Hope Takes Flight (19 page)

Laughter rippled through the crowd and Owen added, “I feel like a pancake that's just had syrup poured all over it. But I thank you, dear brother. I'll try to say something nice about you before I leave here.” Again a pleasant laugh ran around the huge auditorium.

Owen spoke for a few moments, thanking those who had had a part in bringing him here. His gesture encompassed the huge auditorium that had been built especially for this meeting as he said, “I know some of you put hours of labor into this structure, and I appreciate that. When it's taken down, the lumber will be given to build an orphanage in a small town only a few miles from here, and God will certainly honor that.”

Amos had never seen a building such as the one housing this revival crowd. His brother had begun his ministry in tents. But Owen's appeal had spread until finally the crowds grew too large for even the largest tent. He had then fallen on the idea of having the city where he would hold the revival erect a wooden tabernacle. It would be paid for out of the offerings, and the lumber would be donated to a worthy project.

Very soon he began speaking on the text, “Ye Must Be Born Again.” Amos had heard that sermon many times during his youth, and not a few since. But he never heard a speech delivered with more passion and earnestness than on that April evening. He thought back over Owen's first awkward attempts to preach the gospel. He had matured since those days. He was sure in his movements and quoted Scripture after Scripture from memory. As he threw himself into his message, he moved from one side of the platform to the other, sometimes lifting his hand and clenching his fist. He was serious at times and he laughed at other times.
He's a fine preacher! I wonder how big he'll be before he gets through,
Amos thought.

When it was time for the invitation, the entire congregation stood together and began to sing “Just As I Am, Without One Plea.” The farmer next to Amos turned to look at him and whispered hoarsely, “Are you saved, young man?”

Amos said quickly, “Yes, I sure am, and I take it you are, too.”

“Bet your boots! Baptized two nights ago by that very preacher you see up on the platform, Brother Stuart.” The farmer's leathery face and work-hardened hands spoke of a man who'd labored all of his life. He looked at Amos and there was a light of wonder in his eyes. “Been a member of a church for twenty years, and two nights ago I come and that young feller up there, he preached on the same thing he's preachin' on tonight—‘Ye Must Be Born Again.' Told us all it wasn't church membership or bein' good or treatin' folks right that saves you. Only Jesus. And you know what?” His eyes grew moist and he slapped his meaty hands together. “I done 'er! I went up that aisle and I began to beller and call and that young feller, Brother Stuart, why he come right down and knelt right with me in them pretty white britches o' his, put his arm right 'round my shoulders, and began to pray jist like I done. And first thing you know, why the Lord, he come down and saved me.”

Amos smiled warmly at the humble farmer. “That's Owen, all right. He's always been like that, ever since he started preaching.”

The invitation stretched into the night, for many went down, and Owen stayed, along with the other ministers, to pray for the lost and backslidden.

As Owen was preparing to leave, Amos met him at the front. “Brother, I believe that's the finest sermon on that subject I ever heard!”

Owen wheeled and stared at Amos, then let out a whoop and grabbed him. “Why, you no-account something! Why didn't you tell me you were going to be here?” His strong arms wrapped Amos tightly, almost lifting him off his feet. Then he released him. “C'mon, let's you and me go get something to eat! This preaching's hungry work!”

It took a while to get out of the auditorium. Everyone wanted to speak to Owen, and he spent time with each one, shaking hands and smiling, telling people he would pray for them. Finally he and Amos made it to Amos's car and they drove away in the thinning traffic.

“There's a café down the road called Mom's Place,” Owen said. “They make a good hamburger.”

“Somebody named Mom run it?” Amos asked.

“No. A scruffy old fellow named Ike. But he said nobody would come in to eat at ‘Ike's Place' so he named it ‘Mom's Place.'”

Thirty minutes later they were pulling up in front of a small diner. They went inside and found a seat.

Ike himself, a tall, thin man wearing a white apron and a pair of silver spectacles, appeared to take their order. “Well, Preacher, did you get 'em saved tonight?”

“No, but the
Lord
saved a whole bunch, Ike,” Owen said. “Now, this is my brother Amos and I've told him all about your hamburgers. I want you to prove I was telling the truth—that you make the best in the country.”

