‘Sarge, Will You Tell Us About God?’ – The Story of God’s Miraculous Protection of an Entire U. S. Marine Unit

In celebration of Memorial Day, I am re-posting this story. I have several new readers and followers who were not with me when I originally posted “Sarge, Will You Tell Us About God,” and a number of Marine veterans have now discovered that the book is available. So I’d like to share the story again in the hope that many more people may be blessed by what the Lord did for an entire Marine unit during World War II.

The story itself makes up a small book, published by St. Ellen Press and is available on their website as well. Although it’s my story, and that of the other 321 men in my squadron, it is primarily HIS story.

In the past few years I have shared free copies of the book with hundreds of soldiers who were in the midst of horrible combat overseas. In response, I have received numerous testimonies of how the book strengthened their own faith and helped them experience miracles of protection and deliverance as well.  I am grateful to be able to share it here. If you are reading this post and are a member of the armed forces — or you have a loved one who is — you may feel free to copy and print this story so that you can read it whenever you like and share it with others.

I have dedicated the book “Sarge, Will You Tell Us About God?” to my Marine buddy Dominic Cersosimo, better known as “Blackie.” We served together throughout the entire Pacific Campaign, and Blackie was awarded a Purple Heart for injuries resulting from a Kamikaze attack on LST 599 (pictured below the story).

Just this past month, there has been a new development in mine and Blackie’s relationship, and I will tell you about that in the following prologue to the book:

The Visit of a Lifetime

During W W II: I am far left; Blackie is second from right

It was 67 years ago that my World War II buddy, Dominic Cersosimo, and I bade each other farewell and headed home at the end of the War. It was several years later when we finally located each other and communicated by mail and telephone. But it was not until May of this year that we finally came together again – as my wife and I drove to his home in Pennsylvania.

I didn’t know what to expect as we went up to his front door and rang the doorbell. The door slowly opened, and for the first time in 67 years, we looked each other in the eye – and guess what – tears began to flow on both sides.

May, 2013: Blackie is on left: I am on right

The Cersosimo’s had spare bedrooms, and we moved in for nearly four days of joy, tears, and excitement. We virtually fought again the Pacific campaign against the Japanese, especially the Okinawa landing and capture.

It is amazing how true friendship, especially in war, never ends. Psalm 91 was our trust and support during those horrific times, and in spite of all we experienced and overcame, by God’s grace, not a single man in our unit was lost to enemy action. And I like to think that Marine Fighting Squadron 322 was reborn a week ago at McKee’s Rocks, Pennsylvania.

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Now for the story: SARGE, WILL YOU TELL US ABOUT GOD?

IT’S A REAL WAR

It was late fall of 1943. We were in Marine Fighting Squadron 322, training at “war games,” on Parris Island, South Carolina. We were being honed daily. At exactly 11:00 P.M. we were rudely awakened and rousted out of our bunks with the terse command, “Begin packing!”

Marine Fighting Squadron 322 had received sealed orders from the upper echelon command. We were to board a hastily assembled troop train early the next morning.

“Surely one more night wouldn’t make that much difference,” we all mumbled, but in the Marines, orders are orders! The only information we were given was that orders were to move without delay to the West Coast, where we were to disembark for the Pacific Theater of Operations. So that was it! “War games” were now at an end. Our months and months and months of training were now to be put to the real test: honest-to-goodness war!

THE CALL

Ever since my sophomore year in high school, I had wanted to be a Marine. After December 7, 1941, as a senior in high school, I purposefully aimed for that goal. After graduation it took some doing, but I finally convinced my parents to sign the authorization papers permitting me to volunteer for service in the U. S. Marines. I was only seventeen at the time.

On July 3, 1942, in the Federal Building in Chicago, I raised my right hand and was sworn into active duty. My whole world was about to undergo a dramatic change.

The stories of the rigors and brutal lifestyle of Marine Corps Boot Camp are numerous and legend, and probably all true. But the tough, disciplined lifestyle was not my principle problem. Long before I entered the Corps – at the age of 12 – I had given my heart to the Lord Jesus Christ and was born again. At 16, I felt a genuine call to serve Him in ministry and actually preached a couple or three times. I carried that commitment with me into the Marine Corps, and I was soon to learn what Jesus meant when He said, “Take up your cross and follow me.”

