The Prodigal

By Janice Parker

Clint has everything money can buy: expensive cars, beautiful women, and a villa in Cannes. It was the life he had always dreamed of living. Clints life was suddenly thrown into turmoil so he attempts to find solace by traveling to Wales to visit a friend he met during the war. Clint was invited to join his friend and his friends sister, whom he is captivated by, on a mission trip to Africa. It was far from the extravagant life he had lived; it was laborious, the climate stifling, yet the people were warm and comforting. He finally finds the love and peace that he had been searching for. But devastation befalls Clint once more. He is taken captive by rebel forces and held somewhere in the fierce jungle of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Trapped and alone, Clint fears he will never see the woman he loves again. This is a story of one mans journey to find happiness and true meaning of life. Clint is tested and learns the depth of Gods grace and the unconditional love of a Father.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491815274

Janice Parker

Janice Parkers passion is writing and she hopes to continue to touch the lives of people by writing books that bring inspiration, hope, and encouragement.

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© 2013 Janice Parker. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/14/2018

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1529-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1528-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1527-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916360

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

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

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

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Joseph: The Journey Home: Chapter One

Chapter 1

C lint woke up in a small, filthy, smelly room. He turned his head far enough to see a single dusty window before the agonizing pain in his neck forced him still with a groan. They had struck him there, the butt of a gun to the back of his neck. He tried to bring his hands to his pounding head but was stopped by thick rope. The rope binding his hands and feet was so tight, his skin felt like it was peeling off, his fingers going numb, his legs stiff and sore.

Where am I, he thought. How long have I been here?

He rolled over on his right side and moaned as he tried to sit up. He tilted his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He could vaguely remember last seeing Abby – a vision of Abby being shot pierced his mind.

Oh God, he rasped. God, let her be okay.

She’s got to be all right. God please, let her be okay, he prayed. I’ve got to get out of here. Squinting against the pain in his head, Clint studied the room and noticed a wooden door with a glass window. A crack ran through the glass and looked easy to break.

If I can just pry myself loose, I could get out of here. He leaned forward to try and free himself from the coarse rope, but it was useless. His heart beat violently in his chest.

As he sat helpless against the wall, it seemed like hours passed. Fear gnawed at his mind and his body ached with torment as sweat poured down his forehead and settled in every crevice. October was scorching hot in the Congo.

Thoughts flooded his mind in the heavy silence of the room. It’ll take a miracle to get out of here. Is Abby still alive? Will I ever see her again? I never got to say goodbye to my Dad. Tell him I love him. Ask him to forgive me.

God help me, he said quietly.

Minutes later, the sound of men yelling caused his stomach to jump. Waves of fear ran through his body as one of the voices got louder. He heard the sound of chains clanking. Suddenly, the door flew open.

Clint strained in the glare of the bright sun. A large black man stood in the doorway, his face engulfed with rage. Clint froze instantly, recognizing the man who had held Chiamaka hostage. The man stepped into the room and pulled a long knife from his belt. Clint flinched back as the large figure crouched before him, fearing that he was witnessing his death approach.

The man cut cleanly through the ties on Clint’s feet. Get up! His voice was deep and it was hard to understand him.

Clint rolled onto his knees, his body was stiff. The man yanked him to his feet and shoved him up against the wall before pushing him forward.

At first, it was hard to walk. He felt the roughness of the ground through a hole in his shoe. The man pushed him again, this time with enough force to send Clint to his knees. The man grabbed him by the arm, the force of his grip so strong it felt as though he would rip the limb right out of its socket.

When he regained his footing, the man led him to the front of a small hut.

There Clint stood face to face with the leader of the group, a man with a stern face and eyes dark and pitiless.

The leader began barking orders in his native tongue. The others, who seemed to fear him, stood almost at attention. Two of them turned and entered the hut. One of them returned with a wooden chair, which he set before the leader.

Around them the village was deserted of its former inhabitants. Clint tried to find any signs of the villagers, even another captive, but there were only the fierce men that had attacked They were heavily armed with guns, dressed in trousers. Clint wondered if the village was used as some type of military base. There was a heap of guns stacked up near one of the huts. He had been locked up in one of the wood houses.

Sit, said the leader. His voice was calm and rational.

The large man who’d brought him outside pushed him down on the chair.

I will ask you again. Where is the rest of the money? There was intensity in his face.

Blinded by the sun shining directly into his eyes, Clint paused, straining to see the man’s scowling face. He licked his dry lips nervously. That’s right, they were after more money, he recalled.

I told you. My father gave it to me. I don’t have any more money.

The man punched Clint in the stomach. Clint cried out, feeling a deep wrenching pain in his gut.

Where is the rest of the money?

Gasping, he choked out, That’s all I have.