“Why, sure, Preacher, you just sit right back there in that booth. You want a big red drank, too?”

“Sure. And bring one for Amos.”

The two men relaxed in the booth and Amos said at once, “That was fine, Owen. Biggest crowd I've ever seen you preach to.” Then he smiled. “But you preach as if there was a half a dozen there. I felt like you were talking right to me.” He grew thoughtful and nodded. “I think that's the reason you've been so successful. You have a way of preaching that's very personal.”

Owen disliked being praised and said, “Well, give God the glory. Thank God for what he's doing through me.” And then he began to ask Amos about the family, and the two men sat there chatting until the burgers came. They ate hungrily.

Over coffee, Owen said, “I guess you were in Washington when the president declared war, weren't you, Amos?”

“I was there.” Amos swallowed from the cup of scalding black liquid and shuddered. “That's the strongest coffee I've ever tasted. It'd take the paint off an automobile!” Then he grew sober. “Wilson's an unhappy man. He knows what's coming.”

Owen nodded. “I guess we all do, don't we? It's going to be a terrible war.”

“Well, you and I won't have to go,” Amos put in, “but I can tell you right now there'll be a draft—Selective Service, you know. I predict there won't be enough men to volunteer to fill the ranks. They might get Peter, since he's only twenty-seven. But you're thirty-one, so they won't take you, and of course I'm an old man, so I'm not going…not to fight, anyway.”

Owen did not reply, but began to trace the pattern on the tablecloth with his forefinger. He was so quiet and so still that Amos finally inquired anxiously, “What's the matter? Anything wrong at home? Anything wrong with Allie?”

“Oh, no. We're fine.”

As he sat there in silence, Amos thought how much Owen looked like their father, Will Stuart—the same short nose, the chestnut hair, the cleft chin. And his brother appeared to be as strong and fit as when he was fighting in the ring. He was, Amos decided, a handsome man who didn't know it, for there was not an ounce of pride, that he could see, in Owen.

Finally Owen lifted his head and looked him in the eye. “I've got something to tell you, Amos.”

“What is it?”

“This may sound crazy to you. Fact is, I didn't know how I was going to tell Allie, but…” He drew a deep breath and then said quietly, “I've decided to enlist in the army.”

“What?” Amos slammed down the cup and blinked in surprise. For a moment he thought he had not heard his brother correctly. “What did you say? Enlist in the army?”

Owen shrugged a little. “I know. I know, Amos. I know everything you're going to say. I'm too old, I've got a family, I've got a ministry, there are younger fellas to go…I know all that. Don't you think I've told myself those things a hundred times?”

Amos was dumbfounded. “But why? Why in the world would you do a thing like that?”

Owen sighed, and a faint smile touched his lips. “Don't you hate it when people say ‘God told me to do something'? Sounds like they've got a private telephone line to God. But that's as close as I can come,” he said earnestly. He laced his fingers together and shook his head stubbornly. “I've fought God on this thing for days now, and still—I haven't heard any voice, you understand—but I know that's what God wants me to do. And I'm going to do it.”

Amos began at once to try to persuade Owen that he had misunderstood God. But the more he argued, the more Owen just sat there, his jaw firmly set, saying, “I know it's what God wants…and I'm going to do it.”

Finally Amos saw that it was useless to argue. He took a deep breath and asked, “When are you going in?”

“Right away.”

“Have you told Allie?”

“Yes, of course. She didn't understand at first,” Owen said slowly. “But we prayed about it…and now we're one in this thing.”

“What about your ministry?”

“I don't know. I guess my ministry will be carrying a gun for a while.” Owen leaned back and said thoughtfully, “You know, we're seeing hundreds get saved in these meetings, but maybe there's one man in that trench over there in Europe, and God's got his eye on him, and I'm the one man that could lead him to Jesus.”

“You always were a stubborn cuss. Just like all the rest of us Stuarts,” Amos said, leaning over to slap his brother's thick forearm. Then he grasped it, holding on for a moment longer. “I know you'll do what God tells you. Just be careful, will you?”

“Sure.”

The two men got up, laid some bills on the table, and left the café. When they parted, Amos said, “I'll tell the family. We'll all pray for you every night.”

