Courage Through Faith

By Shiloh Yazdani

In 1944, Chris Bryson was fighting a war that had engulfed the world, but he was also fighting a war inside between what he'd built his life on and what he discovered to be true. In fellow Airborne member, Justin Latta, Chris saw a man whose faith guided him beyond the fear of death. Through some of the most notable battles of World War 2, Chris was influenced by different people ""some positive, others negative""but all add something to his fight. As the war dragged on, he found two different kinds of soldiers fighting beside him""those with courage to face bullets but not death and those with courage, through their faith, to face both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640793330

Book preview

Chapter 1

D-Day

This flight was unlike any Chris had taken before. They’d been on this plane much longer than normal. In training, it seemed they barely got seated before the plane was taking off. Those flights were short and to the point—take off, reach the objective, and jump—but tonight was different. They’d been sitting in this plane waiting for takeoff since 21:30 hours. Right after chow they were ordered to the planes, and now it was close to 00:00.

Chris smiled as he remembered seeing many of his fellow soldiers walking to the planes in full gear, carrying a chicken leg or pork chop in their hands, not willing to part with any of the uncommon treat. He would’ve done so too if he hadn’t finished his before leaving the table. It was a rare treat indeed to have such a delicious meal, and he made short work of eating it all.

At 00:00 hours, Chris heard planes starting up. When he felt their plane roar to life, he looked up and smiled. Hank Brown caught his eye and smiled back, giving him a thumbs-up.

It was funny how comfortable he was on an airplane now considering the first time he’d ever been in one was the first time he jumped. No one from his family or neighborhood had ever been on an airplane. The only person he knew that had was Mr. Worthington, and where Mr. Worthington, with all his money, had flown just once, Chris must’ve flown at least thirty times by now. He had yet to land in one, but that wasn’t what he had been trained for.

In order to fool the Germans, they weren’t headed straight for their objective. They were going into France by the back door, and all that extra flying gave him time to think. Apparently not enough, though, because while he was wondering what tonight would be like, the jump master yelled from his position at the front of the plane, Say hello to France, boys. We’re over land, and that means there’s eleven minutes ’til we reach our DZ. God be with us.

For a few minutes as they flew farther inland across the peninsula, it seemed maybe they had succeeded in surprising the Germans, but then the undeniable sound of anti-aircraft fire began to be heard over the roar of the engines.

He’d never been under any real enemy fire before, and the reality of it was hitting him hard. Chris could feel his hands shake as flack exploded all around their C47. He tried to stop the shaking by putting them under his thighs, but that didn’t work. He could feel the tremble through his pants. That anti-aircraft fire was intended for them. The people firing it wanted them dead. He was in war, and it was real.

No longer was he just Chris Bryson from Cleveland, Ohio. He was now Private First Class Christopher A. Bryson, US Army, flying over France under fire.

A few years ago, he couldn’t have imagined any of this, and yet here he was in the middle of the night far from home, in enemy-held territory, and it was more real than anything he’d ever experienced. The fear he felt worried him that he wasn’t a true soldier. He thought all those weeks of training with the drilling and marching that never seemed to end made him one, but it must not have. A soldier was ready to fight, right? But Chris just realized he wasn’t ready. A soldier wasn’t afraid, was he? But Chris was, all the way down to the bottoms of his feet.

He looked around on the other men assembled in the fuselage and wondered if they felt the same. They all looked like soldiers, carbon copies of one another from their helmeted heads down to their paratrooper boots, but did any of them feel more like a soldier than he did.

Some were praying, others looking at pictures they’d removed from their pockets, a few were visibly shaking, but unlike Chris, theirs wasn’t confined to hands they could hide.

Stand up! the jumpmaster, who was swaying along with the movement of the plane, yelled, breaking into Chris’ reverie.

Chris tried to comply but could barely stand. The over one hundred pounds of gear he was carrying forced him back into his seat. The paratroopers standing on either side of him grabbed his arms and pulled him up. While boarding, that extra weight was so cumbersome they practically had to push one another up the ladder into the plane. A few who insisted on being independent crawled up the ladder alone.

