The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

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