The Uvalde Raider

by Ben H. English

  But if they were to be successful in the attempt, they needed the proper time and place to make their play. Hours had passed since the new guard had been posted, yet this particular one showed no indication of any slacking in his attention to duty. The handcuff key was the hinge on making their present circumstance swing in another direction, but he needed some time unobserved to use it. Just a little bit of time and some attending luck.

  Hungry, aching from the physical abuse and with life hanging in the balance, Micah’s mind drifted off to another place. In it he began thinking of his wife, Abby, and how glad he was she had decided to drive to Midland rather than take the plane ride with him. At that time and true to his form, he had been disappointed and even a little testy when she had chosen to do so. They had planned for this trip together for some time and his selfish, willful side wanted things to go his way.

  However, Abby knew the Albrights might need her more than she needed to ride in an old bomber, and had made her mind up accordingly. More so and true to her own form, she had dug in her heels when he appeared less than enthusiastic about her decision.

  Now Micah found himself giving thanks that he had married such a caring, conscientious, yet willful woman and gave praise to a decision that he had first questioned due to his own shortcomings. Abby was safe, and with that knowledge he knew that his greatest Achilles heel remained out of reach of those just outside the doorway.

  The younger Templar came back to the here and now, and what the near future most likely promised. There was no doubt in his mind that when the opportunity presented itself, it would be a brief, chancy thing for the three of them and very uncertain as to the final outcome. He’d seen too many good men die with the best of intentions perishing alongside to ever dissuade himself otherwise. So much depended on how he, Tio Zeke and Max Grephardt made use of those few, decisive moments.

  In the gloom Micah found himself praying silently, earnestly. ‘Lord, show me what I must do and give me strength to get it done. I doubt there’ll be a second chance.’ Along with his own prayer came the memory of a far more eloquent one: ‘Blessed be the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle…’

  It was funny how one’s memory worked, you only realize what’s truly important when someone, or something, comes along to take it all away. Micah hadn’t thought of that Bible verse since, well, since his last tour in Vietnam. At present he could not recall the rest and really wished he could. Tio Zeke would know that verse from beginning to end, he had always been gifted at that sort of thing. But just the few words that Micah could remember brought an inner peace and helped steel himself for whatever might come.

  He peered into the semi darkness at his uncle, who appeared to be sleeping again. Whenever Micah made his move, he realized that in those first critical seconds Ezekiel probably wouldn’t be of much help. Tio Zeke was a tough and capable man, even upon nearing some seventy years of age. Nevertheless, he would have to clear the mental fog brought on by the pain killers he’d been given, and the time needed for that would be far longer than what it took to start the ball rolling. That same calculation also didn’t take into account the bullet hole in his uncle’s leg, either.

  The peace officer refocused his gaze beyond his uncle and at the unmoving form of Max Grephardt. The German appeared to be simply resting but Micah had the distinct feeling that in Max’s case, looks were deceiving. He knew the story about the Luftwaffe hauptmann’s escape from the Soviets, and had known Max for too long not to notice and appreciate the sort of man he was.

  Micah’s own father, Jeremiah Templar, had once remarked “that German is a born fighting man, through and through.” Such praise came very rarely from his father and he would have known as well as anybody. There was no doubt that Max Grephardt would be there in the clinch.

  The memory of his father at that particular moment brought a wistful yearning, Jeremiah Templar was one man that his son wished was here. As a boy he had been in utter awe of his dad and that feeling had not dissipated much as the years passed by. Born in south Texas around the end of World War One, members of the family had often joked that Jeremiah Templar had arrived into this world with his boots and spurs already on. The same temper that Micah struggled with had come to him honestly, for in his own youth his father was known for such by both friend and foe alike.

  As a young man that temperament, along with an easy way with the cards as well as the ladies, had led to more than one scrape which gave folks plenty to remember him by. One night it sparked an epic brawl in a San Antonio bar with a town bully, said to be the meanest man thereabouts. He might have been, but Jeremiah Templar proved to be the tougher and mopped the floor with his opponent. The small statured, wiry, full of fire Templar, not more than about nineteen, had left his mark and put the far bigger man in a local hospital.

  Unfortunately and to his great chagrin, it was only then the Turkey Creek cowhand discovered the bully in question had plenty of kin, especially in some of the local higher elected offices. A warrant was put out for his arrest and the young Jeremiah, knowing a stacked deck when he saw one, hitched a ride on the first freight out of town.

  That particular train had been heading east, so that was where Jeremiah Templar went next. After a couple of months of bouncing around and becoming hungrier and mas flaco, he began thinking about finding some honest work and fattening up a bit. However this was during the time of the Great Depression and jobs were hard to find on the East Coast; especially for south Texas cowboys who didn’t know much more beyond horses, cattle, cards and creating occasional mayhem.

  But one day Jeremiah ran into a likely looking gent who said he might be able to help, a no-nonsense sort of fellow in the spiffiest dark blue uniform the cowhand had ever seen, sitting at the desk of the local Marine Corps recruiting office. The rawhide and barbed wire tough Texan liked what he saw and what he heard, and so he signed on. And his world changed drastically yet once again.

