Unrelenting Love: A Novel of War, Love and Redemption

By Richard Doggett

Unrelenting Love is the story of Jack Soule. Growing up as a boy in Colorado and Washington, he came to know the Lord at an early age. Like so many young men in the 1960s and early 1970s, Jack was sent to fight in Vietnam as a Hospital Corpsman with the US Marines. The horror and suffering of war changed Jack and separated him from his relationship and faith in God. Decorated for valor, Jack was a Corpsman many looked up to, yet inside he was scared, alone, and suffering from PTSD.

Jack began to achieve all that he ever wanted, but nothing filled the emptiness deep inside. Jack believed that he had failed God and had committed acts that were beyond Gods forgiveness. Jacks journey back to Gods grace and mercy is an exciting story of love, loss, suffering, and heartache as he questioned whether he would ever again feel Gods loveuntil God sent Jack the answers to all of his questions in the form of a seven-year-old girl.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490811666

Richard Doggett

Richard Doggett is a Vietnam veteran who served as a Hospital Corpsman with CAP 2-7-2 in 1970 and 1971. After returning from Vietnam, he earned his degree in nursing from the University of Washington and later obtained specialization in trauma care at the Baltimore Shock Trauma Center. He was certified in both emergency nursing and flight nursing, working in those fields in the military and in civilian facilities after he retired from the army as a major in 1990. He is an ordained minister of the gospel and an affiliated Calvary Chapel pastor. He served as senior pastor for a church in eastern Washington until retiring in 2012. He and his wife, Vicki, make their home in the state of Washington.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

VIETNAM AUGUST 1970

THE TROPICAL SUN BEAT DOWN UNMERCIFULLY, SENDING THE AFTERNOON temperature above one hundred degrees for one more in an endless string of brutal days in the bush. The humidity was equal to the temperature insuring that sweat wouldn’t evaporate and provide even the faintest illusion of cooling.

My jungle utilities were soaked, as I used the faded green towel around my neck to repeatedly dry off my face in an attempt to keep the rivulets of sweat out of my eyes. It wasn’t working. It was like someone was rubbing salt in both of my eyes while the heat of the sun on my steel helmet attempted to cook my brain. My tongue felt dry and swollen, making it impossible to swallow what little saliva my dehydrated body managed to produce. Struggling under a full combat load, my legs felt like lead as I concentrated on placing one tired, aching foot in front of the other. We had covered about ten clicks so far and had another two or three to go before we stopped for a while. A click, one kilometer, seemed so small and short on the map but translated into a world of hurt when applied to the jungle trails of Vietnam. We had been running more patrols than usual due to increased enemy activity. Marty, our Cap leader figured that the VC were holed up somewhere in one or more tunnels with supplies and men resting during the day and coming out to engage us at night.

Ahead of me, the line of Marines moved single file along the endless jungle trail carrying out this patrol. It was just one more in a year-long string of seemingly endless patrols. Even under the jungle canopy, the illusion of shade was no more cooling than was the sweat drenching my body. The trees held the heat and humidity close to the ground and prevented any hint of breeze from reaching us. The day, already wearing on from morning into afternoon was just another hump through the bush looking for an elusive enemy smarter than us, who was holed up somewhere cool waiting for the cover of darkness. This first week of August seemed to drag on forever as I waited for my R&R in Australia coming up in a few weeks.

Up ahead of me the line of slow moving men came to a halt as the word was passed down the line from man to man, Get Doc up front. Wondering what was going on, I stepped to the side of the small column and moved up to the front where I found Marty and Wesley squatting by the side of the trail.

Marty used the corner of his own faded green towel to wipe the sweat from his face, then turned his tanned and weathered countenance toward me. Ground your gear, Doc. We got us another bunker off to the left and up ahead about ten meters. We can’t tell if it’s new or old, so someone’s going to have to check it out. As he spoke, Marty pointed forward with the muzzle of his M-16, indicating the area he meant.

I shrugged out of my pack and medical bags and set them in a spot of shade. I squatted down beside him and peered through the bamboo trees looking for what concerned him. A few meters up ahead of where the column had stopped, and off to the side of the trail several meters was a well-camouflaged trench about two feet deep. It disappeared under the jungle growth into a round opening about two feet in diameter. It was another bunker, a place where Charlie might be storing supplies or hiding during the day. In our area Charlie preferred to fight at night. The Vietcong used these temporary bunkers, really just small tunnels or caves, to store supplies and provide shelter as they moved through our area on the way south toward Chu Lai or Hoi An. The movement of men and supplies had increased in our area since the incursion into Cambodia ordered by President Nixon had shut down a portion of the southern Ho Chi Minh trail. Supplies and troops were getting off the trail, moving east over the mountains and into the lowlands that we called home, about twenty-five miles southwest of Da Nang.

A less observant point man than Wesley would have walked right by and never noticed the trench. It might have been better for me, but that’s what made him the best point man in Seventh Company. A thoughtful black man from Louisiana, Wesley had joined the Corps after high school in order to get the GI Bill for college. His grandmother had raised him. He had never mentioned his parents, so I didn’t know if they were dead or had just been unable to raise him on their own. Either way, like so many of us, he had no money for college. He hadn’t received any scholarship offers most likely due to the fact that he had played his high school ball at a very small school that didn’t garner much attention. Wes wanted to play college football and someday make the pros. He had the size for it and I’d never seen anyone who could dodge hazards in the jungle like he could even at a dead run during the night.

