated barrage from hostile machine guns, rifles, and grenades. Torn by enemy rifle bullets as he inched forward, he stoically disregarded the mounting fury of Japanese fire and his own pain to pull the wounded man toward a covered position.
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Fred Lester was one of a special breed of heroes, dear to all Marines: the Navy corpsman. These men served with Marine units in every campaign of World War II, providing life-saving first aid in and beyond the front lines. They became integral parts of the units they served, sharing every hardship and danger. One officer spoke for all Marines with this comment:

Hospital Corpsman Fred Lester (U.S. Navy)

I never saw a Corpsman refuse to go to a Marine’s aid, no matter how exposed the position, even if the wound was assumed to be fatal. No Marine could write about the war without praising the Navy Corpsmen. These men, who had joined the Navy expecting at least warm chow and a good bed, got stuck with dirt, mud, blood, and Marines. They became, however, one of us, much admired for their unceasing courage in coming to our aid. Their casualty rate was just as great as ours.
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The Navy Hospital Corps has a long tradition of medical service going back to the beginning of the Navy. Many doctors and corpsmen have served valiantly on ships and in combat area field hospitals. To Marine “grunts” of the past and present, however, medical attention when it counts comes from the “doc,” who always responds to the call, “Corpsman up!” May God continue to bless those who so bravely and selflessly serve their fellow men.

But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him.

—Luke 10:33–34

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EPTEMBER 13

Children of God

Carlos Quintana’s wounds left him speechless for six years. During the battle for Saipan a mortar fragment pierced his mouth, severed a major artery, and damaged the nerves controlling his tongue. He was hospitalized for the remainder of the war, eventually ending up in San Diego. Unable to eat or talk, his weight dropped to eighty-nine pounds, and he had to be fed intravenously. In spite of his suffering he maintained a positive attitude thanks to his strong belief in God. Using linguistic exercises he made slow progress in regaining movement of his tongue, and, after six years, recovered to a somewhat normal condition.

Carlos also recovered in his personal life. He married, had three children, and began working with young people. He helped found a youth center called Barrio Station, designed to keep kids off the streets of San Diego. He was driven to do something significant in service to others because he felt God had given him a new life after he had come so close to death. He knew that his calling was to help children: “The most important thing for all of us is our duty to educate, guide, and support our children because they represent the future of our country and the security of our freedom.” Besides, he said, “We’re all children of God.”
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I was once standing at a playground with a friend, looking on as our children played together. He turned to me and said, “I’ll bet God enjoys watching us have a good time, as much as we enjoy seeing our children play.” This was one of my most lasting insights into the loving nature of our heavenly Father. We are truly his children.

If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!

—Luke 11:13

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EPTEMBER 14

A Drumstick or a Wing?

Navy chaplains were at the scene of every Pacific island campaign. They didn’t carry weapons, but in every other way were part of the Marine units they served. Their job was, of course, the most difficult of all: looking after the souls of young Marines. One chaplain described his routine: “In combat our main action was to go from place to place, unit to unit, and start out early in the morning and go till dark, just visiting one unit after the other and many times just have a very brief service. We had some very small hymn books… and some Testaments I could carry in my map case, and we would just gather a few men together in a bomb crater or defilade…”
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Another chaplain used a special type of ministration:

He had a canvas gas-mask carrier slung over each shoulder. In one carrier he had Scotch whiskey, in the other fried chicken. As he knelt by each young, frightened, wounded Marine, he was invariably asked, “Am I going to be OK?” “Sure you are!” was the cheerful answer. “While you are waiting to be evacuated, would you rather have a drumstick or a wing?” The young Marine would be so surprised he would forget about himself. Then, when the chaplain asked if he wanted to wash it down with a swig of Scotch, he couldn’t believe he was hearing correctly amidst all of the confusion, noise, and death all around him.
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Watching this chaplain in action, one doctor said, “That man probably saved more young lives from dying of shock than will ever be known.”
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These Navy chaplains worked on many levels, both spiritual and physical, as they tried to do God’s work under the most difficult conditions imaginable. These examples show how simple kindness and a familiar routine can be invaluable in the midst of chaos. We can try to bring the same calming comfort to others overcome by wounds or fear in the midst of a personal crisis. A casserole comes to mind. Drumsticks or wings? Or maybe a swig of Scotch.

