THE UVALDE RAIDER
A TEMPLAR FAMILY NOVEL
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WINTER EAGLES: THE UVALDE RAIDER
By Ben H. English
Published by Creative Texts Publishers
PO Box 50
Barto, PA 19504
www.creativetexts.com
Copyright 2021 by Ben H. English
All rights reserved
Cover design copyright 2021 Creative Texts Publishers, LLC
Special thanks to Alpine A La Carte for the Uvalde Raider logo
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual names, persons, businesses, and incidents is strictly coincidental. Locations are used only in the general sense and do not represent the real place in actuality.
ISBN: 978-1-64738-037-3
THE UVALDE RAIDER
A TEMPLAR FAMILY NOVEL
by BEN H. ENGLISH
CREATIVE TEXTS PUBLISHERS
Barto, Pennsylvania
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
AUTHOR’S NOTES:
Dedicated to Captain Dean Amick Wadsworth, First Air Commando, USAF, and to the Marines who died trying to get to him.
Declared MIA 08 October 1963
Body Recovered 07 June 1995
Interred Arlington National Cemetery 03 June 1999
“Lest we forget”…
“Circumstances do not make the man, they reveal him.”
–James Allen
CHAPTER ONE
Trooper Micah Templar lazed in the cab of the sandstone colored Ramcharger, relaxing from what started as an early morning shift. He had the driver’s seat run back as far as it would go, with both doors as well as the rear hatch opened wide in search of a cooling breeze. It was the time of year when the mornings would start off chilly, but by mid-afternoon could turn uncomfortably warm. This was one of those afternoons and the spacious greenhouse of the Dodge made it all the more so.
Micah had his DPS-issued felt hat pulled low over his eyes, trying to shut out the west Texas sun that was just now peeking below the top of the windshield. He was trying to doze a bit but his excitement, along with that burning orb overhead, was making his attempt nigh impossible. Tipping the hat back slightly with the tip of his right index finger, the highway patrolman glanced at his watch and noted it was near the top of the hour. With nothing better to do and little progress made as far as catching some shuteye, he leaned forward and turned on the vehicle’s radio for the latest news.
“…at present officials for the Bush administration say an international coalition must be formed to push the Iraqi forces out of Kuwait. Other sources in the Pentagon are stating that plans for military action have been drawn up for a possible response to the crisis.
Meanwhile, the United Nations is also considering further action against Iraq. A resolution has already been passed condemning the invasion and demanding that Saddam Hussein withdraw his forces.
In other such news, negotiators remain hopeful for the release of American hostages still held in Lebanon. It is believed the recent release of Irish citizen Brian Keenan signals a new opportunity in that direction.
However, intelligence experts remain noncommittal following the murder of Marine Lieutenant Colonel William Higgins. Higgins was abducted February of last year by suspected Islamic terrorists. A videotape purporting to show his execution was released, but the American government did not officially declare him dead until two months ago.
This is TSN, the Texas State Network…”
“Should’ve known, nothing but bad news,” Micah muttered to himself, shifting his weight in the seat and switching the radio off. He and his wife Abby had two sons, both of whom were currently serving in the Marine Corps. A former combat Marine himself, he had a better idea than most of what going to war really meant. It had been a long time since the thought was discussed so freely among those with the power to do so, and by all indicators those discussions were in dead earnest. And when war talk occurs in dead earnest among such people, that’s a sign of what will most likely result: a lot of other dead people.
These disturbing thoughts banished any further hope of a short nap and Micah crawled out of the cab of the Dodge to stretch his legs. Slouching in the driver’s seat had badly skewed the gig line for his uniform, and by habit he hitched the Sam Browne belt around to line everything back up.
Running his thumbs along the inside waistband of his issued trousers, he smoothed the bunched material of his long-sleeved gray wool shirt. The warming temperature of the afternoon made him want to remove the uniform’s obligatory blue tie, as well as the frontal body armor that trapped and magnified his body heat. But Max Grephardt wanted a photograph of Micah in his highway patrol uniform for friends back in Germany, and a strong sense of professional pride made Micah want to look his very best when that photo was taken.
He checked his watch again and scanned the skies to the southeast from under the brim of his hat. They should be showing up any time now, if they were maintaining their schedule upon leaving Houston. He reached inside the Ramcharger, retrieving the Ray Ban Aviators sitting atop the dash of the Dodge. Tio Zeke had given those sunshades to Micah nearly twenty years ago, when the younger Templar graduated from the DPS academy. Micah had worn them almost daily ever since.