It was something like walking into a buzz saw. Here was a kid who read his Bible, never spoke a single filthy or curse word, never drank or partied with women while out on liberty. It is a gross understatement to say that I stood out. And since I was in a group of guys who did do all of those things, plus a few more, I became the subject of a lot of teasing. Nobody ever ridiculed my faith, per se, but I was quickly tabbed with the name “preacher.”

I determined that if I were to live through this unwelcome spotlight as a “born-again” Christian, I would have to demonstrate the best qualities of a Marine. So I made sure every task was done to the best of my ability – sometimes overdone – but never shirked. As far as I am concerned, it was done as well as the best and better than most.

ON THE WAY TO DESTINY

Back to the fall of 1943. By 9:00 the morning after we received the new orders, we were all on board the train, and within minutes, we headed west. This Saturday the mood among all the Marines in the unit was a mixed bag. There was excitement, yet a degree of somberness. We couldn’t help but think of what may lie ahead. We traveled under tight security – no one leaving the train under any circumstances. A dining car was attached so we could take our meals on the move.

Sunday morning found us racing through the state of Arkansas. After finishing breakfast, I returned from the dining car and sat passively next to the window, watching the countryside go by. As I looked up to the head of the car, in walked our personnel officer. He stood there looking over the passengers as if he were looking for someone in particular.

His eyes finally settled on me, and he walked over. “Sarge,” he began, “the guys wanted me to ask if you would conduct a church service. It’s Sunday you know.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and without thinking I blurted out, “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“No, I’m not kidding,” he answered, “and if you will, I would consider it a personal favor.”

Instantly I agreed to do it and began praying, seeking God for the right message and scriptures. Almost immediately, Psalm 91 rose up in my spirit: the perfect word from the Lord for the moment. Later, all of us gathered into one car, and I began to share those comforting words and marvelous promises from the ninety-first Psalm. Other than my voice, the only discernible sound throughout that car was the clicking of the train wheels. I had the complete attention of every man in the unit.

The Lord was directing me as I had asked. Now I don’t recall everything I said, but I do recall assuring my buddies that God meant what He said in that Psalm. I assured them that God truly loved them and that He would be with them in every circumstance – if they would trust Him.

Then I led them in a closing prayer. I remember that we prayed, “Lord, wherever we find ourselves in the weeks and months ahead, may we bring honor to You, to our families, to the Marine Corps, and to our nation. In Your mercy, we ask for Your protection in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

That Sunday morning was to be a turning point in my Marine Corps experience. From that day forward, never again was I teasingly called “preacher,” or taunted for being “religious.” Trust and respect became the hallmark of my treatment by the other men. I have often thought about how different things might have been if, from the beginning, I had tried to just be “one of the guys.” To whom would they have turned on that fateful Sunday morning?

FAITH UNDER FIRE

Our squadron was in the Pacific Theater for a year and a half. We traveled all the way from the South Pacific to the final Pacific campaign – landing on Okinawa. We experienced our most difficult campaign at Okinawa. We read Psalm 91 almost every day, while enduring just about everything that made up the meaning of war: sleepless nights under heavy bombardment, air raids, shelling, snipers, Japanese suicide squads, and a direct Kamikaze hit on our LST as we headed for the beach.

Our Marine unit was on board the Navy landing ship LST 599 on that fateful day, as we headed for that Okinawan beach. Most of our equipment was on the tank deck of that landing vessel, and all of our personnel were equipped with personal gear, ready to land.

We were approximately one mile off-shore when a buddy and I went onto the top deck to survey the situation. As I glanced to the port side, I noticed a four-plane formation flying parallel to the beach. As the planes got closer, I nudged my buddy and said, “Those are not our planes; they are Japs!”

None of the ships in the landing party opened fire, because the general rule prohibited firing on any planes during a beach landing, due to the fact that ordinarily they would be our own planes supporting our landing troops. But, for some reason, the turret gunner on our LST opened fire. After the planes had traveled about ½ mile down the beach, one of them peeled off from the formation and headed directly for our ship. He was a Kamikaze suicide pilot intent on destroying our ship and everybody on board.