While Marty and I talked, Wes just squatted in a patch of shade and ran a pick through his Afro trying to undo the matting that resulted from wearing a helmet for hours. Though occupied with the pick, he never stopped scanning the trail ahead.

Marty stayed quiet for a moment, then sighed and said, Well Doc, it has got to be done, so sure enough someone’s got to do it. Someone’s got to go on down there and see if anyone’s home and receiving callers.

He removed his helmet and rubbed a dirty hand across the stubble of his crew cut. He looked at me with those tired brown eyes, and then at the ground. Marty was a young man of twenty years from Pennsylvania already aged by war and suffering. He was a decent sort of guy who didn’t curse or swear much and rarely lost his temper. On the other hand, he was what every one of us identified as a good Marine. Marty cared about his men and never gave an order sending one of us into harm’s way unless there was a good reason. He had been in the bush long enough to have a real sense of jungle savvy combined with a balanced amount of daring and caution. Only a corporal, Marty was much too young to look so old and carry so much responsibility but that was the way of things in a Cap. Marty had assumed command when Sgt. Allen had been killed several weeks back. The captain, back at company headquarters had quickly recognized that Marty’s ability exceeded his rank and had left him in the role normally filled by a sergeant. We expected that Marty would get his well-deserved sergeant’s stripes on the next promotion list.

Squatting beside the trail, I lit up a smoke with my Zippo, squinting to keep the smoke curling up out of my eyes. I knew what he was thinking because it wasn’t the first time this situation had come up. Marty and I had been together for a long time.

Exploring tunnels was a job for the smallest man in the unit, since it required squeezing through tight spaces, but it was not usually a job for the unit Corpsman. Caps were different than the standard line units. We had all gone through the same CAP School, Marines and Corpsmen alike, learning the subtleties and nuances of guerilla warfare. A Cap had at best fourteen Marines and one Corpsman, so we all had to do whatever needed to be done even if it wasn’t in our job description. That was just the way it was in the Combined Action Platoons, nicknamed Caps, and I knew it as well as Marty. I also knew I had always been the smallest man in the unit. After a few months in the bush, I hadn’t grown any taller, and I had lost nearly twenty-five pounds from my already lean frame. During the hot days of spring and summer I spent most of my down time, lounging around in cut-off jungle utility pants and no shirt. A photo taken in my lounging attire revealed just how thin I had become after seven months of extreme hardship, dysentery and malnutrition. My hipbones and ribs protruded so far I could have passed for a survivor of the holocaust. So this wasn’t the first time this situation had presented itself and I accepted the reality that it was going to be my job to explore the tunnel.

Laying my M-16 down on the ground, I slipped out of my flak jacket and removed the three bandoliers of ammo from around my waist. I shrugged my shoulders a few times to loosen up the cramps in my muscles from the hours of carrying my pack and medical bags. My tee shirt was soaking wet and momentarily felt cool as I began to get ready for the task ahead. I dropped my cigarette to the ground and crushed it under the sole of my jungle boot. I looked at Marty again. Okay Marty. Let’s just hope for my sake that it’s just supplies. You know how much I hate going into these things. Why don’t you put in a requisition for someone smaller than me, say someone about five-feet-four and 120 pounds without claustrophobia?

Sure Doc. As soon as I can find it in the supply catalog.

Just for the record, Marty, I think this is a really bad idea. But, then again, none of us get paid to think do we?

I took my flashlight from my pack and checked that the batteries were still good, then reached out a hand for the .45 caliber pistol that Marty was offering along with an extra magazine of ammunition. I gave him a surly look as if to say, I’d better not need more than one magazine, or it’s all over before it even starts. I accepted the magazine anyway and shoved it into one of the large side pockets on my utility trousers.

I used some adhesive tape from my medical bag and placed strips across the lens of the flashlight until there was only a small slit for light to shine through. Alright, let’s do it, I said. I began to slowly move to the bunker entrance mumbling to myself, So much for the stories about Marines taking good care of their beloved Corpsman.

Behind me I heard Marty quietly issuing orders to the other men to spread out and form a defensive perimeter around the area. Stopping for a moment, I moved back to where I had left my gear, dried off my face with my towel one last time and removed a canteen from the side pocket of my pack. I unscrewed the cap and took a long drink of the tepid water. Having fortified myself with the only drink available, I moved back toward the bunker entrance crawling the last few feet on my belly. I moved the brush and leaves out of the way, checking every inch for booby-traps before moving on toward my objective. Everything else was blocked out of my consciousness. The fatigue seemed to melt away as I began to explore the short trench that was the entrance to the underground chamber. On first glance everything looked as expected.

There was a trench about two feet deep and just as wide, which travelled straight for about four feet and then entered the circular opening into a natural rise in the terrain. Once underground the tunnel and bunker would be under a dense grove of bamboo trees. After a few feet, the tunnel made a sharp right turn and disappeared further underground. I knew from previous experience that the tunnel would travel ten or twelve feet, with a slight descent before opening into some kind of chamber. Most of these chambers were small, just five or six feet square, and were not very far underground. Since they were temporary, Charlie didn’t want to go to any more trouble than he had to in setting them up. I also knew that there would be some type of booby trap or warning device in place to let the occupants know if someone was entering without permission. My job was to get through the tunnel and into the chamber at the other end without setting off either type of device. Easier said than done.

