WWII. A field in France. It was dark, cold, and I was pinned down by a German soldier about 150 yards away in the woods. Since I was low on ammo, I was firing at his muzzle flash only occasionally, just enough to keep him awake.

PANIC! I was suddenly aware of a soldier next to me in the hollow I was using for cover. Before I could get my bayonet, he whispered to me, “Easy, Yank. I’ll see ye get home.” We took turns returning the German’s fire.

Thus it went through the night. Occasional rifle fire, whispered conversation. We were both descendants of the Highland Clan Murray, I was Bob (Robert) from Texas, he was Evan from Aberdeen. I had grown up on a ranch, his father owned a book store. We both loved to read. I had four older brothers, he had a younger brother and an infant sister.

We talked about books that we both loved, stories of the sea and of adventure. Robinson Crusoe. Moby Dick. Sherlock Holmes.

We quoted poetry. I gave him Robert Service (“The Cremation of Sam McGee”), he countered with Robert Burns (“To a Mouse”).

Two men, distant cousins and brothers in arms, sharing their lives in whispers punctuated with gunfire. We lived a lifetime that night.

Toward dawn, I fell asleep, exhausted.

I awoke at noon, the fog had cleared. I could see the German across the way, dead. I turned to Evan, also dead. Long dead. His skin was dried on his bones, his rifle a British Lee-Enfield .303. In his pocket, I found letters addressed to his parents, his brother (Ian), and his baby sister (Muiriol).

I said to Evan, “No, Evan, I’ll see that ye get home.”

I was found there beside Evan three days later, by a squad of U.S. soldiers. I was fevered, more than three days without food or water. Evan was sent with me to be delivered home.

My health returned during the trip back to England, although I was deemed unfit to return to the front. I was given a medical discharge and a final set of orders: Take Evan home.

When I arrived in Aberdeen with Evan, our train was met by his parents and his sister. His brother was in the British Army in Africa. Muiriol was a beautiful young woman of 26 years. I spent a few days in their home. I delivered the letters and told the family about the night that Evan and I spent together his in WW I, mine in WW II. I wasn’t able to quote “To A Mouse,” but they all did. Finally, our last day together we went to church. It was a moving service, ending at Evan’s grave side.

The next day I left Aberdeen for Texas and the ranch. I took Muiriol with me.

                                        By Gerald L. Busby

Well, young Joshua, since you found your way into my war  diaries, I guess I'd better tell you about a young man in my squad  who was named Joshua just like you. He was a young Jewish boy  about my age. His full name was Joshua ben Simon Cohen, the eldest  son of his father. I was the eldest son of my father. It took us a while  to make friends. He was from New York City and I was from Waco,  Texas, where everyone thought they were Christian.

He and I were suspicious of each other, but through Basic  Training, we began to trust each other, become
friendly, and finally  to become friends.

After Basic, we were sent to the Army Quartermaster Corps,  where we were assigned to drive a deuce-and-a-half truck. After  training on the care, feeding and operation of the truck, we and our  truck were put on board a ship and sent to England.

By the time we got to England, Joshua had been cut down to  "Josh". The Brits immediately cut my name of Timothy Thomas down  to "Tim Tom", and seemed to find a lot of humor in my Texas drawl.

After spending a good chunk of our war in England, we became  a part of the great invasion force that landed in France. We and our  truck "Nellie" (named after a mule I once knew), drove all over  liberated France, carrying ammo, or food (if you can call C-Rats  "food"), or replacement troops, or repair parts.

Lots of miles meant lots of hours, sharing the driving chores and  talking. He would talk about New York and I would talk about Texas  and farming. Eventually our talks turned to what it was like to be a  Jew, and Jewish history and traditions. I would try to explain  Christianity, but really didn't know much since I was an "Easter-and-
Christmas" Christian.

He had a prayer cloth and kind of a beanie cap, which I found out  was called a kipa. He also had a small Torah scroll written in Hebrew,   which I found interesting. All I had was a small Gideon New  Testament and Psalms that I was given during Basic. Josh told me  that the Psalms were Jewish hymns, and he sang some of them for  me.

He told me about feasts, and tribes, and judges, and kings.

I said to him one time that I didn't understand the Christian  Holidays, why Christmas was always on December 25, but Easter  moved all over the Spring calendar.

He told me about the Jewish calendar, and how Passover was  always on the same day in the Jewish calendar, but wandered around  in the Christian calendar. He explained Leap Months and how they  were used to keep the Jewish calendar aligned with the seasons of  the year. He explained what Passover was, and that the Christian
Easter was tied to Passover.

Not long after that discussion, we were headed back to the  Quartermaster Depot after delivering supplies to the front, when  Nellie decided to break a tie rod. At the same time, artillery rounds  started falling around us. It seems that the Germans were trying to  break through the front.

The concussion from a shell knocked me out.

When I awoke several hours later, I was in a dark corner of  Nellie's bed with blood smeared on my forehead and arms, even  though I was not injured.

When I climbed out of the truck bed, I found that Joshua had  been severely injured. He had smeared his blood on me and on the  top and tides of the truck bed cover, then had laid down on the  ground and died. A passing German patrol had desecrated Joshua's  body, but they never saw me.

It was a little while before I to realized that the day was Passover.

After I was discharged from the Army, I went to New York and  looked up Rabbi Simon Cohen and his wife, Sarah. They took me into  their home like a long-lost son. I found out that Joshua had written  many letters home, and that the Cohens knew a lot about me.

I shared the story of their son's heroic death, and handed them  the flag from his burial service in France, and also his prayer shawl,  kipa, and Torah Scroll. We wept over the reminders of his faith and  his death. The Cohens took the flag and lovingly stored it away, but  they returned the shawl, kipa, and Torah to me. They explained that
his blood on the items rendered them non-kosher, but that I should  keep them in a place of honor in the memory of my friend.

I thanked them strongly, and assured the Cohens that I would  treasure the mementos, but not worship them.

When you were born, I named you for my friend Joshua. That  also explains why I married Joshua's younger sister, Esther, and why  you have Jewish grandparents living with us in the Parsonage.

Young Joshua, always remember your namesake, and always  celebrate Passover, when another Joshua died for all of us, and  celebrate Easter for Him.