About the Book

Book: Beneath a Peaceful Moon

Author: Debby Lee

Genre: Christian Historical Fiction

Release date: June, 2023

Mary’s Language Skills Could Help End the War in the Pacific

Full of intrigue, adventure, and romance, this series celebrates the unsung heroes—the heroines of WWII.

Mary Wishram is desperate to hang on to her few loved ones, a brother fighting in the South Pacific and Japanese friends in a relocation camp. Determined to end the war by any means necessary, she is willing to use her language skills as Yakama tribe member to become a spy and face any danger to bring them all home safe.

John Painted Horse struggles with the loss of his father who died in WWI for a country that didn’t consider him a United States citizen, much less give him the right to vote. He is desperate to bring long overdue recognition and honor to his people, no matter the cost.

Can they heal from their past traumas and find a peace, love, and a deeper relationship with God, before it’s too late?

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My Thoughts:

This was an interesting story of a couple characters I have not normally read about in World War 2 novels. Mary Wishram and John Painted Horse are two Native Americans, from different tribes, whose loyalty shines through as they offer their talents and lives to the United States.

This story follows them as they both struggle with prejudices, from the past and the present, from a country who tried to change them so much, to now needing their special skills especially in their language. This story also highlights their struggles as they are still not considered equals and their worries over the rest of their family.

As they meet and fall in love, both Mary and John are picked for dangerous missions. Will they survive for one another and for their families? Only time will tell as they both forge through their adventures.

I was provided a copy of this novel from the publisher. I was not required to post a positive review and all views and opinions are my own.

About the Author

Debby Lee was raised in the cozy little town of Toledo, Washington. She has been writing since she was a small child, and has written several novels, but never forgets home. The Northwest Christian Writers Association and Romance Writers of America are two organizations that Debby enjoys being a part of. As a self professed nature lover, and an avid listener of 1960’s folk music, Debby can’t help but feel like a hippie child who wasn’t born soon enough to attend Woodstock. She wishes she could run barefoot all year long, but often does anyway in the grass and on the beaches in her hamlet that is the cold and rainy southwest Washington. During football season, Debby cheers on the Seattle Seahawks along with legions of other devoted fans. She’s also filled with wanderlust and dreams of visiting Denmark, Italy, and Morocco someday. Debby loves connecting with her readers through her website at www.booksbydebbylee.com

More from Debby

MY ATTEMPT AT MEATHOD WRITING

It was a warm, sunny September morning on my uncle’s farm, where I used an entrenching tool to dig my foxhole. A gentle breeze blew as I dug, and cooled my sweat-streaked forehead. The little shovel, with a handle roughly three feet long, did a fair job of breaking the dirt beneath my feet. Scoopful by scoopful, I managed to dig a hole about two feet deep, six feet long, and three feet wide.

I stood over this gaping pit that looked more like a grave. This was where I intended to sleep when darkness fell. I wondered, asked myself, “Will I make it through the night?”

My husband and I walked the perimeter of my uncle’s property. We noticed evidence of coyotes not more than one-hundred yards from my foxhole. Though my husband agreed to sleep in his truck not far from me, with a loaded pistol at the ready, we were still nervous about my sleeping arrangements. A few relatives laughed at my idea. I’m sure they thought I wouldn’t last more than a few hours out there that night.

I found a bucket old tin cans and a roll of string. I used my entrenching tool as a hammer and pounded holes in the cans and then strung a trip wire. Surely this would scare away any curious predators. I hoped.

My husband did tell me, “If you hear wolves or coyotes howling, get in the truck!”

By this time it was late in the evening and I was starving. In an attempt to stay in character, I reached for an MRE. That’s Meals Ready to Eat, today’s equivalent to K rations and C rations. I never thought I’d be hungry enough to suck cold mashed potatoes from a plastic pouch.

I went to bed that night clutching my entrenching tool, ready to fight off any critters who ventured too close. Sleep didn’t come easy that night. The ground was hard, uneven, and cold, bone-chilling cold. I shivered and shivered in a futile effort to keep warm.

The things that ran through my mind. I gazed at the inky, black sky and located the North Star. I thought of runaway slaves. How cold and terribly frightened they had to have been. And how brave and courageous, too.

Later, I realized my trip wire was enough to alert me to coyotes, but not snakes or rats. Was I strong enough, mentally, physically, to beat off a hoard of rats? A pack of hungry coyotes, if they broke through my tripwire?

Honestly, I was terrified. Not necessarily of falling to sleep, but falling to sleep and being jolted awake having to fight for my safety. I meditated on scriptures and continuously whispered, “If I can just make it until daylight.”

I don’t think I slept more than three hours that night, an hour here, another there. The sun lightened the gray sky. I climbed from my foxhole, my back and muscles were stiff and sore, but I was thankful to see the sun.

I was thankful for so much more. My night in a foxhole was ludicrously luxurious compared to those brave soldiers who fought during WWII and the wars since then. At least I didn’t have to contend with bombs or grenades raining down on me.

I can’t imagine going to bed night after night, wondering if bombs, grenades, or gunfire would pierce the air, wondering if my buddies and I would be shot or blown to bits, wondering if I’d live to see sunrise. My respect for soldiers grew a thousand-fold that night.

I’ve visited my uncle’s farm several times since then. I always gaze across the partially wooded forty acres and I remember that night. And remember the sacrifices our soldiers made for me, for democracy, and for freedom.