They were being sent with everything they could possibly need and ninety-nine pounds more besides. He didn’t know how the planes got off the ground with all the extra weight.

There was something stashed everywhere on his body. He had pineapple grenades, a gammon grenade, flares, flashlight, foot powder, soap, three days’ worth of K-rations, a machete, three compasses, different color smoke grenades, French money, candy bars, motion sickness pills, cigarettes, antiflash headgear, TNT, blasting caps, a lighter, two bandoliers, a gas mask, extra ammo, Hawkins mine, gloves, journal, jump knife, three first aid kits, blanket, rain slicker, socks, underwear, wire cutters, entrenching tool, M2 knife, and so much more. He kept going over and over in his mind where everything was so he could get to it if he needed it, but right now the only thing he was sure he could lay his finger on was the chewing gum. It didn’t look good for him while flying into a war zone, chewing gum was the only thing he was sure he could get to in a moment’s notice.

He needed to get his head back in the game, so he started running through the steps of the jump. He’d always loved this part. Jumping off and out of things was something he’d loved his whole life. It was one of the reasons he’d gone into the paratroops. He definitely liked the extra fifty dollars a month, but it was the feeling of jumping that sold him on the idea, and it had been as wonderful as he hoped. The only drawback was when the parachute straps rubbed the skin on his shoulders raw the first few times he wore them, but once that healed, it was like being a kid again.

The practice jumps out of the plane simulator reminded him of standing in the hayloft on Mr. Smith’s farm and jumping out for the joy of it, but tonight’s jump wasn’t for the joy of it. It might well be the end of his life.

His breathing was uneven, his heartbeat erratic. He could feel the raw chill of fear creeping up his spine. The increasing sound of anti-aircraft fire only made it run deeper and faster.

Their C47 shook in the sky as if it were a paper airplane being tossed about by a giant. Chris heard the pilots yelling to each other in frantic voices. A soldier in the rear of the plane dropped his head and vomited on the floor. The continual rocking of the plane turned the previous contents of his stomach into a gelatinous blob that undulated up and down, back and forth. The sight made Chris turn his head away.

Clip up, the jumpmaster commanded in a loud voice of perfect calm.

The calm in the jumpmaster’s voice helped Chris stamp down his fear. He clipped and swayed along with everyone else in the plane.

Sound off for equipment check.

He heard Dan Starnes distinctive voice ring out, Sixteen okay, followed by, Fifteen okay, and then on down the line.

As soon as the last one sounded off, the plane jolted hard, almost knocking Chris onto the nearest seat. His mind raced until a blast of cold wind from the holes flack had put in the side acted like a slap on the face. A loud exclamation of They got Hank! drew his attention to the body hanging close to him.

Private Hank Brown hung from the static line, swaying with the turbulence. His body was sliced with lacerations, and red stains were creeping across his uniform. His open eyes were staring at nothing while the remnants of his cheeks and lips bounced along with the movement of the plane.

Bile rose in the back of Chris’ throat. Hank was a friend. He had the bunk two down from Chris at Toccoa. He wasn’t like some of the others in their company. He was an all-around nice guy. Some of the other guys liked to play pranks and push others around, but Hank was different. When Chris couldn’t find his boots one morning, he was frantic knowing Sarge would lay into him if he wasn’t turned out on time. Hank got Chris’ attention and gestured to where Joe Williams had them hidden under his bunk. That was the kind of stuff he always did. Why would something like this happen to someone as nice as him? He didn’t even make it out of the plane.

Corporal Jones went to check on him. He looked at the jumpmaster and shook his head. He’s dead. It was horrifying, and yet Chris couldn’t look away.

They had it pushed into their minds over and over that people will die. He knew it in his head, but until now it hadn’t seemed real. This, however, was all too real and he was sure that forever the image of Hank’s riddled and bloody body would be stuck to his mind like flypaper.