He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul.

—Psalm 23:23

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EPTEMBER 15

Knee Work

Jimmy Adcock was a medic serving with the 40
^th
Infantry Division on Guadalcanal, New Britain, and the Philippines. He was awarded the Silver and Bronze Stars for heroism during these campaigns. During his time in the service he spent long hours shooting craps with his payday money on the floor of various sordid places, an activity that he jokingly referred to as “knee work.” Then one day a Lutheran chaplain who had gotten to know him said, “Jim, you could be on your knees praying for your needs. God will provide you information you’ll delight in the rest of your life.”
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Adcock was moved by the chaplain’s interest and began attending catechism classes. He eventually decided to make the “big move in (his) life,” accepting Jesus Christ as his Savior. In 1943 he was baptized and became a Christian.

Before landing in the Philippines, he wrote to his wife, Ramona, that, “We are one together by Him, even though physically we are apart. There will come the day when we will look back on these years that war has separated us, but we will do so lovingly and with thanks to Him that we are again together.”
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Jim Adcock was sustained by his new faith during the rest of the war, having confidence that he would eventually return to his wife so they could raise a family together. He did return home safely, and the couple eventually had three daughters. Jim would later comment: “I am proud to say all my children and grandchildren are baptized believers who are serving God with their time and talents.”
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It is amazing to contemplate the good done by one chaplain befriending an aimless soldier in wartime. He introduced him to Jesus Christ and a new kind of “knee work” that changed his life, gave him confidence in the future, and impacted future generations of his family.

Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the L
ORD
our Maker; for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care.

—Psalms 95:67

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EPTEMBER 16

I’ll Prove He’s a Bum

Col. Gregory Boyington was one of the great heroes of Marine Corps aviation. He shot down twenty-eight Japanese aircraft, earned the Medal of Honor, and was a prisoner of war for twenty months. As the commander and oldest member of Marine Fighter Squadron 214, he earned the nickname “Pappy,” and his unit of replacement pilots became known as the “Black Sheep Squadron.” One of his many exploits is recounted in his Medal of Honor citation:

“Pappy” Boyington (U. S. Marine Corps)

Major Boyington led a formation of twenty-four fighters over Kahill on 17 October and, persistently circling the airdrome where sixty hostile aircraft were grounded, boldly challenged the Japanese to send up planes. Under his brilliant command, our fighters shot down twenty enemy craft in the ensuing action without the loss of a single ship.
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Boyington was shot down over Rabaul in January 1944. Bailing out at low altitude, he was injured and captured by the Japanese. When he was finally repatriated after his prison ordeal, he was in extremely poor health and was medically discharged from the Marine Corps. His life after the war took a further tragic turn as he battled a new enemy: alcoholism. During a disastrous period he went through three wives and a series of uninspiring jobs. Due to the heavy smoking that went with his drinking, he almost died of emphysema. He once proclaimed that his drinking addiction was, “no doubt the most damning thing in my character.”
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Boyington was rehabilitated somewhat in the 1970s by Alcoholics Anonymous and the television series, Baa Baa Black Sheep, based on his best-selling book. In the final line of the book, he wrote: “If this story were to have a moral, then I would say: ‘Just name a hero and I’ll prove he’s a bum.’”
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Pappy Boyington had been humbled by his life experiences, but will nevertheless be remembered always as one of the great combat leaders of World War II.

I know, O L
ORD
, that a man’s life is not his own; it is not for man to direct his steps. Correct me, L
ORD
, but only with justice not in your anger, lest you reduce me to nothing.

—Jeremiah 10:23–24

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EPTEMBER 17

The Definition of Courage

In the assault on Guam the Marines lost one of their best chaplains. The youthful, redheaded Tony Conway was enormously popular with both officers and enlisted because of his quiet nature and the intense interest he showed in every man. Unfortunately, he was killed when a Japanese shell struck his landing craft just as it reached the shore.

As if he had some premonition of what lay ahead, Conway wrote his parents on the afternoon before the invasion of Guam, suspecting that this could be his last letter to anyone:

Dear Pop and Mom and Everyone: