Of Souls and Patriots

Copyright © 2013 Stan Poel.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 (866) 928-1240

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4908-1182-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-1183-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-1181-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918406

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/29/2013

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Afterword

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I n the process of writing this book, I learned the critical importance of having a circle of capable friends who study a manuscript and offer their encouragement, advice, and fresh perspective. Wilma Poel, my wife, greatest supporter, and best friend, followed the project from beginning to end. My sister-in-law, Erma Highfill, acted more like a sister during the process. Dennis Camp, retired US Army Colonel and Chaplain, added a high-level military perspective. Connie Tiller, a writer and teacher, served as an invaluable tough-love editor. I tapped the wisdom of my brother, Robert Poel, and came away richer. Special thanks to all these wonderful people who lifted me up.

INTRODUCTION

W orld War II veterans have been described, with ample justification, as the greatest American generation. I submit that we can carry that claim further. This book is dedicated to the proposition that veterans of all generations are the greatest Americans.

We live in a society of self. The tendency to be self-serving is apparent in many leaders of our country. Selfishness is fueled by the advertising industry. Indeed, if we are honest, we will confess that all of us are affected by the me-first virus.

There is a group of Americans that have performed at a higher level. Veterans have done more than pledge allegiance; they have demonstrated allegiance. They committed their bodies and lives to protect others. These men and women endured hardships that stretched their human capacities. They suffered wounds that endure for a lifetime. Tragically, many of them gave their last full measure of devotion on the battlefield.

The greatness of these patriots is heightened when, despite the insufficient support and recognition by their culture, and in spite of their wounds, they often return to combat, knowing what awaits them.

The goal of this book is to demonstrate the humanity, the vulnerabilities, and the triumphs of these great Americans.

PROLOGUE

Lacey Spring, Virginia: December 1864

I nexperienced riders avoided the black stallion. They could not control the animal’s spirit and energy. The powerful horse craved the strike of spurs on his ribs—that was the trigger for an explosion of his power. Iron-shod hoofs pounding on a hard-packed road. Inhaling huge amounts of cool air and blasting out equal amounts of hot air. Pumping blood by the gallon. That was life.

The stallion’s rider was a match for the spirited horse. William Jennings, a young cavalry sergeant, understood the stallion and could channel the animal’s power. Jennings was tall and lean. His broad shoulders came from hard work on a farm without modern machines. His warrior spirit sprang partly from youth and genetics but mostly from an intense commitment to his large family and small community. Jennings had known the black stallion since they were both young colts on the family farm in Virginia.

The energies of both horse and rider were tested on this cold winter night. The black stallion normally walked with his head and neck high. He moved with a bounce and powerful grace. Now he was forced to restrain his gait. A thin coating of snow covered the ice on the hard-packed road. The sliding of his iron shoes on patches of hidden ice frustrated him. He occasionally raised his head and blew forcefully, nostrils wide. His breath was visible in the light of the full moon.

William normally rode tall and proud in the saddle. Now he was bent, hugging himself to prevent the shivering that was plaguing him that night. His revolvers—one holstered at his waist and two more slid into his boots—were cold and lifeless.

The prints left in the snow by the warhorse were the only sign of recent traffic on this deserted road. As they passed through the small village, William noted that the houses were quiet and dark. The only evidence of life was the smoke coming from the chimneys, illuminated by the bright moon. The still night air allowed the smoke to rise undisturbed. The smell of the wood smoke hung in the air.

William was returning to the home where he was born. For the first fifteen years of his life, his family and this little community of Lacey Spring, Virginia, was his life. A life he loved. The rest of the world was only a collection of images that came from books.

Then war came. It was not some far-off war. It was right in the farm fields of his Virginia. Every man of an age to fight was engaged in that war. Still a teenager at nineteen, William Jennings was a combat veteran; he had participated in guerrilla operations with Mosby’s Rangers, the Forty-third Battalion of the Virginia Cavalry.

Looking up the hill to his left, he saw his old one-room schoolhouse. In the moonlight, he saw that the old swing was still suspended from the oak tree, motionless on this peaceful night.

As the horse and rider passed the farm nearest their own, William straightened his legs in the stirrups and pulled back on the reins. The stallion jerked to a stop and snorted. Behind the house, William saw the skeleton of a barn, with ribs of various lengths piercing the clear night sky. Devils, he muttered. William turned to the road ahead and, with a light touch of the spurs, urged the horse forward.

When he turned into the drive of his family farm, he looked ahead to see the barn intact, its normally dark roof now reflecting a dusting of snow. William guided the horse to the softer soil beside the drive. The stallion, relieved by the stable footing, resumed his strong, proud stride as they approached the house.

William tied the stallion to the porch post and tiptoed across the dark porch. He knew his father would never allow an intruder to enter his home. When he reached the door, he tapped and identified himself. Daddy, Momma, it’s William, he said, just loud enough to be heard inside the house.

The door swung open, and his father immediately embraced him. The small children jumped out of bed and rushed to the door. William turned to his mother. She embraced him and continued to hold him even after he released his grasp on her to hug the little ones.

Isaac, the father, looked out the window and walked closer to get a better look outside. How is your black stallion doing, son?

He’s doing as well as can be expected, Daddy. He has more character than I’ve ever seen in a horse. I sensed it the day you brought him home as a colt. He’s really too good for the hard life of the cavalry. He ought to be in a racehorse stable someplace. It hurts me when I can’t give him the care he deserves.

Isaac turned to his oldest daughter. Tend to William’s horse, Louisa. Give him water and the last of the oats, and throw a blanket over him. Keep him up close to the house. If the Yankees see that horse, we are all in for some kind of trouble.

What do you hear from Joseph? asked William, urgency in his voice.

Our last letter came this week, said Hannah, the mother. It is a great joy to receive those letters, to know Joseph is alive. I ache with worry for him and for you—especially since your brother Jacob died. I keep Jacob’s letters in a box. I will read them again…one day.

The Tenth Virginia has seen too much for any soul to take, said Isaac. Jacob and Joseph told us little of it. We learned more later. The brothers were together at Antietam and Fredericksburg. After Jacob died at Chancellorsville, Joseph went on to Brandy Station and Gettysburg and—I’m not sure what other places.

I just pray for this war to end and for me to have my last two sons home again, said Hannah. I lay awake nights with you boys on my mind. I just pray. It’s all I can do.

William’s youngest sister, Mary, five years old, hugged her big brother’s leg. While rubbing her head, William turned to his father. Daddy, the Smith barn is down. Most of the barns in Lacey Spring are gone. Ours is still standing—

That Yankee, General Sheridan, is trying to keep the South from eating, son. The Yankees have burnt hundreds of barns in Rockingham County along with mills and grain. They even poisoned some of the wells. I expect it’s happening all over the valley. We can just thank the Lord that our barn is still standing—at least for now. Even little Mary had something to do with that.

William looked down at Mary. What did you have to do with the barn, sweet girl?

Mary smiled.

Isaac continued. Last week the Yankees were here. They took the last cow and all that was left of our horses. Then they killed all the chickens. We were all outside on the porch watching. Then one of the men lit a torch. We all knew he was about to burn the barn. Then the commander turned and looked at us. He walked up to little Mary and got down on one knee. Somewhere in him must be a soul because he said, ‘You look just like my little Clara, sweetheart.’ He then got up and shouted to his men to leave the barn. The man dropped the torch—it just hissed in the snow and died. It’s still there. Then they all rode off. They took our animals, but they left our barn, for now.

Mary released William’s leg. I did good, didn’t I?

You did real good, honey. Real good.

Isaac held his son by both shoulders and looked into his eyes. And you, son. Tell me how you are—and don’t hold back now. We need to know.

Well, Daddy, since I have been riding with Colonel Mosby, we’ve been fighting different from the regular cavalry units. We don’t line up, all organized, when we fight. We’re a small outfit. We move fast. Yankee scouts can’t follow us. We just ride up unexpected, hit them hard, and ride off. We’ve been giving the Yankees a lot of trouble. They hate us for it. They call us bushwhackers and guerrillas.

You look troubled, son, said Isaac.

William paused for a few seconds and then responded. Well, I have been troubled, Daddy. Some bad things have been happening. That Yankee general, George Armstrong Custer, was there when they killed four of our boys behind a church and hung two more from a tree. One boy’s momma was watching and screaming. Those boys were my friends, Daddy. I helped bury them in the ground. It hurt me then, and it hurts me to tell it now.

And at this moment, said Isaac, General Custer, Sheridan’s golden boy—hardly older than you—is camped with a division of Yankees not two miles north of here. His whole division. You can see their fires from here.

They turned and looked out the windows to the north. In the distance, they saw lights of campfires, dispersed over the fields and woods.

Well, William continued, we can’t let the Yankees treat us like they do. Colonel Mosby had us catch a bunch of Custer’s men and hold them. Then finally, last month, we hung five of them and put notes on them for the Yankees to read.

How is all that sitting with you, son? asked his father.

Not good, truth be told, Daddy. Truth is, it gets me all mixed up on the inside. It’s like what we do is right and not right at the same time. I finally told Colonel Mosby that I needed some kind of change. He said I could transfer over to General Rosser’s unit. That’s a regular cavalry division. He’s camped south of here. I’m on my way there now.

Hannah Jennings again hugged her youngest son. Then you must go—and soon, William. If the Yankees find you here, they will hang you right here in front of me. That would kill me.

William hugged all of them, starting with his mother, then his father, finally his sisters. He then turned, strode across the back porch, and swung into the saddle of the stallion. Isaac and Hannah Jennings watched their young son, now a man, salute them and, with a sharp pull on the reins, turn the proud, black horse and ride off.

*   *   *

Early the next morning, well before sunrise, the family members were settled in their beds. Isaac and the children were sound asleep. Hannah was awake, unable to calm her thoughts. The fireplace was quiet, reduced to a few glowing embers, and a cold winter chill had invaded their home.

Suddenly, Hannah sat up alert. Isaac jolted awake and tore the nightcap from his head. What? he demanded.

Listen. Horses—lots of them, said Hannah as she got out of bed and hurried to the kitchen window. Are they Yankees, Isaac?

Isaac joined her, face to the glass, looking out into the pasture. No, they’re all lined up facing north. They must be Confederates. There’s hundreds of them—maybe a thousand out there. I think they’re going after Custer, Hannah.

And if General Rosser moved up from Staunton, William may be out there too, said Hannah.

Silently, Isaac took Hannah’s hand, and they waited for the battle to begin.

*   *   *

William Jennings and his black stallion were members of that Confederate force. Although William had joined the advancing unit just hours earlier, the young sergeant, well-armed and riding a strong and healthy horse, had quickly blended into the ranks.

All the troopers now made final, individual preparations for battle. They quickly examined horses, tack, and weapons. Then they mounted their horses and worked to hold the nervous animals in position.

William looked in the direction of the Jennings farmhouse. He thought he saw figures in the darkened window. The black stallion, holding his head high, snorted and lurched from side to side. William, holding a tight rein and speaking in a low voice, gave his full attention to calming the animal.

Without the familiar sound of a bugle, the general turned his back to the formation and gave the command, Trot out! As one, those that heard his command lurched forward. The rest of the line saw the movement and sprang into action, forming a rough line as they trotted ahead.

William’s horse surged ahead of the advancing line. William pulled him back. The formation moved at a trot through the fields, turning the smooth white blanket into a collection of thousands of pockmarks where the snow was punctured and soil lifted.

The Federal campfires came into view. The general, trying to ensure that the horses could maintain strength throughout the battle, waited until detection by the enemy was imminent. Then he gave the command that the men were anticipating.

Charge! thundered the General, pointing his saber straight ahead.

Up and down the line, horses exploded to their maximum. Rebel yells and galloping horses shattered the cold quiet of the winter night. All surprise was now lost, and the battle was on.