Is this what war is, lives and futures stopped by a matter of inches? What if Hank had lined up farther down the stick? Would he still be alive, or would that flack have found him where he was? What was the use of it anyway? What good did Hank’s death make? Would the Germans laugh if they found out they were responsible for taking the life of a nice guy? Were they strengthened by this man’s death, or did he win some victory for the Allies by dying? Worse yet, was his death of no meaning at all?

A commanding voice from the front grabbed his attention, This isn’t training, men! You knew people would be killed! Starnes, Smith, unhook that soldier and lay him to the side. We’ve got a war to win! Let’s go! Stand in the door! We’ll have the green light in a second. Get ready!

After hearing the command, the two soldiers removed Hank from the line.

Before they could clip back up, the jumpmaster shouted, Green light—Go! Go! Go, and the captain was the first one out.

Chris responded by shuffling forward right on the heels of the soldier in front of him. His body was working, even though his mind had quit.

He was number 14 on the stick and, when he got to the door, was shocked to see one of the wing’s engines burning. Standing in the door, he was struck again by fear.

Instead of a quiet night sky, German anti-aircraft emplacements made the ground and sky solid walls of color. Tracers sailed by like tiny rockets. Chaos reigned. Men and parachutes were everywhere, some open, some not, but all falling through plumes of smoke. The Germans refused to give an inch without a fight.

Flack was going up thick and fast, and when it found its target, the result was horrible—burning engines, screaming men, planes dropping from the sky.

Chris froze in the door, his mind numbed by the sight of it all. The soldier behind him pushed him through and into his jump.

After being pushed, Chris was caught up in the sensation that hit him every time he jumped, but that was quickly replaced as flack exploded close to him. He was so startled by the reverberation that he wasn’t ready as his chute backlashed, and it knocked the breath out of him. In his struggle to regain his breath, he swung like a pendulum, causing his leg bag to fall off. Finally, regained his breath, but he’d barely gotten his breathing back to normal before he was closing in on land. To his horror, he saw he was going to land in a tree. He fought against it but to no avail. He was going to hit that tree at full speed. He was sure at best he’d break his arms and legs, at worse be killed.

Upon impact, the leaves and branches beat his body and slapped his face, but when he violently jerked to a stop, he did inventory and was amazed to find he hadn’t broken anything. He was relatively uninjured but, best of all, alive. For that, he was thankful. Now he had to get out of this tree and find his unit.

He tugged on the risers but couldn’t break free. His elation at being alive turned quickly into panic when he realized he was hanging like a Christmas ornament, easy pickings for anyone who wanted to take a shot at him. What he didn’t realize was he was lodged in such a way that he and his chute weren’t visible from the ground.

His chute had collapsed upon itself, and instead of being noticeably spread out across the top of the tree, it was snagged on branches inside like a wet sock on the clothesline, leaving him in relative cover. Chris struggled while afraid he would be discovered any minute. He fought and pulled, but his strength alone was futile.

He didn’t know where his company was. He didn’t know where the Germans were. He didn’t know where he landed. He didn’t know anything. The mayhem that met him in the door of the plane wasn’t happening here. He could see lights in the distance and hear gunfire, but nothing was going on around him. The time he hesitated in the door must’ve blown him off the drop zone.

Chris pulled again on his chute, but it was no good. He needed to cut himself free, but when he let go of the suspension lines, his sleeve snagged on a broken branch of a limb above his head, and he couldn’t get it loose. With his arm stuck, he couldn’t reach the knife in his jacket pocket and could do nothing but hang there. If he died here, would anyone ever know what had happened to him? Would his mother and sister find out he died hanging from his parachute in a tree, or would they just get a letter saying he was a brave soldier who’d given his life somewhere on a battlefield in France?

But just when he’d assumed he’d hang there forever, the branch that snagged his sleeve gave way and he had use of his arm again. Chris moved it up and down and opened and closed his hand to restore the blood flow. He was reaching into his jacket pocket for the M2 switchblade when talking from somewhere below caught his attention.

