November 30, 2018 / 1998
On this date America said goodbye to the 41st president of the United States. George Herbert Walker Bush was a decorated veteran of World War II and the last “warrior-statesman” president of what many have termed the “Greatest Generation”. This date also has special meaning to my family, for it was on this day (1998) twenty years ago that my father, Captain Howard Kirk McCabe, United States Army, went to his eternal home to serve the greatest commander of all, the King of Kings, Jesus.
Many who eulogized President Bush (41) referenced a combat story that occurred on September 2, 1944. A Navy pilot, his plane was hit by enemy fire while on a bombing mission to take out a Japanese radio station located in the Bonin Islands in the South Pacific. Before his plane crashed near Japanese-held Chichi Jima island, he parachuted into the sea; he was the sole survivor. He was eventually rescued by a Navy submarine, the USS Finback. This incident marked his life, giving him confidence that God had spared him for a special purpose.
September 2, 1944 H. Kirk McCabe of the 311th (Timberwolf) Infantry Regiment was stationed at Camp Kilmer, N.J., making final preparations for its part in World War II. On December 9, 1944 dad arrived at the “frontline”, west of the Siegfried Line in Belgium, in what came to be known as the “Campaign of the Huertgen Forest”, the northern flank of the Battle of the Bulge. Several months later, with nearly half of the 311th fallen-in-action, dad found himself in enemy territory east of the Rhine River. The following is an excerpt of a personal story of God’s providence, taken from his book, He Was There All the Time.
Was My Number Up?
Even before I boarded the magnificent pride of Great Britain, the Queen Mary, to enter into combat with Hitler’s armed forces, I had heard many stories reported of men telling their buddies that their number was up. That meant that instinct told them they would be killed. In most cases, it happened.
Such was the experience I had shortly after leading my platoon of infantrymen across the Remagen Bridge over the Rhine River, deep in Germany.
I had dug my foxhole as deep as I could to afford protection from the uncanny accuracy of the German artillery. The ‘incoming mail’, as we called the enemy shells, had been pounding us all day. Then there was a lull. It was then I heard a voice within me say, Get out of here for a couple of days. Do it now!
I yelled over to Captain Feery in his foxhole, letting him know how I felt. With no hesitation he said, “Lieutenant, I’ve got a ‘second louie’ due here in ten minutes. This is an order, get your butt out of here, meet him at the crossroads, bring him up-to-date, then get him into your foxhole. Now you have a great three days. Be sure you get back; we need you.” After briefing my replacement, I was on my way.
Needless to say, the time I spent in Liege, Belgium (90 miles west of my position) was a huge success. I had forgotten how delightful it felt to strip down, turn on water that was hot, coat myself with soapsuds, then dream I was in a bit of heaven. In spite of food shortages, I was able to get several great meals. At least they were not S.O.S (an Army regular with an unmentionable name in polite society).
Three days flew by. I was now anxious to return to the brutal task ahead. It was dark when I stepped from my jeep. All appeared calm as I approached Captain Feery. My first question to him was, “How did it go, Captain? Want me to take over my platoon now?”
He hesitated a moment before he answered. “Yes, you better take over. The night you left for your three days, we had a heck of a barrage from those German *#*!’s. Your replacement was killed. He’s the only one we lost. We need your experience – glad to have you back.”
God indeed had great plans for dad. His legacy includes five children and numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren, many of whom serve in ministry. A thankful family remembers.
