The only place I’d seen military aircrafts, tanks or jungles in my small hometown of Oelwein, Iowa, was at the local movie theater. Iowa was more a place for ice cream vendors in the summer, hay rides in the fall and Salvation Army bell-ringers at Christmas.

But as I headed over to the mess hut for my morning coffee that day in 1945, I barely noticed the jungle. My months in Burma airlifting supplies through China to the other Allied forces had gotten me used to airplanes and tropical birds. But still I missed the little things. Like a donut to go with my morning coffee. “Morning, Hank,” I said to my copilot, lifting my tin cup in a friendly toast. “Hope we only have one mission to run today.”

Burma was a jungle in many places. What roads it had were made for carts pulled by water buffalo, dirt trails that became long ribbons of mud when it rained. A two-and-a-half ton truck loaded with supplies could easily become stuck and disabled, resulting in hundreds of soldiers being denied necessary supplies.

Hank and I, and the other pilots in the 3rd Combat Cargo Squadron, could resupply our allies with food, ammo, spare parts, medicine and fuel in our C-47’s. We sometimes had to land our Douglas C-47 Skytrain, nicknamed Dottie, in rutty, captured Japanese air bases, or even on a straight stretch of road. If we couldn’t land, we dropped the supplies by parachute. More than once we returned from a flight to find bullet holes in the cockpit.

I finished my coffee and headed over to the briefing tent with Hank. The push to take Rangoon changed daily, and we were never sure where we would fly next.

“Resupplying a newly captured airfield way down on the Irrawaddy River,” Hank read from our orders when we came out of the tent.

One never knew what could happen here in the jungle. It made me long for the safety of Iowa. Imagining the familiar sights of my hometown I’d once taken for granted was now my greatest source of comfort.

We climbed aboard Dottie as the crew loaded up machine gun and mortar ammunition, along with some spare parts for jeeps. Swarms of insects buzzed outside our canopy. It was just before dawn by the time we finally got off the ground. We got to our destination without any trouble and watched some of the other cargo planes land from the sky. “Bring her down,” I said to Hank when we were cleared to land.

After a bumpy touchdown we followed a jeep to a spot where 20 soldiers waited to unload the supplies. We deplaned and I watched the guys unload the cargo. Iowa felt a million miles away as I swatted at a bug the size of a small fist. I closed my eyes and tried to picture Oelwein’s main street. I couldn’t do it.

I opened my eyes instead to Army uniforms from England, New Zealand, South Africa and Australia. Hank wandered up. “Hi there,” he said, with a cup of coffee and something else clutched in his hand.

“Hank,” I asked incredulously, “is that a real live donut?”

He took an exaggerated bite. “Where’d you get that?” I asked.

He nodded in the general direction of the tents. “Over there.”

“Over where?” I demanded.

He pointed with his half-eaten donut. “Over at that truck.”

I followed the direction of his arm. There in the middle of the Burmese jungle was a Salvation Army truck. The big red shield was unmistakable. It looked just like the sign over the Christmas red kettles in Oelwein. Only it was just about 12,000 miles from anything resembling Iowa. I blinked my eyes to make sure it wasn’t a mirage.

How did a Salvation Army truck get into the jungle? Where did it come from? Who were the people inside who were handing out free coffee and donuts to the Aussies, Brits and Yanks?

“Hey, King,” Hank said. “You better get one quick. They’ve almost got Dottie unloaded and we gotta get out of here.”

I ran to the truck and the woman inside passed me a coffee, donut and a wonderful smile. “We’ll be praying for you, soldier,” she said. I mumbled some sort of thanks and headed back to the plane, where Hank was starting the preflight.

I asked around when we got back to base, but I couldn’t unearth the story of that Salvation Army truck. I never saw it again, but the image of it stayed with me. Since my deployment, all I could think about was how far away I was from home. The truck was a piece of Iowa, a piece of what I was fighting for, even in the midst of the Burmese jungle. A sign from God can come in all shapes and sizes. That day along the Irrawaddy, mine came as a hot coffee, a donut, and a prayer from a very unlikely angel on earth.

