Soldier Hill

By Phil Rossi

In 1968, a local soldier was killed in the Vietnam War, and a memorial was created to honor his sacrifice. 15 years later, the memorial faces removal and demolition. A high school sophomore named Eddie must fake-out the town powers by devising a scheme to preserve the tribute. Will Eddie find the courage to break the law and go through on the plan? If not, a soldier's sacrifice will be forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Rossi
• Release date: Apr 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310119835

Phil Rossi

Phil Rossi—writer, a musician, and an embracer of new media—has a passion for story-telling matched only by the pleasure he derives from keeping his fans awake at night. Crescent, Rossi’s debut novel, was originally released as a podcast in 2007 and has since led listeners into dark, twisted nightmares under titles such as Eden, Harvey, and Notes from the Vault. When he’s not podcasting or writing, Phil is a professional singer-songwriter. His unique brand of Alternative Country and Rock and Roll is alive and well in the music stylings of Ditched by Kate, their debut album Stumble now available on iTunes.Phil lives outside of Washington, DC in Virginia with his wife, daughters, and menagerie of rescued animals. He believes the need for sleep is a myth.

Book preview

1.

The future splashed down in Maple Valley during the spring of 1983. More like it crash-landed for slackers like me. Computers was the big buzzword, and the high school was planning a new addition to brush up against our gym. The noise around campus was a computer lab with classes starting next fall.

Since I wasn't college material, this future would be off-limits to jaywalkers named Eddie. They could stick it for all I cared. Looney Steve Rooney, the school firebird, was all in for the new digs. The rumor waves beamed that he was fusing a device to blow it up sometime between the end of summer school and Labor Day.

I was in the home stretch of my sophomore year when one day I hit the high school and noticed the hubbub around the jock house. A construction crew had crept in over the weekend, already boosting a shrub line. With a few minutes before the janitors slipped the locks and first bell rang, I wandered over.

The first thing I met was a small maple tree, plunked at the edge of the site just inside the work zone. The juvenile maple resembled a big bush, with the dome of a beach umbrella and a stem no bigger than the metal bone of a small lamppost. It stood in a grove that looked in the way of the tear down.

The tree may have been here the whole ride, but it's the first time I noticed it. There was also a small tablet at the roots. As I reached it, I could see the slate had an inscription. I walked closer, right up to where the yellow keep out of the area tape hooked and dog-legged back to the gym. Not one to follow rules, I ventured deeper. My eyes dipped down, reading the letters: In Loving Memory, Billy.

I wobbled back with a heavy feeling, as if elbowed in the stomach. I didn't know this kid, Billy, had never heard of him, but I couldn't shake this emotion. It felt really strong, like someone close had died.

I decided to stem any more trouble and split the scene, just in time for first bell. Even as I made my way up the steps toward homeroom, the In Memory thing latched onto me.

I wanted to know more about this Billy guy. Was he a student like me? Had he once roamed these halls? Sat in the same classrooms and kept his books in one of our skinny lockers? If so, how had he died? Kids our age aren't supposed to pass away.

Forging my way back to classes, I stirred up the memory of that tree and tablet. When my afternoon history period finally rolled around, I hit my teacher, Mr. Ganza, up for the info. I figured he might know, since he's been here forever.

All I know is, he went to Vietnam, Mr. Ganza said.

What happened? I asked.

From what I understand, he was killed in combat.

I was blown way. Do you know what battle? I asked. Not that I knew any.

No. I wasn't here when it happened.

Do you know his last name?

I really don't.

All that was left of the guy (at least all that I knew of) was that lonely little maple tree. And I refused to let it go. My mind peeled a vigil for him. A real soldier and hero who hailed from our town.

Man, I never knew the guy, but needed to know more. Where did he grow up? What did he look like? What rock bands did he listen to? What street was his house on? Which house was it? I wanted to take a bike ride and see it, if I could only locate it. Short a last name, I couldn't look it up in the phone book.

This weird feeling washed over me. Being a soldier and dying in battle seemed so heroic--much more important than scoring touchdowns and banking jumpers in a crowded gym. Besides, the athletes had a big trophy case. What did Billy have? A tree, a life, and a sacrifice nobody knew anything about. Why didn't he have his picture up in one of the halls?

Not to mention, we never talked about Vietnam at the dinner table or in history class. The war remained docked in confusion and out of bounds. As a kid, I was protected from it, never even knowing the country was tangled up in conflict. That young guys were leaving places like Maple Valley to fight demons in dark jungles.

My mother's kid brother fought in Vietnam. I recall the letters Uncle Timmy sent home. Envelopes with red, white, and blue trim, and Air Mail smeared across.

What is he doing there? I would ask my mom.

Traveling, she'd say.

When is he coming back?

We hope soon.

When Uncle Tim came home, I remember my mother talking in the kitchen with Gam, my grandmother. While rinsing and wiping down dishes after dinner, I got up to use the bathroom. That's when I heard them talking.

Is he having any nightmares? my mother asked.

Not that we know of. But we have to be sure he's okay. It's a big adjustment. I can't tell you how happy and relieved I am that Tim's finally home, but we have no idea if he's psycho, Gam said.

When I heard psycho, my ears perked Uncle Tim? Nightmares? Psycho?

It's a good thing dad went through what he did. He can relate to Timmy, and help him adjust, my mom said.

I hope so, Gam tailed off.

They should have changed the name to Voodoonam. The war ended, spilling into the let it ride seventies. Vietnam faded further away, splashing and drowning in the wash. Uncle Tim never discussed the war, and seemed to turn out fine. He retooled and moved to the city.

Although I was too young in tenth grade to rent restricted movies, we often smuggled them from Charlie's video store. I was intrigued by the whole Vietnam thing, hocking the usual run of flicks. Dave and I would skip the Hollywood