“Good. I'm going to need it, I think,” Owen admitted, adding softly, “God's downright peculiar, isn't he, Amos? Look what he's doing to me! But I know his hand's in it. And I know, somewhere out there in those trenches, I'll find out the reason why.”

O
n the day America declared war in 1917, a songwriter named George M. Cohan, a writer of Broadway musicals, wrote a song that swept the Allied armies. It caught on almost at once and was played wherever British, French, and Belgian troops were serving. They sang it in the trenches, whistled it on the march, hummed it while at camp chores. The song was called “Over There,” and it told the Europeans to prepare and say a prayer, for “the Yanks are coming.”

Amos Stuart sat at his battered portable typewriter, banging out a story and humming the song under his breath unconsciously. Unlike the song, this story was destined to be
un
popular. It would say basically that President Wilson might declare war, but the United States was ill-prepared to enter such a conflict. It was, however, just the kind of story his publisher liked because it would hold up to display the sorry job the politicians had done preparing the country for the inevitable conflict. He was interrupted when the phone rang. Picking it up distractedly, he grunted, “Yeah.”

“What do you mean, ‘Yeah'?” came a familiar voice over the line. “Is that the way you newspaper guys talk?”

“Nick!” Amos exclaimed, recognizing his old friend. “Yeah, it's the way we newspaper guys talk! Better than you Italian guys, anyway! What's going on?”

“Gotta see you, Amos. What about we go out and eat lunch?”

“Can't do it, Nick,” Amos said reluctantly. He had known Nick Castellano for a long time, ever since the days when, as a penniless youth fresh from the farm, he'd come to the big city and found a home with the Castellanos. “Gotta get a story out.”

“Yeah, well, you gotta help me, Amos. I'm in a jam.”

Amos paused, knowing that Castellano was not one to plead for help unless it was serious. “Okay. What say we meet at Frankie's for lunch?”

“Great! I'll see you there at noon.”

Amos pounded out the rest of the story, but his mind was on Nick Castellano. He had kept in close touch with Nick's mother but had not heard from Nick in months. He did know, as most newspapermen did, that Nick Castellano was one of the rising stars in the world of mobsters and hoodlums who played such a large part in the life of New York City. He worried about Nick and had talked to him several times but had gotten nowhere. Nick had simply shrugged off his concern. “It's a way to make a living. Forget it, okay?”

Amos ripped the sheet out of the typewriter, took it in to one of the typists, and tossed it on her desk. “See if you can straighten this mess up, Helen. I gotta run.” Without waiting for an answer, he left the building. All the way to Frankie's Restaurant, his mind tugged and pulled at Nick's strange request.

When he got there, the maitre d' met him. “Ah, Mr. Stuart. Mr. Castellano is already at his table. Come with me, please.” Amos followed the headwaiter and when he came to a choice table toward the back, set off by a series of pillars, he found Nick toying with his drink.

“Hello, Nick,” Amos greeted him.

“Yeah, sit down, Amos.” Castellano nodded. There was a glum look on his face, Amos noted as he took his seat, and the handsome features appeared downcast. He was not a big man, not over 140 pounds, very trim and quick. True to his Italian roots, Nick had a swarthy complexion and jet-black hair and eyes. He was a hot-tempered man, Amos knew, but generous and loyal to his friends. “What do you want to eat?” Nick asked now.

The two men ordered and, after their waiter had brought Amos his cup of hot coffee, they talked about their families. Finally Nick said, “I talked to Mama yesterday. She told me what you said about Owen.”

“About his joining the army?” Amos inquired. He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, I know it sounds crazy, but that's what he's doing, Nick. I wish he wouldn't. He's too old for that.”

“Owen? No, he ain't too old…but he's pretty stupid! Musta got his brains scrambled worse than we thought when he was in the ring.” Nick swallowed part of his drink, then put the glass down. “I like the guy, though, even if he is a preacher.” His intense black eyes narrowed in speculation. “He really gonna do that? Join the army?”

“Sure. You know Owen. When he says he'll do something, he'll do it or die.”

“Yeah. He's like that.”

Amos waited, then asked curiously, “What's wrong, Nick? You in some kind of trouble?”