Chris felt around on his chest to find his cricket. He was so thankful to find he hadn’t lost it in the drop. It was either a brilliant idea or one of the biggest mistakes of the century that the Allies were counting on a toy one could get from a five-and-ten-cent store to identify each other in the inky blackness. He hoped they were his company, but he’d take anyone just as long as they were wearing the right uniform. He didn’t want to be alone tonight of all nights.

His fingers closed around the cricket, and with a deep breath, he squeezed the pieces of metal. To Chris, the click sounded as loud as a gunshot rippling through the sea of darkness but apparently not to anyone else because although he held his breath, there wasn’t an answering sound.

The talking grew louder. Chris’ heart began to race. He didn’t want to risk using the cricket again because it would definitely give away his location, and since he’d lost his M1 and leg bag, he was defenseless except for his knife.

He strained to hear the voices. He couldn’t make out more than indistinct garble until they stood under the tree in which he was hanging. They’re speaking German! Chris thought nervously. Although they hadn’t seen him, Chris could only make them out as clearly as the barely moonlit sky allowed.

"Ich brauche etwas Wasser."

The taller of the two handed him the canteen.

"Trinken sie nicht alles," he said in a whisper.

Don’t drink it all, Chris thought. Those years of high school German are paying off.

"Danke," the soldier whispered before taking a long drink.

As they continued to stand there, he thought it wise to play dead. That way if they noticed him, hopefully they’d assume he was dead and not shoot him to make sure. Even though his heart was pounding out of his chest, he labored to keep his breathing shallow and hang limp in his chute.

The Germans stood below for what seemed like an eternity but in reality was only a minute or two. They moved on, none the wiser to the enemy soldier hanging above their heads.

Chris waited until they were far enough away to not hear the rustling of the leaves as he resumed his efforts to free himself.

Thankfully I didn’t lose this too, he thought as he pulled his knife from his pocket. He turned the knife against the risers, cutting them one by one. As the knife sliced through the last one, he fell twelve feet to the ground with only minor resistance from the smaller branches underneath him. Standing up, Chris removed what he deemed the nonessential equipment he still had since he didn’t know how far he was from his unit or how far he’d have to walk to find them. He needed to be as light as possible.

As he stood alone under the tree, the night around him was almost too quiet and dark. With his face painted black, he seemed to blend in with the night.

Which way do I go to find my unit? Chris asked himself. The compass on his wrist was broken by the tree, and he couldn’t find the other two, leaving him no idea which direction was which.

He put the knife back in his pocket, picked the opposite way the two Germans went, and began jogging in hopes he’d meet up with a friend soon.

He ran for what seemed like miles. The sporadic gunfire he heard at times seemed to mock him that there were people around and a battle was going on somewhere, but he stood alone.

Chapter 2

Long Night of Solace

The men of Chris’ platoon were assigned to Drop Zone Charlie, a little under a mile west of Sainte Marie-du-Mont, but instead of hitting it, they’d been dispersed over a ten-mile stretch.

The German anti-aircraft fire they encountered when flying in was so bad several planes were shot down before they could complete their mission. The pilots were doing their best, but conditions made it near impossible.

The pilots on Chris’ plane fought to deliver them safely and accurately, but they could barely see ten feet ahead.

I can barely see. This cloud cover’s so bad. The ceiling’s only two hundred fifty feet. We’re going to have to stay low. When we get to the drop zone, we’ll climb if we can.

After a few minutes, the pilot spoke again. I don’t know how we can hold this tight formation flying through pea soup. I gotta break away. I need to get some distance between us.

The risk of flying so closely with hundreds of other planes in these conditions was incentive enough for young pilots to disobey orders and break ranks.

For most, this was their first taste of combat flying, and the worst was yet to come. As they neared their objective, the cloud cover broke, and darkness gave way to the screaming megawatts of German searchlights scanning the sky. There was nothing to hide behind, and they felt naked flying into a full-out anti-aircraft barrage with no offensive weapons.

On Chris’ plane, the pilots fought to deliver their cargo of men safely. We’re nearing the DZ. Flash red.

All around them, anti-aircraft fire blasted while tracers and searchlights made a mockery of the fact it was night.

