Appendix A
Ed’s story was published in a magazine in 1958.
“WHY I DIDN’T DIE.
Suddenly above us on the highway, there was a screech of brakes.
Then we heard a woman’s voice as she shouted back to someone,
“Oh, my God! - They’re down here! - burning up!”
Harold! Harold! Harold!” There was no response. “Harold!--------” I kept calling. Slumped over the bent steering wheel was the limp form of my friend, Harold Beeler. One twisted arm lay on the battered dash. In front of it was the gas tank, and directly in front of the tank a tiny finger of flame crept closer and closer along the engine of the wrecked Model A Ford. The small blaze cast an ominous glow into the dark night.
I saw it all. The left door on the coupe was gone, and with the fire growing every second, I saw the terrible scene, but I couldn’t move. My legs were paralyzed. I was lying in mud and gravel twenty feet from the car. My body was in agony but my mind was racing. Was Harold dead? Apparently a long one-inch pipe from the trailer load we had been pulling had pierced his head. Several others had stabbed through the back of the seat and the windshield. I could see their ends sticking out like so many marshmallow sticks over the blaze.
“Harold! Harold! Harold!!----”
He had been a good fellow---a hard-working, energetic young man. He had a very pleasant home, a friendly attractive wife, and three beautiful children. I needed money to start college and Harold had hired me for the summer as a carpenter’s helper.
“Now he is dead,” I thought. “The tank will soon explode and that will be the end for me, too”
“Oh, God, save us,” I prayed; “I’ll try harder. I’ll work harder. I’ll be better; only save us!”
It was like some dreadful nightmare. We had plunged at fifty miles an hour into a dark empty hole. The blacktop highway had been washed out. There had been no warnings.
“Harold! Harold Beeler! Hey!” Desperately I kept calling, “Harold! Har----” He moved his head! He was alive! He moved only a little and very slowly, but at least he moved. His head was all right; the pipe had missed! “Get out of there! The car’s going to blow up!’
Slowly turning his head in my direction, he said, calmly and unconcernedly, “I can’t,” then slumped back onto the steering wheel. Wouldn’t he ever wake up? I continued to scream at him.
Other cars would be coming. They might pile in on top of us. We had left them behind at the last gravel wash. There had been a cloudburst in the mountains. The dry gravel washes, which were usually the roller-coaster-fun dips of the road, had become raging streams. On our way home for the weekend, with a small trailer load of salvaged pipe, we had come upon four cars stopped by the first of these miniature rivers. One driver had ventured to cross without first checking the depth and had stalled his new car in water above the floorboard. Harold had hooked a chain onto the car and pulled it out. Then he had made a few adjustments on his Model A: let some air out of the tires to increase traction, unfastened the fan belt to keep water from splashing back on the motor, and disconnected the exhaust pipe at the manifold to give it an opening above water. After this he had forded the stream, unhooked the trailer, and pulled the others through with a tow chain. Then, after the last car was across, he had rehooked the trailer and driven on to the next stream.
He and I were both wet, tired, and two hours behind schedule when we finally reached the last wash. In the orange glow of sunset, we saw before us a shimmering sheet of water an eighth of a mile wide. A crew of men had been stationed there to assist and direct traffic. They had halted all low-clearance vehicles, but when they saw the Model A, they waved us through. When we reached the paved highway, Harold stepped hard on the accelerator in order to make up for lost time. He said, “I bet we get to Yuma before those other cars catch up.” The lights were dim--but he knew the road by heart. This section was excellent, and even with the trailer on behind, the speedometer moved gradually past the fifty mark. Then, suddenly the road was gone.
I had seen the hole---too late---too late to utter one sound. I remember falling amid bars and pipes. It seemed like I was falling and falling forever through blackness, lightning flashes, and confusion. Then everything seemed dark and quiet. I found myself on top of some wreckage. Something like a voice had urged, “Get off! Get away from here!” I had no feeling in my body, yet my arms had worked very well--pulling me off the twisted metal and dragging my body over twenty feet of mud and rocks before stopping.
Harold was hearing me now. He was moving his head. He looked around stupidly. He repeated, unnaturally-- like one in a trance, “I can’t,” and added, “my foot’s caught.”