Putting the well-used sunglasses on his face, he caught a reflection of himself in the large side mirror. Much like the glasses, the intervening years and experiences had left their marks. What had once passed for an almost baby-faced countenance was now the image of a middle-aged man with crow’s feet around his eyes, framed in turn by graying hair that had recently sprouted near his temples. Unseen beneath the uniform felt hat was the thinning of that same hair underneath.
Taking in his weather-beaten image made Micah realize that even in the best of future circumstances, his race was already half run. As in so many other mile markers in life it all seemed to have happened overnight, even when he thought he was paying attention. A few more years and the highway patrolman would be eligible for retirement. The idea struck him with a vague bittersweetness.
Micah stuck an index finger
inside the collar of the shirt and ran it around, trying for a bit of relief from the wool material that irritated his neck. Somewhat exasperated, he removed the clip-on tie and unbuttoned the offending collar.
He had been inside this uniform for over ten hours now, having missed the chance for a break at lunch to handle a call concerning a stranded motorist. When his shift was over there had been no time to take the uniform off, even for a few minutes. He had hurriedly parked the black and white Mustang in front of his home and piled into the Ramcharger, having already packed the necessary gear for the trip.
Again, he studied the southeastern sky expectantly. Yet it was actually a sound before any image was seen, the sound of pounding radial engines being carried along in the West Texas wind. He cupped his right hand over his ear and scanned the general area as the droning momentarily drifted away and then came back, stronger than before. Micah's gray eyes probed the horizon, knowing the aircraft would be approaching at low altitude.
It took a few seconds more before he caught the reflection of polished aluminum in the midafternoon sky, and watched it grow larger as the multi-engined warbird drew nearer. The trooper glanced over to a pole across the runway, making doubly certain the bright orange sock was not fouled. Their present location was a long way from any real assistance if something went wrong, and the incoming flyers needed that flag to gauge the wind on their final approach.
He could hear those engines clearly now, all four Wright Cyclone 1820s at full song and filling the air with the throbbing, exhilarating tempo that made Micah feel more like a ten-year-old kid again, rather than a grown man nearing fifty. Enthralled, he watched as the Boeing Flying Fortress loomed larger, coming in and swooping over the main runway of what was once a World War II era emergency airfield. Micah felt an involuntary chill run along his spine, as if the time frame of the present had temporarily given way to the airborne ghosts of a near gone past.
As the B-17G cleared the field it banked gracefully to the left, setting up for its final approach and landing. Suddenly, from the point opposing the Boeing’s path, another powerful engine made its presence known, coming in low and fast from the west. Micah whipped his head around just in time to see a beautifully restored Messerschmidt 109G streak in from the opposite direction. Crossing the field at better than 275 MPH, the pilot executed a snap roll as it shot past the lumbering Flying Fortress. Finishing the imaginary firing pass, the 109 Gustav pulled into a tight half Immelmann as Micah recovered from its stupefying appearance.
‘Max…’ Micah thought to himself. ‘I should have expected something like that.’
Standing on the worn tarmac and watching the two vintage military aircraft go about their business, Micah mused again over the circumstances that first brought Max and Tio Zeke together, and then so tightly bound them. Having been in his own war and tasted of the searing experiences attending to it, he still marveled how the former mortal enemies could have grown so close.
Nearly a half century prior during the darkest, bloodiest period in modern history, these two men had represented the opposing sides of the greatest catastrophic armed conflict man ever made record of. In it Zeke Templar had formed a singular goal to bomb Nazi Germany back into the Stone Age, while Max Grephardt tried to shoot down anything that had wings and Allied insignias. Both had been relatively successful in their respective endeavors.
But due to chance and shared fortunes of war friends they had become, enjoying a close relationship that existed since about the time Micah was born. As a young boy whose own father had fought the Japanese and still carried an intense animosity in regards to them, he had asked his uncle about this near implausible occurrence.
Tio Zeke had thought it over before answering, his memories returning to other times and other places. Finally, he responded.
"It was war, nephew. And in war you do things that you have to in order to survive and protect your own. You fight for your home, your loved ones and all that you hold dear in this life. It was that way for me and I know it was the same for him. And now, it’s over with.”
“Let me tell you something else,” Micah’s uncle continued. “Max Grephardt is as good a man as I have ever known and he honors me with his friendship. I hope that someday you can understand all this better and have the wisdom to know that God does work in mysterious ways, and in manners you least expect Him to.”
Zeke Templar had smiled slightly to himself and added, “He might even make your worst enemies into your best friends.” From that day forward it would take Micah a lot of years, along with his own life experiences, to fully appreciate what his Uncle Zeke had meant.