“Me? No, I'm okay. It's Eddy.”

Amos thought about Nick's twenty-five-year-old brother Eddy. He'd been a wild young man, even by mob standards. Amos had heard that Nick had beaten him half to death once for getting out of line, but apparently the thrashing hadn't curbed the young man's spirit. “Eddy in trouble with the law?” Amos asked quietly.

“Naw, I wish that was it.” Nick allowed a brief smile to touch the corners of his thin lips. “I'd know how to handle that.” He looked a little embarrassed. “Well…what it is, Amos, Eddy's got the same bug Owen's got. He's joining the army.” He watched as shock ran over Amos, then nodded. “Surprises you, don't it? Yeah, me, too. And Mama's goin' crazy!”

“I bet she is. He always was very special to your mother,” Amos replied. He sat there thinking about the wild young man, then said carefully, “Well, I guess the draft would've gotten him anyway. He'll just be going earlier.”

“But the draft wouldn't have got him. Them things got Boards, ain't they? I can fix that…I can fix anything that money'll buy, and money'll buy about anything.” It was the sum total, Amos knew, of Nick's philosophy. “I wanna ask you a favor, Amos.”

“Sure, Nick, anything I can do. What is it?”

“Well I talked to the kid and he won't listen to reason. But what I did get out of him—and it cost me plenty!—was his promise to try to get in an outfit that would be good for him. You know, where somebody could look out for him.”

Amos was doubtful and it showed in his eyes. “I don't think that can be arranged, Nick. You got connections, but not in the army. And anyway, when they get in the trenches, you're not going to be standing there ready to buy off some lieutenant to keep Eddy from going over the top.”

“Yeah, sure, I know that. But what I got in mind is this,” Nick said carefully, “what about if Eddy goes in the same outfit as Owen?” He began to speak rapidly, as if to convince Amos. “I mean…Owen, he's a preacher, right? And pretty well-known. He could look out after the kid.”

Amos frowned. “No, I don't think so, Nick. If the kid won't listen to you, why should he listen to Owen?”

“I dunno,” Nick said wearily. “All I know is I gotta try
somethin'
. Kid don't know nothin'. Here he's sittin' right on top of a gold mine—I'm makin' money all the time and the kid'll come in for his share of it someday. But what good's it gonna do him if he gets blown apart in France? No, it's the only thing I can come up with and I got the kid's promise—if I don't kick him outta the family completely—that he'll listen to Owen. What I wanna know is,” he demanded, “will
you
talk to Owen? Tell him the situation, tell him to kinda look out for the kid?”

“Why, sure, Nick. I'll be glad to do that. Or you could do it yourself. Owen always thought a lot of you.”

“Ah, I'm just a sinner to him, I guess. You do it, Amos. I know how much he looks up to you.”

The food came and the two men settled down to their meal. As they ate, Amos's mind was racing. What Nick was asking would be an extra burden on Owen, for Eddy Castellano was a tough punk, unlikely to listen to anybody in authority.

But when they parted, Amos said, “I'll do what I can, Nick.…” He hesitated before adding, “But I don't mind telling you I'm worried about these guys. It's a rough show they're going into over there. Lots of boys aren't going to come back. Makes you think, doesn't it?”

Nick's dark eyes were shadowed with a vague regret and uncertainty. He was a man who had learned to take what he wanted—anything that caught his fancy. But this, he knew, was beyond him, and he could only say, “Yeah, I guess that's right, Amos. You tell Owen if he'll look after the kid, I'll make it right with him.” Then he blinked and shrugged. “But that don't mean nothin' to him, does it? I mean, he don't care about money.”

“No, but he cares about people, so I know he'll do the best he can. I hope so, anyway. So long, Nick.”

As Castellano left to go talk to his brother, he was wondering if he had done the right thing. As head of his family, he had to do
something—
but he wasn't sure this was going to work at all. Riding toward his mother's apartment, he thought gloomily,
The kid's gotta learn to listen to somebody! Maybe this war will shake some sense into him!

And who would lead these thousands, perhaps even millions, in their war? There was little question about that. The army of the richest nation on earth had only a few weapons. The Air Force was a joke, there was no heavy field artillery, flamethrowers, or tanks, and nobody knew this better than John J. Pershing, appointed Commander of the A.E.F.—Allied Expeditionary Force.

