James and three of his cousins sign up for military duty. Their fathers send them to a foreign land to fight the Germans while Luke finds himself investigating a local theft. As Luke is being pressured to find the culprit, a conspiracy is hatched. A conspiracy capable of effecting his career and his love life.
The limit of the family’s steadfast faith is tested.
Will anyone’s devotion to God weaver?
Will the family’s faith hold?
What sacrifices must the family make?
This book is filled with Scripture, written into the text so well that it reads as part of the story. The characters face many trials but their faith hold them steady.
Luke is suffering severe depression and feels forgotten by God. But his father, Travis, leads him into the mountains of his youth and they both find peace as Travis remembers his life there. James also feels God has forgotten him, but his father, Reid, guides him gently back into the Scripture, reminding James of God's promises and faithfulness while giving James fresh hope for the future.
“James, you can’t! You can’t go back out there!” Curt yelled.
James stopped to look at the burnt-yellow cloud rolling toward them at a distance. “I have to. They’re going to die if we leave them there. Go on, get these guys to safety.” James flung his hand toward the injured men who were being evacuated from the field hospital.
Curt watched as James pulled the respirator’s mask over his face and slammed the helmet back on his head. He climbed into the truck and revved the engine as he put it in gear and started moving.
James looked into the murky haze with his heart pounding. The truck was picking up speed quickly as he shifted, one gear to the next. It was just him, nobody else. He was alone, and he was the only hope those men had. He slowly began to recite scripture, trying to calm himself as the truck bounced and swayed over the rough battle-hardened terrain.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’” The truck hit a hole, and the wheel jerked to the left. James pulled hard to get the truck moving back the way he needed it to go.
‘“He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.’” James’s thoughts went back to the quiet river where he fished with his brothers and Grandpa. He wanted to do that again. Just one more day of the quiet tranquil spirit that surrounded his grandfather on that riverbank. A shell hit beside him, and it rocked the truck. James fought to keep the truck on its path.
“‘He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’ Keep me on this path, Lord. Let me make it to them.
“‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.’ You are with me, Lord, you are with me. I’m not alone. Stay with me, help me get them out, ‘your rod and your staff, they comfort me.’
“‘You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;’ my enemies are all around me Lord, protect me, ‘you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ Let your mercy dwell on me now Father.”
He entered the fog, and it was so thick he couldn’t see the front end of the truck. James strained his eyes beneath the goggles of his mask as the fog enveloped him and the vehicle he was driving. Horses frantically pulling at a wagon with no driver suddenly appeared; and James slammed on his brakes to avoid the collision, downshifted, and then took off again. He had to be near the men. Where were they?
Shells continued to fall, and the yellow haze got thicker. He heard the big guns, 420-mm siege guns, deadly, pounding the earth around him. He had been so naïve. War wasn’t glory and honor; it was survival. It was a foreshadowing of hell.
“Lord, I can’t find them. Let me see them!”
The next shell resounded close to him, throwing the truck in a different direction, and the yellow vapor dissipated for a moment. There they were; he saw them now. Ahead at two o’clock and about twenty yards out. James turned the truck sharply and gunned it before he skidded to a stop. He jumped out and ran toward the troops.
“Let’s go! Move!” he yelled, grabbing a soldier by the arm and slinging him toward the truck. He screamed louder, trying to yell over the noise so the men could hear his muffled voice from under the mask.
Gun fire came at them, and some of the men hit the ground, while others kept moving. James saw a few men collapse, hit by the spray of bullets. He picked up an automatic weapon lying beside a dead soldier and fired back in the direction of the enemy’s barrage. He chambered round after round and kept firing.
He screamed, “Move! Get in the truck!” He wasn’t sure anyone heard him over the gunfire and pounding of the shells. He began to move backward toward the cab, still firing the weapon. At the edge of the truck bed, he dropped the gun and pushed a few more soldiers on top of the ones that were already there.