“Well, unfasten it! Listen to me, Harold,” I cried; “you’ve got to get out of there. The car door’s open. Just fall out! Unfasten your foot and fall out! That’s it. Fall out! Now, crawl over here. “ Like a slow-moving robot he obeyed. After he splashed in the cool mud, he stood to his feet and staggered to me. “Drag me out of here! We’re too close. Other cars will be on top of us,” I said.
He pulled me only about six feet and fell backward into the mud. He buried his head in his hands and moaned, “Oh, what a terrible nightmare; what a terrible nightmare!”
“No! It’s real,” I said. Then it struck me as being funny and, in spite of the terrible pain that had suddenly developed, I laughed.
“We better pray.” He spoke earnestly, and then, “Dear Lord, save us. Don’t let that gas tank explode, and--and--stop the cars from coming in on top of us. Save us. Amen.”
Silently I added, “If You save me, I’ll go to school. I’ll do anything. If You want me to, I’ll even preach.” . . . . .
Lying in the mud and swooning in misery, I promised God that if I ever got out alive, I would never complain again. I’d never murmur about hard work or sore muscles. I would study hard. I would even do the very hardest thing--at least, I would try--I would lay aside my pride and fear and actually talk before groups. I dreaded the thought, but I promised that I would even take public speaking. I would be willing to take the whole ministerial course. I would----
Suddenly above us on the highway there was a screech of brakes. Then we heard a woman’s voice as she shouted back to someone, “Oh no!--they’re down here!--burning up!”
We were so happy we laughed and cried at the same time. I yelled back, “We’re over here! We’re okay. Come and get us!”
A few minutes later two men came with flashlights. One helped Harold up the west bank, and some others came and carried me up the east bank, where all the cars were. The only town nearby was Yuma, twenty miles to the west on the other side of that terrible chasm. Some of the people tooted their horns and turned on their headlights hoping to attract attention.
A farmer living three miles away thought he heard an explosion somewhere and drove out to investigate. After driving up and down the highway a couple of miles, he was almost ready to give up his search and return home when he spotted the headlights and heard the horns. He rushed Harold to the doctor and ordered an ambulance to hurry back for me.
The stranded people were wonderful. They carried blankets from their cars and did everything they could to help me. A first-aid nurse cut away my trousers, examined my legs, and tried her best to make me comfortable. I was freezing with shock, so she wrapped all the available blankets around me and offered a pill to relieve my pain. I refused it. I fearfully insisted, “It might knock me out for good.” One white-haired man stayed beside me, gripping my hand and gently rubbing my arm. I don’t know who he was, but I appreciated it so much. He seemed to me like an angel. I needed someone to hold on to, and he was there--Jonny on the spot--angel on the spot!”
(Ed recently said, “I have often wondered if he could have been a real angel. In the darkness I couldn’t distinguish faces of anyone and yet I saw this man’s face very clearly. Even though his hair was wavy white his friendly face was youthful with strong masculine features. Another thing that makes me wonder about him is that none of the people milling about seemed to notice him or be aware of his presence. While I was lying there on the road and holding onto his hand for about an hour no one spoke to him. Since his face was level with mine he had to be lying flat out on the ground”) The story continues: -
Two days later I was home in bed recovering from my fractured hip and dislocated leg. Don Long, the clown of our carpenter crew, came to see me. “You know,” he said, and he was speaking very seriously, “I was out and looked at the wreck, and there is something miraculous about it. That two-wheeled trailer slid in underneath the car so perfectly that all four wheels are in it, and the pipe that had been in the trailer shot through your car like dozens of spears. There wasn’t room for one person to sit in that car. I stood on top of the wreck and couldn’t see the top of the roadway. The washout must have been fifteen feet deep and forty feet wide, and yet you fellows almost jumped over it. The hood, some tools, and, believe it or not, even Harold’s glasses were on the opposite bank. I’ll tell you,” he concluded, “God surely had His arms around you.”
Today I realize more and more how very true his statement was. As I marvel about it and consider the why of it, the story of Edah and the whale comes vividly to mind, and I understand the reason. Sometimes it takes a “whale-belly” experience to put a man on the right track.
(Harold Beeler went back to school, completed a medical course, and as a qualified surgeon he won the hearts of all the people in his farming community with his unselfish ministry.)
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