The next blow was to Clint’s face. The force sent him tumbling out of the chair and onto the hard ground. Clint could taste warm blood in his mouth. He wondered if he had a split lip. Then his mind was wiped of any wondering as the man kicked him in his gut. Excruciating pain shot through him as he struggled to take in air.

His words slurred this time, I … I don’t have any more money. Above him the man raised his fist and before he could strike again, Clint yelled, All right, all right, I’ll get you more money! I’ll do whatever you say! He could hardly breathe from the pain.

The leader smiled coldly. I knew he would eventually see reason. Lock him up.

The large man grabbed Clint’s arm, dragged him back to the room, threw him down to the ground, and tied his legs with another coil of rope. Clint listened to the heavy footsteps leave the room and heard the loud clang of a deadbolt lock. He lay down on his side shivering with his legs against his chest.

It was hard to believe he was being held like a common criminal. He hadn’t done anything wrong. How could God let this happen? Was he wrong to think he cared? What kind of a God is he? Is he punishing me?

But maybe there was hope. Maybe he could bargain with them and they’d let him go. If he could get them more money – but reality quickly crushed that thought. Where would he get money from? The money from his father was truly gone now. His stomach rolled with nausea and his body began to shake violently from the pain and fear. He clenched his fists and tensed his muscles to try to stop the tremors.

As he struggled to think of a way out, it was then that it hit him. He would probably die here. At that point, he began to face the consequences of his past actions and the current situation. The loss of freedom and pain of separation from his loved ones – especially Abby, especially not knowing whether she was dead or alive – it became torture. He quietly said, God help me … please.

He leaned back against the cement wall his mind in a daze. Clint wondered how the path he’d taken led him to the hopeless circumstances he now faced.

Are all my mistakes catching up to me? he thought. Visions of his past spread through his mind, back three years when he was fighting in the war in Germany.

Chapter 2

N ear Clint’s tent was a giant tree limb that had fallen from a storm. It was conveniently big enough for a grown man to sit on and, as inside the tent was no warmer that outside the tent, the tree limb was Clint’s usual perch when off duty. He was dressed in an olive wool cap, heavy canvas legging under his trousers and a wool shirt, covered by a thick sweater, covered by a cotton jacket. Even with his layers of clothing, he was still free zing.

Clint belonged to the 106th Infantry. They’d been in Germany a little over a month. After spending the summer of 1944 at Fort Jackson, South Carolina for basic training and a few months in Tennessee with his division to participate in army operations, not to mention a lifetime in the heart of Texas, Clint was not accustomed to nor a fan of the cold weather.

It was a little before 7 p.m. Clint was only a few yards from his tent. The triad layout of the camp was small, but allowed the troops enough room to move around without feeling overcrowded.

He breathed on his hands before striking a match to light a cigarette. The bitter cold air chilled his face and seemed to increase the burn as Clint took a long deep drag. Nick, a fellow American, was sitting next to him, belly bulging in his olive coat and face turned up to stare at the gray sky. A few minutes later, a British soldier came over to join them on a nearby log. Clint had met Frazier only two week ago and had decided he liked the man. Besides being only a bit older than Clint himself, Frazier was playful and lighthearted, a relief to find in the midst of battle-torn Germany.

Several weeks earlier, Clint’s division, led by their 28-year-old commanding officer, Lt. Col. Thomas Riggs, fought outside St. Vith, against German forces vastly superior in numbers. Clint shuddered to remember those weeks. With the help of Frazier’s British battalion, they held their ground, but for a while there Clint didn’t think he’d make it out alive. They withdrew over the Saint River at Vielsalm, then assembled at Anthisnes, Belgium for reinforcements and much needed supplies. The previous morning they packed up to head south and kept marching until sundown.

The peace of the cold January morning did little to stop the horrifying memories of bloodshed, injury, and death that tormented Clint. He would have given anything to be back home in his father’s mansion enjoying everything money could buy.

Clint had grown up wanting for nothing with his father and two brothers. Being the youngest, he was often the most spoiled. Where Clint was hedonistic, his brothers were more serious – or more mature as his father would say. His brother, Paul, was fighting the war somewhere in North Africa. William, the oldest, belonged to the 99th Infantry Division, which was currently in Germany last Clint had found. He hadn’t heard from either of them in over two years. War was nothing like the glory he’d imagined it would be.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a thick Southern accent. Mind if I borrow a cigarette? Nick asked.

Clint reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cigarette and his book of matches, handing them Nick.

I can’t wait for this insane war to end, Nick said.

Me too, Frazier said, his Welsh accent sounding musical to his neighbors’ American ears. I can certainly think of better places I’d like to be. He rubbed his hands together several times to warm them.

I hate the Germans, Nick said. I’d kill every Nazi in this damn country if I could. He blew a puff of smoke into the cold air. Clint kept silent.