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I completed my first scuba course and became passionate about the sport. I gave up my paychecks and began working in exchange for equipment. When the shop sponsored a trip to the Florida Springs, I couldn’t wait to go. The drive from Lexington to Florida was long and our group arrived after dark, but the water was beautiful, calm, and inviting that evening.

We novices were so eager to make our first open-water dive that we compelled our instructors to break the first rule of night diving: Never dive at night where you haven’t yet dived during the daytime. We impatiently donned our equipment and enthusiastically jumped into the water.

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Once under the surface, I stuck to my instructor like glue. We cruised along the bottom and I was thrilled with the splendor of the fish and the variety of the colors and shapes of the coral. My first open-water dive was living up to all of my expectations and, too soon for me, the air in our tanks neared empty and it was time to surface.

When we inflated our vests and kicked toward the surface, we did not pop through the water’s surface as expected, but we solidly struck rock. We swam in another direction and again struck rock. We had inadvertently entered a cave to which the exit was not obvious.

My instructor and I searched for the opening, but the visibility had been diminished when, in my inexperience, I kicked the bottom of the lake with my fins and raised a cloud of silt. We were running out of air and the tank alarms were echoing.

That’s when I remembered to pray. I called out to God and I was immediately filled with the feeling of God’s presence and the knowledge that He would show us the way out. He would see me through.

The silt began to clear and we saw several fish darting back and forth before lining up together, swimming in the current. They seemed to beckon us to follow, which we did. We made one last dive down to the bottom of the water in the direction of the fish, then swam upward and broke through the surface of the lake just as my instructor’s air tank emptied completely.

My instructor and I discussed our shared experience at length. He was entirely focused on himself, and was distraught at having lost control of the situation. He felt responsible for the mistakes that were made and what he thought was his poor judgment. He believed that we had survived because of pure luck. He judged himself a failure and proceeded to drink himself into a state of oblivion.

For my part, I had a profoundly different response to our survival. I did not believe that luck was involved. I had experienced a profound sense of calm and a knowledge that God was with us in the cave. I believed we had survived because God intervened, even though we had been such knuckleheads and He essentially had to push us out of the cave.

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Once a thick, beautiful canopy of oak trees had shaded our homes in Galveston’s historic East End, nearly hiding them from view. Now I stood on my porch and saw nothing but dead, barren branches extending from their trunks.

Ten months before, Hurricane Ike had ravaged the island. It killed nearly all our trees. At first I’d barely noticed. The storm filled the first floor of my house with wet, smelly muck.

Everything—carpet, antiques, artwork, appliances, furniture, the cheap but sentimental dining room set passed down from my mother—was ruined. Who had time to think about trees? The debris sat in front yards for months before the city was able to finally cart it all off.

I’d dreamed for years of leaving the hustle and bustle of Houston behind for the laid-back, sand-between-your-toes calm and serenity of Galveston. After a painful divorce, I’d finally made the leap. It was just what I needed, a little piece of heaven. But the storm had destroyed everything I’d worked so hard to build. Watching my possessions get tossed one by one on the trash heap made me feel like my dream of a new life was ruined as well.

Even the trees are ruined, I thought as I looked at the street from my porch. It was summer. I’d waited for months to see green shoots heralding the promise of rebirth, proof of God’s hand at work. But instead the branches looked like skeletons. The trees had choked on the saltwater and pollution from the bay.

The city had announced it would soon be cutting down the trees in public parks and medians. Homeowners were advised to do the same. The wood was destined for a landfill. Any day now I’d hear the horrible screech of a chain saw destroying what was left of my hopes.

I can’t bear to think of all those trees being turned into scrap, I thought, gazing at the branches curving from the trunk of the tree in front of my house. Two angels embracing—that’s what the branches looked like. Funny how I’d never noticed that before. All the more reason not to throw the trunk away. I remembered a visit to Biloxi, Mississippi, after Hurricane Katrina. Along the road fronting the beach I’d seen carvings made out of damaged trees. An egret, owls, dolphins. At the time I had no idea how they were done. Maybe it was time to find out.