On initial examination, the bottom of the trench looked as if it had been there a long time. It seemed there had been no recent use, but I knew better. Anyone who had seen his fair share of western movies knew all about the old Indian trick of sprinkling dry dust and leaves over a recently used path. The absence of signs was in itself a sign, almost a guarantee, that the tunnel had been used. Besides that, we had been down this trail numerous times and had never spotted a bunker in that location.

I was not about to be fooled by appearances. After thoroughly checking the floor of the trench for any unpleasant surprises I snaked over the edge, landing as quietly as possible on my belly and moved slowly into the tunnel. I switched on the flashlight. This was considered the moment of truth, or point of no return. I began to examine the tunnel ahead and slowly moved forward. Small puffs of dust rose from the ground with every movement coating my face with grit and giving me a strong desire to sneeze. As expected, the tunnel made a sharp turn to the right and began to descend slightly into darkness. I had always wondered why they sloped the tunnel downward in a land where torrential rains were common since it seemed like it would funnel the water into the bunker at the end. I had also learned that this was just another deception. At the end of the tunnel the opening of the chamber would be one or two feet above the floor of the tunnel, which prevented water from entering. In addition, the mud at the bottom would make unauthorized entry just that much more difficult. I figured that Charlie, being a local, knew more about the weather patterns than us tourists.

Arriving at the bend in the tunnel, I rolled over onto my side so that I could peer around the corner, without exposing more than the top portion of my head and eyes. Claustrophobia began to take hold of me as I inched forward. The cramped space made taking a full breath difficult and my panicked brain fooled me into thinking that the walls were closing in on me. I paused for a moment to regain control of myself. Claustrophobia was a common occurrence when I had to go down in one of these fearful things.

Flashing the light ahead of me I poked my head around the corner then bit down hard and choked off a gasp. There in front of my eyes was the largest spider I had ever seen, sitting on a web and staring back at me. It was light brown with yellow stripes, long spindly legs and a body at least as large as a baseball, a big league ball, not the smaller little league ball. Getting control of my panic and beating heart, I laid the .45 down and reached for my survival knife, a slightly smaller version of the traditional Ka-Bar combat knife. Without another thought I skewered the spider, sending the little communist arachnid to the hereafter. I flicked the dead body and oozing guts from the end of my knife, wiped the blade on the dirt wall and then on my pant leg before returning it to the scabbard on my belt.

I had been holding my breath. I slowly let it out and took a few long slow breaths while gaining control of my nerves at the same time. I picked up the .45 and began to move around the corner and further into the dark tunnel ahead. Just about ten feet past the corner, I saw the downward sloping shaft come to an end with the opening of a bunker about two feet above the level of the tunnel floor.

Slowly, inch-by-inch, I eased my way down to the end of the tunnel. Lying now under the opening into the bunker I prepared for my grand entrance. Just as I started to raise my head up to the opening, I felt a flicker on my right eyelash, causing me to freeze. Raising the light up, I saw the glint of a tripwire. I drew my head back slightly, looked left and right. There, nestled in the corner to my left and taped to a stake was a chi-com grenade with a thin tripwire connected to the pin and stretched across the tunnel. Settling back down to the ground I reached into my pocket and found my nail clippers. After carefully clipping the thin wire, it was time to move toward the entrance, but this time with a difference. Now I would be even more cautious since a booby-trapped entrance meant that the bunker was occupied with men, supplies or both.

I switched off the flashlight and shifted it to my left hand. I slowly raised my head up to the level of the bunker opening and held my breath as I listened. My caution was rewarded by the sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing. Charlie was home and apparently napping in preparation for a night of activity, fun and party games. Indecision paralyzed me for a moment as my heart began to beat faster. Should I keep going or turn back and report the situation to Marty and let him decide what to do about the occupants of the bunker? This seemed like the better part of valor until I realized that the tunnel was two narrow for me to turn around. Trying to back out would make too much noise and would also leave me vulnerable to anyone who poked his little Asian head out of the chamber opening. I was in a no win situation no matter what I did. Marty had indicated it had to be done so someone had to do it. With no other reasonable choice, I volunteered to myself.

I checked that the safety was off, pulled back the hammer on the .45, flicked on the flashlight, and rose to a crouch and popped up through the opening of the bunker. All kinds of mayhem broke loose.

The bunker, more of an earthen cave than anything else, was about six feet square and three feet high. There were two men in the chamber, one on each side. The one, to my right, had been sleeping while the other, was standing watch waiting for anyone’s arrival. He was sitting on the floor facing in my direction next to a box of supplies. He had an AK-47 in his hand, but he looked as if he had been dozing in the afternoon heat and was only half awake. Startled by my sudden appearance, his head snapped up and he swung the AK toward me. I shined the light in his eyes in an attempt to blind him and put three rounds from the .45 into his chest rendering him ineffective.