At that point, everybody opened fire on him but failed to knock him down. He crashed through the top deck of our LST, through 100 drums of high octane gasoline. The explosion and fire that resulted were almost unbelievable. The main objective at that point, of course, was to fight the fire, and we Marines joined in with the small Navy crew to get it under control.

In a situation like that, protocol dictated that the Navy captain of the LST was to get all the Marines off to safety if at all possible, because technically, we were considered passengers. But our commanding officer refused to leave the Navy crew helpless. So all of our unit stayed on board and fought valiantly.

We lost virtually all of our equipment and weapons, and our landing was delayed about 5 hours. But in spite of the deadly attack, not a single life was lost, and only a few non-life-threatening injuries resulted. After the fire was under control, we boarded another ship and completed our landing. Another Marine unit that had already landed heard of our loss of equipment and weapons and directed a supply of weapons back to us, so the campaign continued.

LST 599 was later beached on an adjoining island to be cleaned out, and during that process, it was discovered that the Japanese plane had also carried a bomb. It was by the grace of God alone that the bomb had not exploded on impact.

After this event, the Navy declared that if it had not been for the Marine unit that stayed aboard to help fight the fire, the LST would have been lost. As a result, our Marine unit was awarded the Navy Unit Citation for endangering our lives and staying aboard to save the ship.

GOD’S WORD WORKS!

Months later, after the island was secured, our replacements arrived, and we boarded a ship to return home on August 6, 1945 – the day the atomic bomb fell on Hiroshima. It was not until months later, at the time I received my honorable discharge, November 5, 1945, that it dawned on me just how powerfully the Word of God had worked for all of us: Of all the Marines in our unit, not one single man was lost to enemy action.

Praise God! His Word Works!

LST 599, immediately after the direct Kamikaze hit. Shows Marine Corps Unit 322 fighting, along with the Navy crew, to save the LST and all the men on board.

PSALM 91

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall remain stable and fixed under the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress, my God; on Him I lean and rely, and in Him I confidently trust!

For He will deliver you from the snare of the fowler and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with His pinions, and under His wings shall you trust and find refuge; His trust and His faithfulness are a shield and a buckler.

You shall not be afraid of the terror of the night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that stalks in darkness, nor of the destruction and sudden death that surprise and lay waste at noonday.

A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand, but it shall not come near you. Only a spectator shall you be as you witness the reward of the wicked.

Because you have made the Lord your refuge, and the Most High your dwelling place, there shall no evil befall you, nor any plague or calamity come near your tent.

For He will give His angels charge over you, to accompany and defend and preserve you in all your ways. They shall bear you up on their hands, lest you dash your foot against a stone.

You shall tread upon the lion and adder; the young lion and the serpent shall you trample underfoot.

Because He has set his love upon Me, therefore will I deliver him; I will set him on high, because he knows and understands My name. He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him, and show him my salvation. (The Amplified Bible).

~

 

 

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The Decision – a short story by Ted Pavloff

(In honor of Memorial Day, I am sharing another of my veteran’s short stories.  This story, like “The Day I Forgot To Hate,” is fictitious, as are the characters, but it is based loosely on some of my own experiences as a Marine during World War II.)

It should have been another ordinary day at the Cole farm, but the conventional pattern of activity was abruptly altered when the letter arrived. In effect, a new day was born and Cynthia was making the most of it with an explosive brand of excitement that seemed especially reserved for such an occasion.

Ben, her husband, suddenly found himself being recklessly danced around the simple but spacious kitchen. He did not resist.

“Just think,” Cynthia gleefully exclaimed. “Just think!” Isn’t it wonderful? It’s…it’s unbelievable!’

She released her encircling grasp around Ben’s waist, raised to tiptoe and kissed his tanned cheek. Any exhilaration he might have possessed was not outwardly conspicuous and his distant, empty gaze momentarily puzzled Cynthia.