William’s horse now came fully alive. His rear dipped and his hoofs dug into the earth. He lunged forward, forcing his rider to tense his legs and lean forward to stay in the saddle. The horse’s driving legs threw snow and soil into the air behind him. With nose flared, blowing his hot breath into the cold air, the animal passed the startled general and led the charge. Holding the reins in his left hand, yet allowing the stallion to select his path through the chaos, William focused on his attack. With knees held tight to the sides of the charging stallion, he pulled a long-barreled revolver from his right boot. He saw confusion and panic ahead as his horse thundered into the sleeping camp. Some men were up and rushing to their horses. Others were struggling to bring their weapons into action.

One man was still on the ground, watching horrified, as the huge black horse bore down on him. The horse vaulted over the man. After the horse hit the ground, William turned back to see the man as he was clambering toward safety. He never reached safety. A Confederate shot him in the back. He fell, face-down in the snow.

William looked ahead to see another Federal in his path. The man was looking at William while fumbling to pull a revolver from his holster. William aimed at the man’s chest. His weapon cracked sharply, and the man crumbled. William dashed past before the man struck the ground.

William again looked ahead. A second man was standing directly in front of the charging stallion. The man froze in place with his hands raised, palms forward, in an instinctive but vain attempt to avoid being trampled. With a touch of the reins, William turned the horse. He raised his pistol and aimed it, cocked and ready, at the man’s chest. William’s eyes were drawn to the man’s face. Their eyes locked. For a brief moment, William felt a connection with that man. He hesitated. The galloping horse rushed past the man, close enough that William sensed the man’s silent presence as they passed.

The black stallion continued his charge through the confused camp. Slightly off to his right, William saw a Federal raise a carbine and aim at him. He noted a sneer on the man’s face. The Federal then dropped his aim slightly and fired. William felt the horse jolt—then collapse. The huge body hit hard; air exploded from his lungs. William jumped out of his saddle as the horse rolled onto his side. He thrashed on the ground, screaming, his legs acting as if they were running but gaining no traction in the cold night air. William, oblivious to the battle going on around him, stood and watched the horse fighting for life. The thrashing lasted only a few seconds. His powerful ribs rose and fell a few times. Then his entire body relaxed, except for the blinking of his eyes. Finally, they blinked closed and the horse was still.

William slowly regained awareness of the battle around him. He turned to the man who had fired the fatal shot. The sneer was gone, replaced by a blank expression. The man now held his rifle close to his chest. The gun’s barrel aimed harmlessly toward the stars.

William felt anger rising in him. He turned to his attacker. His jaw clamped tight. Rage filled his eyes. He began to move toward the Federal, slowly at first. Now the flickering light of a nearby campfire reflected off a look of fear on the man’s face. William began to move faster, his eyes locked on the man’s face. A saber on the ground, reflecting the light of the fire, caught his eye. William tossed his pistol away and swept up the sword. He gripped it tightly. He moved forward, running now. The man was backing, eyes wide. The man dropped his rifle and raised both hands in front of himself, as if this move would deter the advancing Confederate. The man continued to walk backward. He tripped on a tree root and fell on his back. Then he raised himself on both elbows and said, I want to surren—

You people come down here where you don’t belong, William shouted, eyes blazing. You kill our people, you steal our food, you burn our barns, and you poison our wells. Grasping tightly to the saber with his right hand, William reached across his chest and raised the saber high in the air on his left side. And you kill our horses! he shouted. The blade of the saber whistled through the air and slashed cleanly through the man’s throat. Blood first spurted upward in quick bursts. Then the blood flooded from the wound, covering the man’s chest and flowing onto the ground. He now lay flat on his back, arms extended and motionless.

William’s rage evaporated, leaving a vacuum deep inside.

He bent over and looked down into the man’s eyes. The man returned William’s gaze. Their eyes locked. Their souls seamed to join. He continued to gaze into those eyes until they seemed to be viewing another world. William’s arms became heavy, and his face felt paralyzed. The saber slid from his hand and clattered to the rocks at his feet.

*   *   *

CHAPTER 1

1967

M ack DeHaan made mistakes as far back as he could remember. They came and went. No real damage done. This time was different. He made a change in his life that was starting to look like one of those before and after things. The event was not a marker on the timeline of life. It was more like a shift from one timeline to another—from one life to another. That earlier life was looking pretty good.

Mack imagined a Lake Michigan