The other man had been sleeping. He did not have his weapon at hand so he jumped me while I was still half-in and half-out of the chamber. He kicked out with his foot knocking the .45 out of my hand. He reached for my throat, dragging me fully into the chamber and tried his hardest to strangle me. As his hands gripped me around the neck, the flashlight slipped from my other hand and illuminated the cave with an eerie glow. I clutched his wrist with my right hand and tried to break his grasp. I punched him with my left hand with all of the violence I could muster again and again. Moving my right hand to his chin I began to push him away with all of my strength, yet his grip only tightened. As I got a leg under me I was able to rise up to his level and we faced each other. On our knees and eye-to-eye, the struggle continued in the cramped quarters. I knew I was in trouble. I reached down with my right hand, still pushing him with my left, and scrabbled for my knife but couldn’t get a decent grip because of the sweat now drenching both of us. We stayed locked like that for a few seconds that seemed an eternity of crushing violence. Both of us in the cramped and fetid cave growling like animals and cursing in different languages, we struggled on waiting for an opportunity to gain an advantage over the other.

Our faces were only inches apart, his body odor and bad breath mixed with the smell of cordite from the gunshots I had fired into his comrade filled my nostrils as he continued to try and strangle me. I realized that he had the advantage when my head began to swim. The blood flow to my brain was gradually being cut off. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears and head. Things began to go black. In desperation I let go of his wrists and pushed against his forehead with both of my hands. As he began to resist, I suddenly let go and pulled his head toward me giving him a head butt to the face. He screamed as my forehead smashed his nose. Blood spattered my face and eyes, but I felt his grip loosen. I pushed against his chest, lunged backward one more time, and broke free.

I lay across the body of the dead man behind me. I gasped for breath, my brain still fuzzy from lack of oxygen. I once again reached for my knife. This time I felt my hand close around the leather-covered handle and I felt a surge of energy coursing through my exhausted body.

In the dim light I could see my enemy. Leaning back against the dirt wall across from me, covered in blood, he held one hand to his face trying to stem the flow from his shattered nose. I saw his other hand reach back behind him searching for a weapon he could use on me, and then bring something up to his mouth.

It was time to take the battle to the enemy, despite the fog still clouding my brain and the rasping breaths as I tried to get enough oxygen into my lungs. I lunged forward and using my left hand to push his chin and head back, brought my knife up from low down and stabbed him in the chest. Just as I had been taught, I stabbed up under the rib cage toward the base of his heart, then pulled the knife back and stabbed him again. The warm, sticky, flow of blood running onto my hand let me know that I had hit one of the vital organs, probably his heart. He immediately stiffened and fell backward. As he did so I saw the ring and pin from a grenade around the index finger of his right hand. His left hand relaxed and I heard the distinctive sound of the spoon releasing from a hand grenade and a soft thud as it hit the dirt floor. He was dead but was still trying to take me with him.

I frantically looked for the grenade in the dim light but couldn’t see it. A sense of dread came over me as the seconds ticked down in my head. I began to feel the resignation that comes from knowing your time is up, immediately replaced by a stubborn refusal to give up. Still counting down the seconds before the inevitable explosion, I began scrambling around the floor with my hands. I felt something cool and round. I gave it a sideways fling out into the tunnel and dived across the floor, curling up into a ball and covering my head with both arms. A heartbeat later the air was filled with a thundering boom and the air filled with dust and smoke as the tunnel caved in. My eyes, nose and mouth filled with smoke and dust making breathing almost impossible. I pulled my tee shirt up over my face, using it to filter the air despite the shirt being soaked with sweat and blood. After a few minutes the worst of the dust cloud began to settle. My mouth and nose were still full of the irritating grit. Coughing and sneezing uncontrollably helped clear the passages to some degree while I tried to rub the grit out of my eyes.

I choked on the dust. I was still gasping to catch my breath, heart pounding like a trip hammer. I gradually discovered that I was still in one piece. Using the flashlight I found a canteen on a stack of supplies and used the water to flush my eyes then rinsed out my mouth and drank all of the tepid water left in the canteen. I blew my nose as hard as I could and cleared most of the muck gathered in the passages. I slumped back against one wall and just savored the moment of recognition that I was still alive and could breathe again. My problems were not over. The root complex of the bamboo trees above the cave kept the roof from collapsing, but the tunnel back to the outside world was completely filled with dirt.

Taking stock of the situation, I remembered what my granddad had always told me about taking the good with the bad in life. On the good side, I was still alive though exhausted, scratched and beat up from the fight. On the bad side, I was buried alive in a small cave occupied by two dead men with really bad body odor now added to by the smell of death. Shortly after that, the realization that I was buried alive sank in and I became aware that someone was screaming in terror. It took another moment to realize who was doing the screaming and that no one could hear me.

Another minute or two went by before my brain began to fully work again. I realized that screaming wasn’t going to do me any good, so I shut up for a while. I retrieved my .45, and then looked around the dimly lit cave. I found a spot where I could sit against a wall without making contact with either of my dead roommates. I considered my situation more calmly, and figured it was only a matter of time before the guys dug me out, or I ran out of air. Either way, I had some time to kill, so I switched off the flashlight to save on battery power, and closed my eyes. As my mind began to drift, I reviewed how I had gotten into this mess.

