RESCUE

By Greg

Barrett's "killer" truck

The following appeared as an article in the Ensign in January of 2012 and described an experience that I had in October of 1962with my brother Kenny (they edited it slightly). 

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            I was in trouble, but I did not know it. 



Kenny and Greg on Diamond and Pint



Snuggled in our sleeping bags and lying on a mattress, my brother and I were in the back of our pick-up truck prepared for an exciting outing with our father.  He was driving the truck with his two friends, Norman and Fred.  The aluminum camper shell did not provide any heat, but it was a covering over us. We were young, ages 10 and 12, and our bodies were strong.  We talked excitedly about our upcoming adventure.

The enemy was the truck. A flaw in design terminated the exhaust pipe at the back of the cab instead of taking it all the way to the end of the bed.  As we drove in the darkness of the early morning, the toxic carbon-monoxide filtered up through the bed into our space and engulfed us, eventually filling our young lungs.  Dad drove the truck higher and higher into the mountains while we became lethargic, then asleep, then unconscious, and finally breathless.

For some unknown reason, our father pulled over and decided to check on his boys.  When he opened the back of the truck, his worst fears were realized, we were unresponsive and not breathing. 

He pulled me out first and felt a faint heartbeat.  Immediately he gave me aid.  He pinched my nose and then did for me what I could not do for myself, his breath became mine.  The other men did the same for my brother.

I felt like I was in a deep dark pit, and I could not get out of it myself.  In fact, I did not want to climb out, it was easier to stay where I was, but my father would not allow it.  He revived me, and then shifted his attention to my brother.  Back and forth he went as we drifted in and out of consciousness.

Eventually we were breathing on our own, at least enough to be transported to a hospital where we received additional treatment.



Barrett, 48  Greg, 12



As I grew, many times my father was prompted to pull over and check on me.  I was never in as serious danger physically, but several times I was emotionally or spiritually in crisis.  He extended his hand to lift me out of those pits as well.  Again he breathed into me the breath of life.  A few times I did not want to climb out, it was easier to stay where I was, but my father would not allow it.

Many years later, I stood at his bedside, holding his hand as his grip relaxed and the breath of life left his body.  I stood in gratitude that he had been prompted, had heard those promptings and had acted upon them rescuing me and my brothers from enemies seen and unseen.