Pershing, a farm boy from Missouri and a graduate of West Point, had served in the West, where he had fought the Sioux and the Apaches. During the Spanish-American War, he had served in Cuba with the Tenth Cavalry, an all-Negro regiment, which had earned him the nickname of “Blackjack.” He liked the nickname and was proud of it.

Blackjack Pershing was a tough, hard-as-nails professional soldier. Completely fearless himself, he admired courage in others. The highest compliment he could give anyone was to say, “He's a fighter…a fighter…a fighter!”

Pershing had been serving in Texas in 1915 when word came that his wife and three young daughters had died in a fire, and only his son Warren, age seven, had survived. Although he remained outwardly calm, he never fully recovered from the loss of his family. Sometimes his pain was evident despite his self-control. Once, when a curly-haired girl handed him a bouquet of flowers, he found himself facing the welcoming crowd with tears streaming down his cheeks. A lonely man, he buried himself under a mountain of army work. The Service became everything to him—career, family, home. He was the ideal choice to command the AEF.

Pershing threw himself into his work and, under his leadership, thirty-eight training camps were built to hold not only these first volunteers but also the thousands of draftees in various parts of the country they soon began taking in.

Owen stepped off the train along with three hundred other newly enlisted soldiers and joined the three or four hundred others already milling around the train station. He glanced behind him and saw Eddy Castellano, who was looking a little strained, as were most of the men in his company. Eddy and Owen had gotten together only three days earlier, when they had met Amos and Nick Castellano for lunch. It had been a failure—that particular occasion—Owen remembered. Eddy Castellano had been sullen and uncommunicative, and although Owen had tried to put him at ease, the tall young Italian had only glared at him with a pair of hard brown eyes.

“It's not going to work,” Amos had said to Owen when the two were alone. “Eddy's stubborn as a mule and rebellious as Cain!”

Owen had merely shrugged. “I don't blame him much. He's a grown man, and Nick's trying to treat him like a kid. But I'll do the best I can for him.”

All the good-byes had been said and now, as the two joined the milling throng, Owen edged closer to Castellano. “Well, I've got the idea this isn't going to be much of a vacation, Eddy.”

“I can handle it!” Castellano snapped. He'd always liked Owen, had been impressed by the fact that he had once been a successful prizefighter. But from the moment Nick had told him that he'd have to listen to Owen, Eddy had grown resentful. Now his lips thinned and he refused to say more.
Why should I listen to this man?
he was thinking.
A preacher! He don't know no more about soldierin' than I do! Nick musta been crazy to think of it, and I musta been crazy to agree to it. I won't do it!

“All right, you birds! Come on!” A tall, wiry man they had met when they boarded the train made his way through the crowd, calling out the names of his squad members. “Come on, girls! It's time to get you into this man's army!”

Sergeant Mack Stone was regular army, from Texas. He had light blue eyes and prematurely white hair, and he even chewed tobacco in his sleep, it was told. Tough as boot leather, he was incredibly profane.

Stone led his group to a long low building. When they got inside, he ordered, “Okay now, strip!”

One young recruit named Tyler Ashland turned beet red. Owen, who had talked to Ashland on the train, took note.
He'll have to get over that
,
in this Army
.

Under Sergeant Stone's direction, they all stripped down to the buff and got in line. Running the gauntlet between two rows of bored medics, the men were jabbed, tapped, and injected. When Ashland saw the first needle, he shut his eyes, but when it came at him, he fainted dead away.

A hollow laugh went up and Eddy mocked, “What a sissy! They'll never make a soldier outta him!”

Sergeant Stone stared at him. “But you'll be one, won't you, Castellano? It's good to know I've got at least one tough guy in my squad. Go ahead, give him them shots,” he said. “He won't feel 'em now.” The others watched as the needles were plunged into the unconscious form of Ashland, then Owen helped get him on his feet.

“Don't feel bad,” Owen whispered to him. “I'm just about to do the same thing myself.”

Ashland, a fat, rosy-cheeked fellow, not much older than eighteen, was pale as dough. “I wish I'd never thought of this,” he mumbled.