CHAPTER 1

COLORADO IN THE 1950’S

I WAS RUNNING AS FAST AS MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD LEGS COULD GO AS THE HOOF beats closed in on me. Suddenly, I was lifted into the air by the back of my belt and placed firmly behind the pommel of Granddad’s saddle. He reined in his horse and turned back toward the pasture.

Jack, I’ve told you a hundred times to stay away from that rock pile but somehow I always manage to find you right back there messin’ around until you get scared by a snake. That rock pile is full of rattlers this time of year and one of these times you’re gonna get bit. Then what am I gonna do when I need a top hand to help out with the round-up and branding?

I’m sorry Granddad, I just like climbing up on top so I can look down into the valley and see if the fish are jumping in the lake yet, I replied.

Granddad lowered me to the ground. Best you get back to your chores.

Aw shoot! All Mom ever wants me to do is help with women’s stuff and I hate that. Nevertheless I headed off toward the cabin to see what chores lay ahead and maybe to find something to eat. Grandma didn’t like kids too much but she sure could cook.

Growing up in north central Colorado on a cattle ranch in the 1950’s was just about the perfect life for a young boy of five. Granddad, John Soule, had settled there after coming home from the war in 1919, when land was still available and grazing rights could be obtained on some of the federal land. The cabin, built of native stone and logs was the first house on the ranch and had been built on one of the high mountain pastures. Over the course of time additional rooms had been added making it a large and beautiful home. But we still called it the cabin.

As time passed and the towns near Estes Park began to grow, Granddad bought some additional land closer to town and built a more modern house and all of the outbuildings needed to make it the home ranch. Half of each year was lived on the home ranch while the high mountain pastures were covered in snow. In late spring the cabin became home while the cattle grazed on the green grass of the mountain pastures and meadows. Granddad raised breeding cattle, so the herds were never very large. They usually consisted of a mixture of cattle of various ages, some of which were sold off each year. The cattle ready for sale were sold in the fall and were taken to market by truck after being driven down from the high pasture.

My story begins with the story of Robert Soule and Sarah Jackson, my father and mother.

Robert Soule joined the Marines in 1939 and later, as a corporal, had gone off to war in the Pacific with the First Marine Division. He was one of the Old Breed. They were Marines who had been in the service prior to Pearl Harbor and had seen duty in places like China, Wake Island or Midway. Corporal Soule had been a China Marine and knew first hand what the Japanese soldiers were capable of as fighting men. Assigned to the First Marine Division, he and the other men of the Old Breed would lead the Marines in their first battle to stop the progress of the Japanese toward Australia and New Zealand.

Before Guadalcanal, Robert had spent a few months in Wellington, New Zealand preparing for the invasion, which took place in August of 1942. While he was in Wellington he met a girl named Sarah Jackson and despite knowing each other for only a few months, they fell in love. He asked her to marry him when the war was over and she accepted. They thought that he would be back in Wellington after the Guadalcanal campaign but that was not to be.

The Marines rested and trained for their next invasion in Melbourne Australia. Robert participated in the invasion of New Britain and thought that he would be able to see Sarah in New Zealand after that campaign. Again, it was not to be.

The Marines had moved their training and rest area to Pavuvu, in the Russell Islands. After a few months on Pavuvu, Robert was shipped home to the states where he spent the next phase of the war, training Marines for combat in the south pacific.

Though separated by thousands of miles, Robert and Sarah wrote to each other almost every day and they made plans to marry after the war. Robert was sent back to the pacific in 1945 as a sergeant and found himself in combat again on Okinawa with the First Marine Division. He was still on Okinawa when the war ended. He was soon shipped home and discharged from the Marine Corps. Following his father’s advice, Robert had saved most of his pay while he was in the pacific and used his savings to return to New Zealand reuniting with his beloved Sarah. He worked on Sarah’s family sheep farm as they rekindled their romance and made plans for the future. They were married in June of 1946.

My mother loved to tell me, when I was just a boy, about my father coming to visit her. The bus would let him off at the end of the lane leading up to our farm house. He looked so handsome in his Marine uniform as he strode up the lane between the trees on either side. Then he’d stop at the bottom of the steps and ask if I wanted to go for a walk. We’d walk out to the stone bench that overlooks the farm and then sit, close together holding hands, and talk about what we’d do after the war. It was on that bench where he asked me to marry him.

Returning to the states with his bride, Robert used the G. I. Bill and went to school. During his time in school, Robert and Sarah had two children, Robert Jr. and Jackson. Robert received his engineering degree from the University of Colorado in 1950 and made plans to make his living building bridges and skyscrapers somewhere much more exciting than Colorado. Those plans had to be put on hold when Granddad asked him to take over the cattle business and the ranch.

Granddad’s health had deteriorated during the 1940’s. He said it had something to do with the gas attacks during his time in the trenches. His lungs and heart had been affected and probably aggravated by the two-pack-a-day smoking habit he also came home with from the Great War. Though he was still able to work the cattle, it was obvious he needed help. Robert had a choice to make. It was a hard decision to place his dream on hold, but he took over the ranch activities. He bought some land across the road from the home ranch and built his own house where he and Sarah lived and raised their family. Though he owned a large parcel of land, Robert never developed it beyond the house and a few outbuildings and corrals. He said that he liked having someplace where he could ride off for a while and spend some time in peace. Granddad’s involvement with the day-to-day workings of the ranch was limited which left him more time to spend with his grandkids. My brother a few years older than me, worked on the ranch as a paid hand during his summers while I did a few chores and tried to stay out of everyone’s way. Most of my time was spent in pursuit of fun.