And now he was the sole beneficiary of this impromptu air show, put on by two graying winter eagles who had once fought in the skies above because they had to, and now flew in those same skies together because of their shared joy in doing so. Micah watched as the B-17 lowered its landing gear and lined up the concrete runway, side slipping a bit as the pilot worked the rudder against a slight gust in the crosswind.
Even from this distance, one could make out the bold yellow letters reading ‘The Uvalde Raider’ emblazoned on the bomber’s nose. Beside the moniker was a large facsimile of the state of Texas painted in red and blue, enclosing a white star marking the location of the town of Uvalde. This community and its surrounding ranches and cow camps was where Ezekiel Templar had grown up, a local boy who had ‘made good’ as people around there were wont to say. That same exact insignia had adorned each bomber that Uncle Zeke flew during the war.
With its flaps down and losing speed, the Boeing touched the tarmac with as perfect a landing as one could ever see in any World War II movie. Admiring the scene, Micah felt the glow of kinship in his uncle's long-polished flying skills. That inner pride lasted about as long as it took to realize that it was not Tio Zeke at the controls of the B-17 as it taxied past, but rather former Luftwaffe hauptmann and holder of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves, Maximillian Friedrich Grephardt.
Somewhat taken aback by what he had just seen, Micah snapped his head around and watched quizzically as the Messerschmitt made its own final approach. The fighter’s awkward looking landing gear touched down with the same practiced precision as that just demonstrated by the Flying Fortress. When the Me109 began to taxi past, the side-hinged canopy opened and Micah saw the unmistakable features and grin of Ezekiel J. Templar, retired full bird colonel, United States Air Force.
Quickly rebuttoning his collar and putting the blue clip-on tie back in place, Micah checked his appearance in the outside mirror of the Dodge, adjusting the tie tac a bit to pass his own self inspection. Once satisfied and with one hand on his western hat to secure it from the blowing prop wash, the trooper walked toward the mottled-gray camouflaged Messerschmitt. The fighter braked to a halt, its Daimler 605A engine popping and crackling impatiently, much like a powerful attack dog snapping and growling while being barely restrained on a leash.
Tio Zeke revved the inverted V-12 one last time to keep it from loading up and then killed the engine. Unfastening the restraining straps, he climbed out of the cramped cockpit with the grace of a born athlete. Watching him step on to the wing root and then down to the ground, it was hard to believe that he had celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday a couple of years ago. Of average height and a slim, physically fit build, he could pass easily for a man twenty years younger.
"Hello, nephew, it’s good to see you!" he exclaimed, removing his gloves and grasping Micah's outstretched hand with a firm grip. “How do you like my new ride?”
"Tio!,” replied the still surprised highway patrolman, using the Mexican word for ‘uncle.’ “When and where did you ever learn to fly a Messerschmitt?"
"Aw, she’s not that much different than the P-51s I checked out on after the war. The cockpit is not near as roomy and it’s not as forgiving as the Mustang was, but it is a lot of fun."
"And what does Max think about the B-17?" asked Micah.
"Umph, that German can fl
y anything with wings on it. 'Course, all those years piloting Lockheed Super Stars and other passenger jobs for Lufthansa gives him an edge.” He paused, looking to the Boeing. “Speaking of which, we better get over there and lend a hand. He's got a lot more machinery to shut down."
The two men walked side by side in the direction of the Flying Fort. The Templar family genes ran strong through the generations and people often commented on the resemblance between uncle and nephew. That resemblance was no more evident than now.
The elder Templar looked around as they strode along, obviously expecting someone else. "Where's Jack?" he asked.
Jack Albright had flown Douglas A-26 Invaders in Korea and owned the ranch where the old landing field was situated. A founding ‘colonel’ in the Confederate Air Force, Micah had first met the man through his uncle when he came to the county as a rookie trooper. Once Jack realized the familial link between the two Templars, Micah became a regular on the Bar JA Ranch. The self-professed ‘colonels’ of the Confederate Air Force were a close-knit bunch, looking after each other’s kin as well as their fellows.
Over the years Jack had improved the bomber-sized emergency strip to a state of repair where CAF aircraft could layover for the night, or be kept for a longer stay if the situation required it. He was well known as a gracious host with his West Texas hospitality and good conversation. It had become an annual event for Tio Zeke and Max to pick up Micah and Jack while enroute to the Confederate Air Force show in Midland.
"He won't be coming with us this time,” explained Micah. “They got a call late last night from Amarillo about an aunt being in a bad way. He and Sally packed their bags and are already up there. Said we’re supposed to make ourselves at home and he might catch us later at the show."
"Sorry to hear that," replied Zeke. "Maybe she'll get better and we can still meet in Midland as planned. I'll put them in my prayers."
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