Where are you both from? Frazier asked.

I’m from Alabama, Nick said, before taking another puff of his cigarette. Anderson, Alabama. Ever heard of it?

Fraizer smiled encouragingly. Can’t say that I have.

Most people ain’t heard of it. It’s quiet, but folks are friendly enough. What about you, Frazier?

I’m originally from Africa. My mum was a missionary and my Dad, an archeologist. He was there conducting a study when they met. They married, had me and my younger sister, and we moved to Wales when I was ten.

What about you, Clint? What’s your story? Nick asked.

Clint paused for a long, awkward moment. Grew up in Dallas, Texas with my father and two brothers. My mom died giving birth to my sister. She died too. He pointedly took another puff of his cigarette. He avoided the subject of family.

Clint never got along with his father. James Edison was a well-admired and upstanding member of his community, a fair businessman and a good man – and he was always pushing Clint to be nicer, or cleaner, or less wild. Clint always wanted to be independent, to go where he wanted to go and do what he wanted to do. Maybe it was the sudden loss of his mother that made it difficult for Clint to fully rely on any authority figure. It was a tension made worse by Clint’s rebellious and stubborn personality, which also showed itself in his army career. He was reprimanded by his commanding officer for violation of military regulations from the time he enlisted.

All through basic, he failed to wear a proper uniform. He refused to maintain clean barracks. He was often late to morning training from trying to sleep in. Punishment detail only made him more resistant to the strict structure of the army and earned him a reputation as a troublemaker. But not enough trouble to get thrown out in the middle of a war where every man counted.

By his side, Nick took one last puff of his cigarette and threw it to the ground. Got a letter from my girl back home, Nick said abruptly. Confessing her devotion to someone else.

Sorry to hear that. There’s someone better for you, Frazier said.

Nick bent his head. I loved her. Was plannin’ on askin’ her to marry me when I got home.

There’s better fish in the sea, Frazier said optimistically. Trust me. I’ve had my heart broke. You’ll get through it.

You ever been dumped, Clint? Nick asked.

Clint stared at Nick. No, but I broke a few hearts in my day. Though Clint didn’t cut an impressively large figure at 5’8, he had the confidence of a boxer. He was handsome and he knew it. He had sharp brown eyes and dark hair that teased at a curl, a fair complexion and high cheekbones. He was the desire of every girl back home.

Clint grew up as one of the richest kids in the city, with a nanny, a housekeeper, and a personal tutor. He had designer clothes, a fancy car, and lots of money. He lived his life fast and free. And for eight months now he wondered how he’d let his father convince him to join the army. "It will only be for a year or two, his father said. You’ll meet new people and see the world."

I musta been drunk to believe him, Clint thought to himself.

Frazier stood up, and a little black book fell out of his jacket. What’s that? Clint asked.

Frazier bent down and grabbed the book. It’s my Bible … . ever read it?

No, but I been in church more times than I’d like to remember. My father made me go as a kid. Can’t say I ever got much out of it.

That’s too bad. This book has saved my life. My relationship with God is the only thing that keeps me sane.

Clint threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stamped it out with one foot. I’m goin’ to bed. He headed towards his tent with Nick right behind him.

Goodnight, Frazier said who walked to the other side of the grounds to his tent.

The next day, Clint’s battalion was to move east toward Berlin. He headed back to his tent to pack his things. He was only five feet away when he suddenly heard the sound of airplanes approaching. As he peered up to the gray, windy sky, bullets suddenly flew out of the plane and hit the ground only a few feet away from him. Clint felt his heart almost leaped out of his chest as the air raid occurred.

German dive bombers followed with an intense attack. Sirens went off instantly and men began scrambling, trying to find cover and weapons to fight back. Clint ran for cover when a big blast went off, knocking him to the ground. Disoriented, he struggled to crawl to safety and he managed to stumble to his feet. Clint watched men crashing into one another, others wounded as they laid flat on their backs and stomachs. Many bled copiously. American and British soldiers were firing machine guns. He knelt for shelter beside an armored car and gripped his M1 Garand, semi-automatic rifle.

Within minutes, U.S. Corsair fighter planes were flying above firing at the enemy planes. He pointed his gun, ready to fire when bullets flew out at the speed of lighting, shooting at the dirt ground inches from him. Then a bomb went off, flipping the car over and throwing him several feet away. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as he lay on the ground, stunned and scared, unsure of what to do. At that moment, his life flashed before his eyes. He thought for sure that he would die.

His shoulder felt hot, burned, and a glance down showed him blood. He could barely move. He turned his head and to his right he saw Nick lying on the ground, unconscious. Clint tried to call to him but the words simply wouldn’t come; he felt any minute he would faint.