Growing up on the ranch was great fun for a boy like me. There were always things to explore and mischief to get into, especially giving my older brother Bobby (Robert Jr.) a hard time every chance I got. We had neighbors close by and I had friends to play with during the school year as soon as I was old enough to walk the road by myself. We mostly played in the woods or down by the creek. We learned the ways of the forest and the animals that lived there. There were deer, elk and the occasional bear. My favorites were the prairie dogs. It seemed as if I could lie in the dirt watching them forever as they busily went about doing prairie dog things. They always had one or two on guard duty watching for any threats and whistling sharply to warn the others to scramble underground. After a while my presence didn’t seem to bother them. I had become part of the forest and blended in with the nature all around me and them.

I occasionally got into trouble. Once, I was brought home by the sheriff for starting fires. It was actually only one fire, but grownups had a tendency to exaggerate things. My friend Billy and I had been out in the woods playing cowboys and figured we’d have us a campfire just like the cowboys in the movies, and like we had when we were up at the cabin in the summer. The sheriff had to admit that we’d made a safe fire pit and hadn’t ruined anything, but still he couldn’t have seven-year-old boys building fires, even if it was on our own land. My mom promised to take the appropriate action and the sheriff left to take Billy home to his parents. My punishment was no dessert for two nights, which I managed to survive without too much pain.

Once school let out Mom, my brother Bobby and I were able to join Dad and the others up at the cabin for the summer. I learned to ride and my horse Buck became my best friend. He was a gentle buckskin that was getting on in years but was just right for a young cowboy’s first horse. Granddad made me responsible for keeping Buck fed and watered, curried and groomed. I loved that horse and missed him dearly when eventually we had to leave the ranch.

The years just seemed to fly by and as I grew. I took on more chores around the ranch. Granddad started talking to me more like a man. He taught me to fish and hunt explaining that we were to be good stewards of God’s creation, but that God had given men dominion over the animals. That meant that we could hunt and fish for food but never to kill for the sake of killing or to claim trophies. He taught me how to set up a temporary camp and to survive in the forest when necessary. I hung on every word and committed them to memory. He was a real cowboy and in so many ways, larger than life.

Granddad was also a Bible reading man. He often talked to me about God and Jesus, telling the Bible stories that I could understand as I grew through the years. I never had any trouble believing in God, though I didn’t truly understand all that was involved. Granddad often talked about God’s creation and creatures as we rode together. We were saddle partners since I was too young to handle cattle on my own. To pass the time he talked to me of many things I would need to know, imparting his life’s experiences and the skills I would eventually need as I grew to manhood. I learned to ride, rope and drive small groups of cattle. He taught me about how to understand range conditions to keep from overgrazing the pasture and how we would cut hay in the summer to get the cattle through the cold Colorado winters.

One day, late in the summer that I had turned eleven years old, Granddad came looking for me in the late afternoon. He told me to saddle up Buck and get my bedroll, because we were going riding.

Gosh, Granddad, isn’t it kind of late for a ride? Why do I need my bedroll? Will we be back in time for supper?

He just looked at me and said, Jack, do as you’re told and get a move on. We’ve a fair piece of riding to do and standing around flappin’ your gums won’t get us on the trail any sooner. Don’t forget your slicker, we may have some rain later on.

A short time later, Granddad made sure my cinch was tight enough before we mounted up. Jack, I’ve told you before that you have to use your knee to get Buck to breathe out so you can get the cinch tight. He likes to swell up his sides so it won’t feel tight, but a lose cinch will cause the saddle to rub and make his back sore and might cause you to get thrown if you start to gallop.

I’m sorry Granddad. There are always so many things to remember that sometimes I forget. I don’t forget on purpose, it just happens. I guess I need to grow up so I’ll have a bigger head to hold all the things I need to remember.

Jack, you’re old enough to remember. He paused and chuckled. But you don’t stop to think first and then act. I lost many of my buddies in France because they didn’t stop to think first and some German, who did stop to think, shot them dead. You see Jack, life isn’t always about playing games and pretending, although that’s good for kids to do when they’re young and need to develop a good imagination. There comes a time, though, when you set the things of youth aside and begin to think like a man and you’re getting close to that time. You’ll be riding with me when we make the drive down to the home ranch this fall, so I expect to see you acting a little more grown up. Can you do that?

Yes sir, I will do my best to make you proud of me, Granddad.

He looked me in the eye then and speaking very gently said, Jack, I am always proud of you and expect I always will be. I also expect you to always do your best, learning from your mistakes so that you don’t repeat them. Now mount up.

We began to walk our horses from the corral, but Granddad turned toward the house instead of starting along the trail that ran down by the lake. Pulling up in front of the house, he reached out and took Buck’s rein in his hand. Jack, hop down and go in the house. There are two things to do before we leave. First let your mom and grandma know that we are leaving, so they can come out and say good-bye. Then go into my office and bring me the brown box that’s sitting on the desk.