“Honey, cheer up. Don’t you understand what this means? Our problems are over. The farm! … Imagine! … the farm! We can’t lose it now! We’ll have enough to pay it off. And you can buy the new tractor and put up the white fence, even round the whole front pasture. And I can have the new refrigerator, and the sewing machine, and…”

She stopped in mid-sentence; she was bewildered, for Ben seemed strangely unimpressed. Cautiously, as if afraid she had possibly made a mistake, Cynthia hurried to the kitchen table, retrieved the letter and began to read quietly, almost inaudibly: “I regret deeply that I must inform you of this tragedy, for I am sure Charles Romano was a special type of friend. As the court-appointed attorney to carry out the provisions of his will, it gives me a certain amount of pleasure, however, to advise that you have been named heir to all personal cash and securities in the estate. This will amount to approximately fifty-thousand dollars. I would like to set up an appointed with you to fill out the paperwork as soon as possible. I am suggesting that we meet March 22, at 10:00 a. m. here at my office in Chicago (see letterhead for street address and phone number). If those arrangements are convenient for you, please let me know as soon as possible, and we can close this matter with a minimum of delay. Respectfully, James P. Axtell, Attorney-at-law.”

She looked back at Ben, and her voice carried an accent of victory. “I was right; that’s what it says. That’s exactly what it says!”

He had been silent since reading the letter and there was no comment, even now. She moved closer. “Honey, what’s wrong? Is it a sin for a service buddy to will you some money? Why…why I think it’s fine, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. And he probably didn’t have anyone else. That’s it; he probably doesn’t have a family. Honey, you did know this Charles Romano, didn’t you?”

Ben seemed frustrated. He snapped his dusty, dilapidated hat from a chair and nervously fingered the brim. “Yeah, I knew him. That’s why I ain’t gonna take the money. Now I got work to do.” He moved toward the door but Cynthia was suddenly ahead of him and backed solidly against the latch.

“Now I don’t want to hear no more about it!” he said angrily. “I ain’t takin’ the money and I ain’t goin’ to Chicago! And don’t go askin’ me any questions because you won’t understand anyhow. Now lemme out.”

“Honey, listen to me. This is a gift from Heaven. It’s our only chance to have everything we’ve worked for. Nine years we’ve done nothin’ but dream — dream and work. What we gained, we lost during the bad season, and now they’re going to take the farm. Don’t you want to at least save that?’

Her argument seemed futile and she stepped aside. “You can go if you want to, I just thought if you insisted on throwing away our last chance to hold on, I ought to know why.”

Ben was clearly disarmed. He sauntered back to the table, a picture of defeat, replaced his hat on the back rung and dropped his long frame into the crackling wicker chair. He did not want to talk about it, but he realized now that he had made a seemingly foolish decision, and Cynthia was entitled to an explanation.

The few minutes following seemed endless.

“Do you know why this Romano fella is givin’ me this money? I’ll tell you why. Because once, back on Okinawa, I saved his life. Anyway, he thought I did. I wanted him to think that. I wanted all of ‘em to think it. But I didn’t save anybody. I lied. He ain’t givin’ me the money for nothin’ – just because I’m a friend. He thinks I saved his life. Savin’ a life is worth money, but a lie ain’t worth nothin’.

He paused, grappling with his own thoughts, and Cynthia waited.

“They made me do it!” His fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles grew pale. “They made me lie, because they wouldn’t leave me alone. I wasn’t very smart and I didn’t talk very good like most of the other fellas did. From the first day they teased me about it. I didn’t drink liquor, cuss or use dirty words like most of ‘em did, and they teased me about that too. Then they even commenced teasin’ me about readin’ my Bible every night; callin’ me ‘preacher’ and pokin’ fun like that.

“I didn’t want no part of their bad habits but they wouldn’t let me in on any of the good things either because they said I was an awkward farmer and would just mess up things. I used to lay awake nights tryin’ to think up something I could do to make ‘em treat me different, but they kept right on.”

The recollection was obviously painful, and Ben became so agitated he couldn’t sit still. Slowly he paced the width of the room, hands in pockets; then paused before the window and peered intently over the west pasture, now a sickening brown from the drought.

“What about the lie?” Cynthia inquired softly. “Tell me about it, Ben. Tell me everything. It’ll help.”

“It ain’t a good story,” he continued. “It ain’t good at all, but there ain’t no use tryin’ to hide it from you anymore.