  The first thing he found out was although he might have had a partial claim to being the toughest man in San Antonio, this unratified title did not include the rank and file of the United States Marine Corps. His comeuppance occurred on his third day at Parris Island, and the eye-opening lesson was taught with finality by another man also made of barbed wire and rawhide, and who just happened to be Jeremiah’s drill instructor.

  It was the first time he had ever been whipped so soundly, but Jeremiah took it well enough and learned some of life’s lessons from the drubbing. In the years to come that hard-boiled, fist slinging drill instructor would become his closest friend, and together they ended up being part of what was then termed as ‘China Marines,’ due to their pre-war service there.

  Their friendship would endure until a particularly horrific day along a dusty road outside the Filipino town of Balanga, during a time of infamous sorrows and inhuman brutalities that became known as the Bataan Death March.

  On that day three long years of a very personal war began in the mountains and jungles of Luzon, fighting an enemy who was seemingly without mercy or compassion for others than themselves. It was a grinding mill of days and nights of sickness, pain, near starvation and constant danger, interspersed with dozens of vicious ambushes and firefights that neither asked for or gave any quarter.

  Jeremiah Templar fought eye for an eye through it all, and in the process obtained near legendary status in not only his own ragged band of guerillas but among the general civilian population. He also earned a special reputation among the Japanese invaders, and with good reason was both feared and hated by them.

  It had been during some of the same years as Ezekiel’s own war over occupied Europe, but in crucial ways Jeremiah’s crucible was an entirely different kind of onslaught in primal savagery. He had experienced firsthand the unthinking, almost institutional, cruelty of the average Japanese soldier on a near daily basis. What he took with him from that soul-searing ordeal, was an active hate for anything having to do with the Japanese for the res
t of his days.

  After the liberation of the Philippines and the end of the war, Jeremiah returned to the upper Nueces River country a changed man. Gaunt and battle scarred, his easy ways and happy-go-lucky nature had been replaced by a grim maturity and frank appraisal of himself, as well as the world around him. The temper that often got the better of him as a younger man was now mostly chained down deep within. In the remaining years of his life the fire-eating centaur had escaped only rarely, but Micah had been present during one of those few occurrences and it was a sight to behold.

  There were those who said that Jeremiah Templar was a war hero, and others who said he only did what had to be done and had paid a dear price for it. The former Marine had come back to his roots, gotten married and made a living for his family doing what he loved most, working with cattle and horses on a small place outside of Uvalde.

  Like so many of his peers who had gone afar to help defeat an implacable foe, he now went about his duties in a simple, day-to-day existence. The fruits of his quiet labor could never be measured in dollars but rather the most priceless denomination of all, the respect of those around him. Micah remembered him as a loving and wise father, who spoke far more openly about his own shortcomings and faults than he ever did anyone else’s.

  One warm spring day when Micah was about nine years old a dusty gray, four door Ford sedan had pulled up in front of the ranch house. On the doors it bore the words “Department of the Navy”, and a Marine major sat behind the wheel in his service khaki uniform. He had come to see if he could speak with the once Marine sergeant Jeremiah Templar.

  Jeremiah’s mother, always the gracious host and ready for company, had invited the major inside for some iced tea and a slice of pecan pie. She explained her husband was out checking on a leaking water trough in a nearby pasture, but should be in soon enough.

  As she busied herself in the kitchen Micah sat down at the table with the major, admiring his crisp creases and the rows of ribbons on his chest. In turn, the Marine officer noticed the boy’s interest and began visiting with him on an assortment of subjects such as school, sports and life in general on a south Texas ranch.

  After an hour or so had passed, his dad came in and the major introduced himself, saying that he was from the Marine Corps historical section at Quantico, Virginia. He had come all this way to speak with Jeremiah Templar about his time in the Marines, particularly about those years spent in the Philippines during the war. Micah’s dad listened intently to what the major had to say. In a measured tone, Jeremiah replied by commenting that he would try to help as best he could.

  The two men began the interview on general topics, and his father answered the questions slowly and thoughtfully. He related names, dates and locations as exactly as possible or would simply say the estimation was only a guess, or that he could not remember. All the while, the major scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad with a pencil. Micah sat at the kitchen table and listened with rapt attention.

  But as the questions became more focused on Jeremiah himself, the answers became shorter and more clouded. It was as if an unseen, impenetrable wall was rising slowly from the floor between him and everyone else in the room. Finally, the major began asking about a certain staff sergeant by the name of Vincent F. Pate. Then the conversation ground to a halt, as a pall of deep sadness and grief came over his father’s features.

  For several long moments there was absolute silence. Jeremiah put a calloused hand over his eyes and worked his temples with his thumb and middle fingers. Then he sighed heavily and finally responded, “Don’t think I want to talk about that, major.”

  “Sergeant Templar, the Marine Corps needs to know what happened, as does Staff Sergeant Pate’s family,” persisted the major. “We have a fair approximation after speaking with some of the others present at that time, but every one of those men says that only you know the entire story.”