Okay, Granddad. I’ll be right back, I said as I stepped down from the saddle. I ran into the house and did just as he had instructed me to do, then ran back outside with the box.

Here you go, Granddad. I handed him the box and mounted up again, taking Buck’s reins back from him.

Jack here’s your first two lessons for this trip. He spoke directly, not sternly but making sure I knew he was serious. The first thing is to always tell the womenfolk that you’re leaving, where you’re going and when you expect to be back.

But you didn’t tell me where we are going or when we’re coming back. I said.

Next time we set out to go somewhere, be sure to ask. He replied as the women came out onto the porch. Knowing those things gives you a chance to be planning things in your head and to know if you have forgotten something you might need. Have you forgotten anything?

I don’t think so, I have my knife, my rifle, my bedroll and my saddlebags with my ‘possibles’ inside.

Where’s your hat? Not that ball cap you’ve got stuck to your head, where’s your hat?

Granddad, you know I don’t have a real hat yet. Dad says I’m growing too fast to have a real cowboy hat.

He chuckled again, then opened the box and pulled a straw Stetson out and handed it over to me. Now you do, cowboy.

I looked at the hat, turning it this way and that way. Rolling the edge of the brim to give it a little curve, I placed it on my head. It set just right, not too far forward or backward, settling down so that it would shade my eyes from the sun and curved on the sides so that rain would run off. Looking toward the porch, where grandma and my mom were standing, I shouted. Look Mom. Look Grandma, I’m a real ranch hand now! I’ve got a real Stetson to wear when I’m riding the range!

Mom smiled and clapped her hands. You’re a top hand now Jackson Soule, a real top hand.

Aw Mom, you know I don’t like to be called Jackson, I like to be called Jack. I shouted in mock scolding, which made her smile all the more. Grandma just smiled and waved as we turned our horses and rode out of the yard and began to follow the trail along the south shoreline. The lake was about two miles long and half that wide, but it was all on Granddad’s property as were the creek that ran in and the creek that ran out the other end. It was a clear blue mountain lake fed by the runoff from the melting snowpack. Granddad called it Mary’s Lake in honor of his wife, though we just called her Grandma.

We rode down the valley and along side the lake till we reached the end and then turned north and followed Mary Creek for a couple of miles. Granddad just smoked a cigarette and rode quietly into the waning sun, pulling up just as twilight began to settle on the trail. He looked around for a minute and then rode into the woods, with Buck and me following. Not far into the woods and still near the creek, he pulled up and dismounted. As I rode up next to him, he said, We’ll camp here tonight, Jack, so climb on down.

I dismounted and without having to be told took the reins of Granddad’s horse. Where do you want the horses picketed? I asked.

Down by the creek, so they can have water and grass. Make sure they are down stream from where we’ll be getting our water, then come back and give me a hand getting camp set up.

I removed the saddles; saddlebags and bedrolls then stored them under a tree. I picketed the horses in a good spot before rubbing them down with some dry grass. Finished with that chore, I walked back to the campsite where Granddad was sitting on a rock smoking a cigarette as he waited for me.

Are we going to sleep out under the stars tonight Granddad? We didn’t bring a tent with us.

No Jack, we’ll build a lean-to for the night. Those clouds coming in from the east look like we may get some rain later on and it’s gonna’ get chilly tonight so we’ll need the shelter to stay warm.

Granddad crushed out his cigarette, making sure it was fully out, then opened his saddlebag and took out a hatchet. Take this and cut some poles for the lean-to, he said. Do it the way I taught you, taking the poles from different spots so we leave the forest as natural as possible.

I spent the next hour, or so, cutting several poles using aspen trees and some young pines and then collecting a good stack of pine boughs to use for the roof and ground cover for us to sleep on. As we worked together, Granddad talked to me about many things a man needs to know about surviving in the mountains. If a man keeps his wits about him and uses what nature provides, he can survive all kinds of things.

We set the lean-to facing a large boulder so that our campfire would reflect off of the rock and help to warm the space under the lean to. We checked the wind direction so that the smoke would either rise straight up, or blow away from us. After our camp was set up, we went down to the creek where the horses were picketed and bent two young trees down and tied them to each other. Granddad showed me how to weave the branches together to make a wind break for the horses. Late in the summer the nights could get pretty cold up at 7,000 feet in the high mountains.

As night fell, we sat on the boughs in our shelter and ate some sandwiches and pie that Grandma had prepared for us. As usual, Granddad used that as another object lesson since I hadn’t thought about what we’d eat until I got hungry. Granddad just looked at me and shook his head saying, Jack, you’re acting like some kind of flatland tenderfoot. You should have asked about provisions before we left the ranch. If not then, you should have asked while we had time to catch some fish for dinner. I ought to let you go hungry, but I think you’ve learned your lesson. Just to make sure, I think I’ll eat your piece of pie just to cement the lesson in your brain.

Aw gee, Granddad, you wouldn’t really eat my pie would you?

Naw, I wouldn’t do that to you, but you need to think of these things for yourself. You can’t just assume that because I’m with you that I’ll take care of everything. For that matter you shouldn’t trust anyone else to think of these things.

After a while, we got up to stretch our legs and went down to the creek to check on the horses. We moved the picket pins to give them fresh grass then stood by the creek listening and looking up at the stars. The night sky had a way of making a boy feel mighty small.