It’s impossible to fly through this without being hit.

No sooner were those words out of the copilot’s mouth than an explosion to their right made their plane jilt.

Wow! That was close.

Too close! We’re showing problems with the right engine.

Can you get a visual?

After looking, the copilot wished he hadn’t.

Yes. The engine’s burning.

Roger. Don’t panic. We’ll switch to single engine flight.

An explosion lit up the night in front of them, causing them both to flinch. A couple seconds later, the copilot said, I think we just took flack underneath. Something hit against the bottom of my chair.

You injured?

No, but I feel like a duck in a shooting gallery.

I know, but we’ll make it.

Then the sky erupted with light as one hundred yards to their right a plane exploded in midair.

Dear God.

Those poor souls.

We’ve got to get through this.

We will with God’s help. Now let’s get that engine shut off.

Switching to one engine would be so much easier without being shot at or needing to be accurate on the DZ.

It is what it is. It’s war, remember. Get your head back in the game and don’t wish for what we don’t have. I’ve switched power on the left to maximum, richened the gas, and put the propeller onto low pitch.

Another burst of light lit up the night, which let them see hundreds of parachutes filling the sky. Then the light from thousands of tracers and flack flashed all around. It looked like the end of the world.

Change the gas selector valve.

Will we be able to make it back on one engine?

We’ll make it. Shut off the oil supply to the engine that’s on fire and cut the throttle.

Are we going to be able climb a few hundred feet to give these guys better room for their jumps?

A blast hit so close it made the plane rock involuntarily.

Too close! Set the fire extinguisher selector valve and turn off the battery switch.

Roger.

I’ll try to climb. We have one minute until DZ. Watch our airspeed.

What speed for green?

I don’t want over one hundred fifty.

Roger.

We’re at two hundred fifty feet, Lieutenant.

I can’t get any higher. Hope that’s enough room for them. Get ready for green. In five, four, three, two—another explosion—now! Signal green and God help them!

With that, Chris and his team were introduced to this war.

It was a night that if any survived, they would never be able to think about with a quiet demeanor again.

Instead of troops landing in strategic spots to execute their missions, they were dropped in disorganized messes all over the place. Of course, Chris didn’t realize any of this. For all he knew, the rest of the paratroopers were experiencing safety in numbers, while he was the only one lost and alone.

He jogged until he was too tired to run and now walked, his body rigid. After he had gone no idea how many miles, he came upon a farmhouse. At least, that’s what it looked like when he stared at its silhouette barely visible in the darkness. He was about one hundred yards away, and if it was a house, it was a beacon of hope.

He had no idea where he was, but the hope of finding friendly faces caused some of the rigidity to leave his shoulders.

He had to remind himself to curb his excitement because the enemy had had many years to entrench themselves in France, and the possibility existed they might be in that house. Being armed only with a knife meant he needed to approach cautiously. He lowered himself to the ground and crawled forward fifty yards then stopped to reconnoiter. It was indeed a farmhouse but seemed too quiet considering a battle might have taken place around here.

Maybe the family living here left, Chris thought. But if no one’s here, how will I get directions? I need to know which way to go. What if I’m walking toward a German entrenchment? What if I’ve been going the wrong way this whole time? At least, if I can’t find human help, hopefully I can find a well.

His nerves had taken care of his hunger, but he was intensely thirsty. He didn’t know what had happened to his canteen and had yet to see a creek, pond, or river. He knew farms had water, and if this farmer had converted to indoor plumbing, hopefully he still had an outside well used for chores. If it was nothing more than a thimble full, it would be life-saving.

Rising up from where he’d stopped, Chris could see better. There was a stone fence running around what he assumed were the property lines. He remembered reading in a book somewhere the first thing a Frenchman does when he buys land is build a fence. Not many farms back home had stone fences. They must take far more work than the barbed wire or split rail ones he was used to seeing.

After waiting several minutes in which there were still no signs of life, Chris advanced another twenty feet. He could now make out what looked to be a stable next to