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While reading through Shifting Scenes Vol. IV, I discovered an article by Lawrence Johnston whose family lived at Ridgway. He was in the Air Force during World War II and relates his experience.

The article is quite long and will have to be shared in two printings. I felt that this story is fitting as this is the week of Veteran’s Day.

Loyd Townsend

TELEGRAM

Washington, D.C., October 21, 1944

John H. Johnston, Ridgway, Montana

The Secretary of War desires me to express his deepest regret that your son Second Lieutenant Lawrence L. Johnston, has been reported missing in action since 30 September over Italy. If further details or other information are received, you will be promptly notified.

J.A. Ulio, Adjutant General

Thus the news came to my parents, “Missing in action.” What did it mean? “Since September 30,” the telegram said. Almost a month now, “Where is our boy? Did his plane crash? Could he have bailed out? What do the Nazis do with American fliers who have been dive-bombing and strafing them? Could he have escaped capture — be hiding somewhere? But what would he eat? Where could he go for help? How could he find his way around in a strange country occupied by enemy troops? Is he alive or dead? Is he still serving the Lord? He had accepted Jesus as his Saviour, but lately his letters sound so carefree, too carefree — almost careless.”

Only now that I have a ten-year-old boy of my own do I realize that such were the thoughts of my parents that long winter of 1944-45.

Across the Atlantic there was none of the silence, mystery, and waiting that was experienced at home. In its place was the cold reality of war. Planes, bombs, guns, tanks, bloodshed, and death. Things that filled our minds were Thunderbolts, parachutes, ammunition, gasoline, enemy fighters, anti-aircraft, and missions — “missions,” they called them, where 24 planes go out and 18 return. Eight go out and seven come home. Missions — something you’ve got to have 75 to 100 of, depending on how your nerves hold out — before you can go back to the states.

Late in the evening of September 29, 1944, Flight Leader Welp came into my room and announced that our flight was scheduled for a mission early the next morning. I was to fly his wing. That suited me fine. There was no one I’d rather fly with than “Rocky.” We were good friends. This would be my twenty-third mission. I’d been Captain Welp’s wingman on most of them.

Next morning word came that the mission was canceled. Later we were called to the briefing room — the mission was on again. We were getting into our equipment when orders came to stand by. Some hitch in plans further up.

Some of the boys complained a bit. When we had a job to do, we liked to get it over. Some got out magazines, others cards — anything to occupy the mind. It would have been an ideal time to read God’s Word or have a time of prayer. Maybe it would be a good time to speak to a pal about his soul. But then, the boys needed another hand in their poker game. Besides, my Bible was back in my room on the desk, or was it in my footlocker? I wasn’t sure. It had been several days since I had seen it.

Suddenly, orders came. We were to take off immediately. A scramble for equipment, parachutes, oxygen masks, Mae Wests (life jackets). No, never mind the Mae West; we’ll only be over the sea a few minutes. I’d risk it.

The mail orderly shouted, “A letter for you, Johnston.”

I said, “Keep it till I get back. I’ll read it then.” Little did I realize that I had already set my P-47 down on our little airstrip for the last time.

I climbed into my plane loaded to capacity with bombs, ammunition, and gasoline. It did not take the 2,000-horsepower engine long to get us airborne. We joined formation and were soon over the blue Mediterranean. It was then that God began to talk to me.

My engine began to run rough. I thought of my Mae West I’d left in the locker. What if I had to bail out over the water? I pressed the mike button down to call Rocky that I was turning back. Naw! I’d wait a minute; she might smooth out. The boys thought things if you turned back from a mission. What if the mechanic didn’t find anything wrong? Three different times I pressed the mike button down to call, listening to the engine. Then, deciding I was imagining things, I went on.

I thought of my Bible. Wished I’d read it this morning. Where had I learned to gamble, anyway? Dad wouldn’t allow a deck of cards in the house. Oh, how I remember. The kid from Lusk, Wyoming, when we were back in basic, wanted someone to play with; said he’d teach me. Said we’d just play with pennies, and it wouldn’t cost me anything.

We’re over the target now. Rocky gave the signal to peel off. Down we went: the air speed climbed to 300, 350, 400, 500. I wondered how Mom and Dad were, back on the ranch. Wondered what my girl had written in that letter; I was sure it was from her. Fifty-caliber tracers coming up now. I’d better jinx around a bit. The controls were so stiff, though; better get on target. Several holes in my wings, guess I’d have something to show the boys when I got back. More holes in my wings — big ones now, must be twenty or forty, maybe both. Windshield shattered. Something came through the cockpit from the side. I was low now. Better release the bombs and pull out. It was when I looked back to see where the bombs hit that I first realized the plane was on fire. I tried to call Rocky, but the radio was dead. A quick glance at the instrument panel came up with bad news. No oil pressure, RPM 3,600, but airspeed 150, just about to stall. The prop pitch must have turned flat. At 1,000 feet the engine began to freeze. The plane would shudder violently as the pistons began to stick in the cylinders. The cockpit was filled with smoke and fast becoming an oven.

Suddenly, I realized I was no longer master of the situation. I was not going back with the rest. I remember feeling a bit lonely.

I was too slow and too low to attempt to roll the plane over. Better just crawl out fast. No time to pray now. I’m sure God would help me if I just had time to pray — but not time.

It seemed it took ages to get away, then another hundred years for the chute to open. I hit the ground close to the burning plane — too close.

I ran a little way and crawled under some low bushes. There God spoke many things to my heart. There I surrendered — to the Master.

What seemed so senseless and unexplainable to my parents back home was plain and simple to me there. A loving heavenly Father had laid His hand gently, ever so gently, upon a wayward son. My own spirit of pride and arrogance was broken as I felt the gentle, but firm, hand of God. I felt the great love that had restrained His anger — love that no man can afford to trifle with.

CONTINUED NEXT WEEK