“Hang on!” he yelled.
He knew that the only thing keeping these men on the back of this truck were the tall wooden planks wedged into the flooring. They would just have to hold on to each other. He began praying they could make it out of the poison without a shell hitting them.
He trusted his senses and hoped upon hope that God would guide him through this mist of unrelenting poison they had to travel through. He knew they weren’t far from the aid station, just a few miles. But the aid station was evacuating. If they could just get there in time for someone else to help, that’s all he wanted.
He caught a glimpse of troops moving to his left. More men in this gas.
It seemed to take hours, but he knew it was only a few minutes when the fog began to thin out. He still couldn’t see. His eyes were pressing together against the sting of the gas that had pushed its way beneath his mask. James ripped the mask off, breaking it from the attached hose, and flung it across the cab of the truck beside him, hitting a soldier who didn’t respond. James glanced over. Was he dead?
James reached up to rub his eye but stopped as the back of his hand touched his brow. “No, don’t rub,” he told himself. “Don’t rub. It will make it worse.”
There they were, the line of men he was looking for. Injured men who could walk were moving away from the aid station. Trucks, wagons, and carts full of the injured were moving south, following the road away from the approaching mist. James blew the horn in a long, mournful bellow to move men aside and get the attention of those who could help him. He saw a break in the line and slid to a stop, turning the truck completely around headed back in the direction he had just come from.
“Out! Everybody, out,” the young corporal choked out at a roar. He began pulling the men from the truck. Other injured men came to assist, and several of the medical aides brought cleansing agents to help those who had just evacuated from the poison.
James climbed back into the truck and pushed the dead man beside him out the missing door. He revved the engine again and began moving back toward the mist.
“Lord, again,” he prayed, “let me do it again!” He didn’t know how, but soon after he entered the fog, more men appeared at his truck. He got them loaded with the shells still falling around him. The truck began moving back toward the evacuating troops and help.
James continued to drive, unable to see where he was or where he was going. His eyes were swelling, but the truck kept moving. The Lord was guiding him, telling him when to turn, when to speed up, and when to brake. This was it. This was all he could do, he knew that.
He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t feel his hands, except for the itching and burning. His palms were sweating, and he knew this wasn’t good. Moisture just spread the poison and opened his pores to let the poison penetrate easier. He couldn’t wipe his hands on his clothes either. His clothes were covered with the toxic vapor. James felt the bugs crawling all over his body, but he knew there weren’t any. It was just the sensation of the gas penetrating his clothing onto his skin. He wanted to take deep breaths, to be able to breathe, but he knew that would just pull more gas into his lungs. He wouldn’t live through this, and he knew it, but he kept driving. The men in his truck might survive. He could get them help. Where was help? Where was the road?
The next thing James remembered was being pulled from the truck by two men dressed in protective gear. Somehow, he had made it.
The men began stripping his clothes off and spreading protective ointment over his body. Then they began washing him, scrubbing his skin painfully as they rubbed the soap into his neck, face, arms, and chest. His pants were cut off, and he was stripped naked. They rolled him over and continued washing his back and legs. He was pulled to a sitting position as the men began drying him. Now they were washing his eyes and were trying to give him a drink.
“Rinse and spit,” someone said.
James turned his head and let the liquid run down the side of his face. Someone wiped it off.
A crayon cross was drawn on his forehead. He knew this identified him as a gas patient; he had marked other men’s foreheads himself.
“What’s your name, Corporal?” The question came from a woman.
“James Britt,” he replied. He didn’t know if this person could understand him. His tongue and lips felt numb. He didn’t know if anything moved except maybe his jaw.
“Unit?”
“Battalion, medical,” James replied.
“Okay, let’s get him moved out,” the voice sounded distant. Someone picked up the stretcher he was lying on, and he felt movement. The movement stopped suddenly, and his head was lifted so his eyes could be wrapped. He coughed gently, and the movement began again.