I called the Biloxi City Planning Department. “It was a major undertaking,” the man who’d organized the carvings admitted. “There’s the cost for renting equipment, like cherry pickers and such, and that’s before you even hire an artist.”

I told him about all the damaged trees in Galveston. “Nearly 40,000 in all,” I said.

“Way too many to carve,” he said.

My heart sank. “I just hate for them to go to waste,” I said. “They must be good for something.”

The man thought a moment. “I know a shipyard that might be able to help,” he said. “The seaport in Mystic, Connecticut, is restoring the last wooden whaling ship in the world. They must need wood.” I called right away.

“You don’t know what this means to us,” the shipbuilder said. “We didn’t know where we were going to find a hundred tons of old wood!”

Filled with enthusiasm I called and made an appointment with the Galveston city manager. I couldn’t wait to tell him the trees didn’t have to go to waste. He unfortunately did not share my enthusiasm. “I’m happy to donate wood to the seaport,” he said when I went to his office. “But carving two trees at city hall and at two of the city parks? We don’t have the money for a project like that.”

“I’ll raise it,” I said, having no idea how. All I knew was, the trees needed me.

I talked up my idea everywhere. But people were rebuilding their homes and businesses; no one I talked to had extra cash to give. It seemed like this was an obstacle I couldn’t overcome. One more dream to throw on the scrap heap, I thought one night as I tried to generate interest at a neighborhood block party. Then a man I’d never met before approached me. “I’d like to give you $5,000,” he said, “but I need to remain anonymous.” I stared at him in amazement. I didn’t see any wings, but there was no doubt that I was looking at an angel. Just when I was ready to give up he saved my dream!

Now, with the city’s blessing, I searched on the internet for wood carvers. A man named Jim Phillips was interested. “I’ve never carved anything that large before,” he wrote, “but would love the opportunity.”

I took him to the trees outside of city hall, near the fire station. He’d carve a Dalmatian and a hydrant!

“I can see them in the wood already,” Jim said. “If you pay my expenses, I’ll do the carving for free.”

He started that weekend. A crowd gathered to watch the chain saw bite into the first branch, the sound echoing through downtown. Jim lopped off branches until just the trunk remained. He cut a gradual dip into the top, then a sharp curve into one side. It took a bit of imagination, but I could just make out a dog’s nose and head. With the tip of his saw Jim carefully cut a U into the wood and there was an ear! With each passing hour the dog slowly emerged, his chest, then front legs.

Jim finished the first tree in a week. The crowd applauded. One man came up to Jim. “Would you carve the tree in my yard?” he asked.

Jim was happy to oblige. Soon we were getting calls from homeowners all over Galveston. More carvers volunteered to help. Artist Earl Jones carved a hand holding a diploma from the tree outside the rec center. Dayle Lewis, from Richmond, Indiana, carved birds—herons, ibis and spoonbills—soaring from handcrafted branches.

All through the winter the whine of chain saws filled the air. The sound I’d once dreaded now filled me with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to see the latest creation: a heron, pelicans, a dolphin, mermaids and an angel cradling a bunny.

Between my neighbors’ enthusiasm and the Mystic Seaport we’d saved thousands of trees. But I couldn’t help thinking of the ones we hadn’t. God, help me be satisfied with saving what we could, I thought one night as I fell asleep. The next day the city got a call from Spain. A group there was building a full-scale replica of the Galveztown, the ship Bernardo de Galvez, the Spanish Governor of Louisiana, had used to fire on the British during the Revolutionary War. Did Galveston still have wood available? We sure did! The builders took all that was left, more than 200 tons. Not one twig went to the landfill.

Over 30 homeowners paid for their trees to be carved. Mine was last.

On a beautiful spring morning, Dayle Lewis joined me on my porch ready to go to work. Nine months had passed since I first saw the angels in my tree. Now it seemed like there were angels everywhere, in the wooden dolphins and pelicans, even the mermaids. They were messengers of hope. I’d thought a hurricane had destroyed my new life. Instead it showed me how beautiful that life really was.

See a slide show of the Galveston carvings!

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