“We were on Okinawa, just behind the front line. One day I was just sittin’ there readin’ my Bible. I read it an awful lot over there, more than I ever did before. Every spare minute I got, I read some out of that Bible. Then, all of a sudden, without sayin’ anything, someone grabs it out of my hands. It was Romano. He was a sergeant then and he always liked to bull around some, especially at me.

“He said I was readin’ that stuff too much and he believed that he would keep that Book awhile so I could keep my mind on the war we was tryin’ to win. And besides, right then he said I was supposed to take a ride with him to deliver an important message to the next division post down the line.

“It aggravated me but I didn’t say much except to tell him that I didn’t care, because if he kept the Bible long enough it might do him some good. I don’t reckon it ever did though; he wasn’t the type that the Bible could get to so easy. He tucked it inside his fatigue jacket and I never saw it again.

“We were about a mile or so from where we were goin’ when all of a sudden our jeep just flew out from under us. We hit a land mine. I was just scratched and bruised up a little, but the jeep was tore up bad and Romano was layin’ out to the side of the road, knocked out cold.

“Then’s when I got the idea. I was going to be a hero right then. I didn’t want to be the kind of hero that was wrote about in the papers and got medals, but just enough hero to make the fellas think different about me and treat me right.

“I wanted to make it look real good so I exploded all of my grenades and shot up most of my ammunition. I made an awful racket so they could hear me up the line.

“Then I carried Romano in to the post and reported how we were attacked by a Jap patrol, and how Romano was knocked out right off, and how I fought them off and got him back to safety. I didn’t figure Romano knew what happened anyway, so I wasn’t worried about that.

“It worked real good. The post sent a message back to my outfit and they were waitin’ for me … all of ‘em wantin’ to pat me on the back. They sure started treatin’ me different, and for the first time I began to feel real good. I knew I had sinned, but I never did feel too bad about it because all I wanted was to be treated right. Just the same, I asked the Lord to forgive me, and I thought He did, but now I don’t know.

He buried his face in his hands as if completely exhausted. Regaining his composure, he turned to Cynthia. She was silent, but her eyes were warm with pity and understanding, and he began to feel relieved.

In an instant her arms were tight around his neck and he knew she understood.

Foreclosure proceedings were to commence within a week, and Cynthia had finally resigned herself to that fact. She had been holding on for months to her usual, unfaltering faith that something would come along to save the farm. But nothing could happen now, she decided. The miracle had come and gone.

She began the arduous task of convincing Ben that losing the farm would not be so difficult after all, but inwardly she grew increasingly afraid. He was not the same man she had always known. He seemed to dwell in a form of solitary confinement, oblivious to the usual activities that had always drawn his daily attention. His every action became laboriously mechanical, without heart and clearly without hope. The unfinished extra chores on the day the letter arrived remained untouched. Nothing seemed to matter now — nothing but sheer existence alone.

More frightening was the sudden rebellion against his characteristic faith in God. Quietly, in his usual manner; but openly, as a gesture of defiance, he began to criticize the wisdom of his Creator.

“ ‘The Lord works in wondrous ways, His miracles to perform’, that’s Scripture,” he told Cynthia, “but I don’t hardly believe it anymore. “He gave me a miracle alright, but I also got a conscience that won’t let me use it. It ain’t a just miracle, that’s what. He ain’t got no reason to torture me like He’s doin.”

Three weeks later, a long black sedan had rolled up the drive and nearly reached the circular turn in the front yard before Ben or Cynthia realized a visitor was on the premises.

Ben eased open the screen door and walked onto the porch, Cynthia following. They noticed it simultaneously: they were “foreign” license plates, and out-of-state people were not usually seen around the farm – except a few years ago an occasional “city farmer” would drive up to deal for Ben’s prize Black Angus cattle. The promising cattle program had been terminated two years ago when the sale of all breeding stock became necessary to meet payments on the farm.

Now, Ben and Cynthia stood there, surveying the stranger as he approached the porch, lugging a briefcase that seemed far out of proportion to his size. He was a small elderly man, dignified in appearance, yet his face reflected a friendly glow.

“Hi folks,” he greeted. “Just had the most wonderful drive of my life. My, what country! Beautiful I call it, beautiful!”