Granddad moved off a little way and sat on a log. Jack, come on over and sit with me for a spell, I want to talk with you about some things. He waited until I joined him on the log before he spoke again. Jack, when you look up at the sky and see the stars and the moon, what do you think about?

I think about lots of things, Granddad. I think about being a spaceman, or wishing I could fly or just wondering how big the universe is.

Granddad waited a moment before speaking again. Jack, you should also be thinking about God. He’s the one who made everything that you can and can’t see. He made the stars and the heavens to declare his glory, to make him known to us. He also made each of us in his image so that we could have a relationship with him. He wants to be our father and we are to be his children.

I know Granddad; we learned about God in Sunday school, but my teacher at regular school said that’s not true. She said that we’re here just by accident. We became humans over billions and billions of years, I said while looking up at the sky and listening to the water flowing over the stones in the creek. Is she right?

Again, he waited before answering so that he’d have just the right words. Jack, I know Mrs. Edwards. She teaches those things because they make her. I know that she really believes in God and in the Bible but the curriculum is given to her by the state and she has to teach those things. We know the truth of things by faith. We have faith in God’s word and faith in Jesus Christ as his son and our Savior. What I want to know, Jack, is what you believe because your eternal future depends upon what you believe and what you put your faith in.

Jack, the Bible says that God came to the earth in the form of a man so that we could receive forgiveness for our sins and be his children, so that we could have a relationship with him. I know that at the church you go to they don’t read the Bible much, but I want you to be different. I want you to know that we are saved from our sins by grace through faith in Jesus Christ. Grace is a gift from God. It is his unmerited favor for those who believe in his Son.

What does unmerited mean Granddad?

It means that we receive God’s forgiveness and blessings not because we deserve them, but simply because he loves us and wants to give them to us. We believe that Jesus is God’s Son and that he died for our sins so that we could be forgiven. That means we have faith in Jesus Christ. Faith is just another word for trust. If we trust that Jesus died for us, we can be forgiven and he will give us eternal life with him in heaven.

How do we know that God can actually do those things, forgive us and give us eternal life?

He proved it Jack, he replied. He proved it by raising Jesus from the dead. He died and was buried. Then three days later, God raised him from the dead and because he lives we know that we also live forever. The Bible says that if we declare that Jesus is the Lord of our lives and that we truly believe that God raised him from the dead, then we will be saved and given eternal life with him. Would you like to have that Jack, would you like to know Jesus and live forever?

Yes, Granddad, I would.

Well then, take hold of my hand and let’s pray together. You repeat the words after I say them, okay? Then Granddad began to pray. I repeated the words after him, confessing my sins and asking for forgiveness, accepting Jesus Christ as my savior and the Lord of my life. I told God that I believed his promise and that he had raised his son from the dead and that I accepted salvation in his name.

Then Granddad placed his hand gently on my shoulder and prayed for me to receive the Holy Spirit with grace and power. I prayed too asking for the same things. Suddenly I knew. I knew that it was true and that I was now God’s child and things would never be the same for me.

After we finished praying, Granddad said that there was one thing more for us to do but that it could wait until we got back home to the ranch.

I had a little trouble sleeping that night as all that had happened replayed in my mind. After a while, I began to feel very peaceful and calm. Soon, I fell sound asleep.

I was up first, so I built a fire for Granddad’s morning coffee then went down to the creek and checked on the horses. When I returned to the camp, Granddad was up, the coffee was on and he was having his first cigarette of the day.

Morning, Granddad. When are we going back to the ranch and what’s the other thing I have to do to be saved?

You have to be baptized, Jack, not so that you can be saved but because you are saved. You were saved when you accepted Jesus and believed. The Bible says that after we are saved we are to be baptized as a public declaration of our salvation. It’s an outward sign of the change that took place inside when you accepted Jesus.

Okay. I think I understand. Can we go soon? I want to tell Mom and Dad about me getting saved.

He smiled at me and said, "We’ll go right after

Reviews for Unrelenting Love

[pennsylady · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

et me preface this review by saying....I am a Christian reviewing a work of Christian fiction.I was greatly touched to find an attribute of God, in this case His unrelenting love, developed so fully in our walk through the life of Jack Soule.Perhaps I'll define the word unrelenting."It means undiminished in intensity or effort—unyielding, uncompromising, incapable of being changed or persuaded by arguments. ".Our God is always faithful and overflowing with mercy and forgiveness.In a sense, Jack represents Christians in our experiences of sorrow, love, loss, gain, attention to duty and courage to face life loyal to God.I would also include the feeling that we have gone into territory beyond God's forgiveness.Please note that I am only skimming the surface for these observations.The gravity, complexity and depth of Jack's feelings are of course his own.Jack Soule was sent to fight in Vietnam as a Hospital Corpsman.The book is written with precision, as we have a glimpse of one man's experience in Vietnam.Noted to be inspired by true events, I found woven throughout, a clarity and intensity that I would attribute to experience.Unrelenting Love is a thoughtful debut novel of Richard Doggert.It is worth the read for the story and the reality check it offers.I'll be looking for his future writings.★ ★ ★ ★"A Novel Of War, Love and Redemption" (book jacket)