  “Major, I ain’t no sergeant anymore. Just someone who’s spent a lot of nights trying to forget most of what you’ve brought up today. Vince’s family don’t need to know everything that happened. And to be honest, I wish I didn’t either.”

  “But…” the Marine officer began.

  “Leave it be, major. It’s enough to say that Vince Pate was one of the finest men I ever knew, and a Marine extraordinaire. He died in the service of his country after he gave every last bit of life left inside him. That’s plenty enough to remember anybody by.”

  The room fell into an uneasy silence again, save for the steady ticking of the tall grandfather clock along the east wall. The major gazed steadily at Jeremiah Templar for some time, coming to the slow realization that this was one objective that he would never be able to obtain. Knowingly, tellingly, he nodded his head ever so slightly in appreciation of the man seated before him.

  Jeremiah glanced over to his young son still seated at the table, listening in. “Micah” he asked gently, “don’t you have some chores that still need to be done?” Knowing that it was past time to take his leave, Micah hurriedly excused himself and headed out the front screen door.

  The adults stayed inside the ranch house for some time, before the Marine major appeared on the front wood porch alongside his dad. The two men spoke in low voices for a few more minutes and then shook hands. His dad turned and went back inside, and the major made his way to the waiting sedan.

  Opening the door and climbing in, he cranked up the gray Ford’s flathead V8. As he let the engine settle into an idle, he looked over and saw Micah sitting by the tack shed. The Marine officer smiled, as if maybe recollecting some of his own childhood and motioned the boy over.

  Micah came at a run, skidding to a stop in the hard dirt beside the driver’s door. Reaching inside his briefcase, the major produced a shiny brass casting of the Marine Corps emblem resembling the blackened ones on the lapels and cover of his uniform. He handed the crest to Micah, saying, “Son, I want you to have this. I’d like for it to be a reminder of what kind of Marine your dad was, and the kind of man he is now.”

  The officer peered into the young boy’s face. “Ever known a real war hero?” he asked. Micah thought hard with his nose wrinkled up, and then shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “Well, you do. And you probably never heard him utter a single word to make you think he was. But I’m going to tell you something that needs saying, your dad is a real hero whether he will ever admit to it or not. I imagine he’s never been anything but. Don’t ever forget that, son.

  “Now you take care of yourself and be proud. Not every little boy has that kind of a dad.” The major brought up the idle and eased the clutch out, and the Ford sedan pulled away. Micah stood there in the settling dust, studying the golden eagle, globe and fouled anchor clinched tightly in his small right hand. He looked up at the disappearing car and knew in his heart that one day, he would be a Marine, too. Bounding up the steps and across the front porch in his excitement, he pulled up short at the scene presented through the screen door.

  His parents sat together, his dad with his head on his forearms resting on the brightly-patterned cloth covering the kitchen table. His mom was close beside, running her fingers through his hair and speaking to him in a soft, comforting tone. When she glanced up and saw Micah looking in, she shook her head from side to side rapidly and shooed her son away with her free hand.

  It was the only time he could ever remember his father crying.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The sound of men working in the other room, as well as in the darkness beyond was quieting down. It was in the wee hours now, the hands on the clock that creep through the period between the departing lateness of night and the early morning yet to come. Ezekiel Templar began waking up in slow degrees, rising up to full consciousness through the enveloping malaise brought on by the hour and those pills the Shi’a had forced down him. He felt the sensation of having sweated profusely, which he took as a good sign that his fever was breaking.

  Until encountering the mental fog t
hat accompanied his rise from unconsciousness, Ezekiel had been dreaming again. But it was nothing like the disjointed nightmares before, in this sequence he relived precious thoughts of the past and of those who had meant so much to him. In it his wife, Sue, was still alive and Jacob but a rambunctious little boy again. They were at the ancestral Templar family home along the banks of the Nueces, during the coolness of late autumn when the leaves of those enormous old pecan trees begin to fall.

  There was nothing really special about the circumstance the dream portrayed, he had spent so many days at that old place with his family. On several occasions, Sue spent time there before they were even married. She would drive out from Uvalde to stay with the Templars and though raised a town girl, she took to ranch life and was square in the middle of everything occurring on the premises. It quickly became her home as much as anyone else’s. During his years in the Air Force, the two and then later three traveled across the world and back again. But home still remained where it was, and they returned to it every chance they had.

  In the dream his family was simply spending time by the river, enjoying the late autumn afternoon as much as each other. They had walked from the ranch house and down to the rock-strewn riverbed, holding each other’s hands as Jacob ran forward and examined every small thing that a growing boy’s budding imagination could build upon.

  “Jacob Templar! Now you be careful!’ she warned emphatically to the small boy scrambling about.

  “Aw, Maw” the little boy protested.

  “You speak respectful to your mother, son, and do as she says” Ezekiel sternly added.

  “Yes sir. Sorry Mom, I’ll be careful.” Jacob replied somewhat ruefully.

  “Zeke, I tell you that boy is going to be the death of me,” Sue confided. “I never know what he might do or say next. In fact,” she added, looking at Ezekiel somewhat mischievously, “he reminds me a whole lot of you at about the same age.”