“Not bad,” Ben retorted, “we always liked it.”

The stranger squinted up at the softly swaying trees overhead, then scanned the valley sprawling below to his left.

“Beautiful country,” he repeated, “beautiful.”

“I’m wonderin’ if I could help you,” Ben interrupted.

“If you are Mr. Ben Cole, you certainly may. I was assuming you were since a fellow down the road told me this was the house.”

“I am Ben Cole, but if you’re lookin’ for Black Angus I ain’t had any for two years, and …”

“Whatever Black Angus is,” the stranger chuckled, “I’m sure I would enjoy it, but I’m interested in you particularly. My name is Axtell, by the way, John Axtell. I’m a lawyer.”

He spread the opened briefcase on the edge of the porch and withdrew a bulging manila folder.

“I have something here that I believe might be of interest. I mailed a letter to you about three weeks ago but I don’t suppose you received it, so I decided that I had better handle the matter personally.”

Ben moved closer.

“What did you say your name was?”

“John Axtell, A-X-T-E-L-L”

“Well, you might as well go, Mr. Axtell, I ain’t takin’ the money.”

The lawyer was stunned, but he cleverly withheld any expression of surprise.

“So you did receive the letter?” he asked simply.

“I got it.”

“Why didn’t you at least answer?”

“Because I didn’t aim to take the money three weeks ago, just like I ain’t aimin’ to take it now.”

“May I ask, why not?”

“That ain’t none of your business mister, but mainly on account of I didn’t earn it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Here is a service buddy grateful to you because you once were responsible for saving his life. I know of quite a few people who have been willed fortunes that did a lot less to earn them. I would say giving a man his life is quite an accomplishment.”

“I didn’t save nobody’s life, but that ain’t none of your business either. If you don’t mind, go and leave me alone.”

Cynthia tugged at his arm.

“Honey don’t be rude,” she pleaded. “You don’t have to do nothin’ you don’t want to do, but talk to him nice.”

Axtell thumbed through the folder then removed the check.

“Here is a Cashier’s Check for fifty thousand dollars, made to your order, Mr. Cole. It’s yours without strings.”

“I ain’t takin’ it,” Ben repeated vigorously, “I don’t want it.”

“Alright, if you insist, let’s get technical. You didn’t save the man’s life. So let’s say that it just happened the Bible was inside the jacket, and it just happened the Bible belonged to you.”

“The Bible?”

“The one you were always reading. Mr. Romano told me all about you and your

Bible the day I drew up his will. Now let’s get on with the technicalities and you correct me if I happen to go astray.

“According to Mr. Romano, one day on Okinawa you and he were scheduled to make a dispatch run, and when he finally located you, there you were reading the Bible again. Jokingly, he snapped the Book from you and placed it inside his jacket. Is that right?”

Ben grew apprehensive with the fear that his hoax was not the secret he had thought it to be.

He nodded. “That’s right – so far.”

“Well, just before you reached your destination, your jeep ran over a land mine. Romano didn’t remember anything after that until he regained consciousness aboard a hospital ship where he had been rushed because of a concussion. That’s where a doctor brought in the Bible. It wasn’t in a very readable condition then, a huge, jagged chunk of shrapnel had … well, damaged it. The shrapnel was from the land mine; it had cut through the entire width of the Book and was lodged tight.

“It was the doctor’s opinion that Romano would have died instantly if the Book had not been inside his jacket. I guess you could say it was one case where a Bible literally saved a man’s life.

“Now, Mr. Cole, let’s put two and two together and try to imagine how that jeep ride would have turned out if you and that Bible hadn’t been around.”

Ben stood transfixed, hardly believing what he had heard. Tears were streaming down his cheeks unabated. Although somewhat confused by the strange behavior, Axtell suddenly realized that Ben had reached a new decision.

“Just sign this receipt,” he said, offering a pen.

Ben was barely conscious of Axtell shaking his hand as he departed.

He was barely conscious of standing arm in arm with Cynthia, watching the sedan disappear behind a distant hill.

“He sure does,” Ben finally mumbled, letting out a quiet sigh.

“What?” Cynthia asked in a whisper.

“Work in wondrous ways, His miracles to perform. … He sure does.”

The End