Then his view was blocked by a dark face and dark, concern eyes. It took Clint a moment to recognize the sudden appearance of another soldier. By then, he felt strong arms wrapping around his torso and dragging him away. Where are we going, Clint thought dazedly.

Beyond the pain, he vaguely heard the words of the man. You gone be alright.

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When Clint awoke, he felt relief strike through his bones. In spite of the excruciating pain shooting out of his left arm and the massive headache creeping down his neck, he was happy to be alive. He reached up and felt a bandage wrapped around his head.

Clint was in a large tent surrounded by wounded men. This place was staffed with doctors, nurses, and assistants, and well-equipped with beds, blankets, candles, food-units, washing-rooms, a cabinet stacked with medications, and what looked to be operating devices.

There must have been at least 100 wounded men in the tent. He could hear the mumbling of voices next to him. Shifting his head to the right, a doctor and nurse were standing next to a patient’s bed. The older doctor said, It appears he has a blockage. The femoral artery was severely damaged causing insufficient blood supply to his thigh. Severe gangrene has developed and amputation is inevitable.

Oh God, no, the man cried. Please … don’t take my leg, I’m begging you.

The doctor said, The limb can cause serious problems with infection. It could be a threat to your life. We have no choice.

What about the right leg? the nurse asked.

We may be able to save it. We’ll administer an anticoagulant drug. Hopefully we can bypass surgery. Bring the gurney around.

Clint watched with weary eyes as they lifted the man from his cot and wheeled him away.

Clint closed his eyes as his head pounded ceaselessly. He cringed in his bed, trying to blot out the desperate cries surrounding him. The man to his left had a still bloody wound on his face. Next to him was a man who’d suffered a blow to his head. He overheard a doctor telling him he had a traumatic brain injury that would take months, maybe years to recover. He hoped the nightmare would soon end.

When he could bear to open his eyes again, a nurse covered in blood stopped in front of his bed. How do you feel? she asked, feeling his pulse.

In a lot of pain, Clint said, hoarsely.

As she lifted the wool blanket over Clint’s chest, she said, You have a slight concussion. The doctor performed surgery on your shoulder to remove the shrapnel from the bomb. You should consider yourself lucky because it could have been much worse.

Clint swallowed back a bark of laughter. Lucky, he thought, listening to the pained moaning around him.

The doctor will be by in an hour to give you some more morphine.

Clint simply nodded. When she turned to leave, he tried to sit up and called out. Wait! There’s another wounded soldier, Nick Moore. Do you know if he’s okay?

She frowned for a moment. Moore… oh yes, he was brought in with you. I’m afraid his right arm was badly wounded so we had to remove it, and there was a bullet embedded in his forehead. Now there’s a man lucky to be alive.

Clint dropped his head back onto his pillow.

And the man who saved me? A black man, he pulled me to safety.

That was mighty brave of him. If he wasn’t wounded then he’s probably on duty – every able-bodied man is. Try and get some sleep. I’ll be back and check on you soon.

Everything seemed so detached, as though it were happening to someone else. He laid as still as possible among the wounded and dying and eventually fell into an exhausted asleep.

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After four days, Clint stubbornly insisted on being released. The doctors were amazed by his persistence. He was too wounded to fight, so was scheduled to take the next ship home. Nick had to remain another few weeks before being released.

Clint moved between beds, careful of the sling holding his injured shoulder and eyeing the wounded men before finally approaching Nick’s bed. Nick was half asleep.

Nick … Nick. Nick slowly opened his eyes and turned his head sideways and smiled at Clint.

Clint moved closer. How do you feel?

I’ve been better, he said. He tried to move.

Clint glanced at the empty sleeve of his arm. He tried not to show it, but the sight of him was frightening. Nick’s entire forehead was bandaged.

So, hear you’re on your way home, Nick said, enthusiastically.

Clint fidgeted before saying, Yes.

Nick was trying to remain cheerful, but Clint could tell he was scared. I’m not sure what life will be like for me. Guess it’ll never be the same. Guess I should be glad to be alive, huh? Nick said.

Clint nodded. I’m sure it’ll be okay. Clint wasn’t much on compassion. It was hard for him to be empathic, even in the worst of times. But in spite of his shallow persona, he genuinely liked Nick.

You’re strong. You’ll pull through this.

Think we’ll ever see each other again?

I still have your address, you gave it to me a couple of months ago, remember? You still have mine, right?

Nick nodded.

I’ll keep in touch.

Nick nodded again.

I should go, Clint said, moving backwards.

Write me, okay, Clint?

I will. See ya, Nick.

Clint was gathering his things when a nurse approached him waving a piece a paper. It was Anna, the nurse who had helped him when he first woke up. She handed him paper, which carried a name, address and phone number.

What’s this? Clint frowned.

"The black man