Hashtown

By Terry Connon

Returning to his home town newly appointed Chief of Police, Philly Gordon has experienced a country dividing war, a battle injury induced drug addiction, marriage, a divorce followed by the death of his ex-wife which tasks him with reacquainting with and raising a daughter he hasn't seen for years. Racketeering and murder are corroding the fibers of the community and reach all the way to the civic and industrial leaders who hired him. The added mystery and intrigue surrounding a decades old murder surfaces and Philly must face the shock that hidden evidence points toward a member of his family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Connon
• Release date: Aug 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463840528

Book preview

CHAPTER 1.

In May as in December and in June as in July, the sky above Rome had a yellow, hazy hue and the air was permeated with the hot, fleshy, smell of the deep-fry grease and various animal parts used in the preparation of the main businesses’ product… Hash.

It was a humid June day in 1975 as I coaxed my 1971 Oldsmobile Cutlass off I-94 onto the exit for Rome, Michigan. I was relieved that it had made the trip from Lowry outside of Boston with only minor mechanical problems.

My name is Phillip Gordon, although I had been called Philly by most people since I was very young. My daughter, Kerry was asleep in the backseat with Fred and Ethel, our twin Main Coon cats, who were curled together on a section of the seat next to her.

As I drove into Rome and stopped at the light at Main and Oak, the memories flooded back through my mind as if dancing magically to musical notes that swayed across the scale of the wafting odor that was synonymous with Hash Town assaulted my nostrils.

I passed through the center of town under a tunnel of elm trees that were as old as the town. The trees bordered Main Street and inner twined their branches high above the street allowing the sun to project spotted and streaky patterns on the pavement that moved with the wind.

Two small boys crossed in front of us taking turns kicking an empty Coca Cola can down the street. A small black and white dog kept pace darting about the grassy areas and amongst the trees ever on the lookout for a squirrel or other animal to pursue.

Since I was last in Rome, I had experienced a country dividing war, a drug addiction, a marriage, the birth of a daughter and the end of a marriage. I had completed a 7-year career in law enforcement that had exposed me to the worst of society and marked me with the cynicism and scars that can develop after that many years on the job.

I had accepted the position of Chief of Police at my old home town. The decision was based as much on the need to recharge my interest and dedication to law enforcement as to bring my daughter back to the town and remaining family that I hoped would bring some stabilization to our relationship.

Kerry was 8 years old and had been unceremoniously dropped off at my doorstep by her mother as she was on her way out of town. I had not seen Kerry since she had waved good-bye to me from her mother’s arms as a three-year old. Now, I was tasked with getting re-acquainted with as well as raising a little girl all at the same time.

As we headed towards the farm land area of Rome, I knew that I would encounter new challenges and revisit old relationships… but, I had no idea of the depth of mystery and intrigue that was about to occupy my time and would have such a profound effect on so many lives. The catalyst would be an event that occurred over twenty-one years ago, in 1954

CHAPTER 2.

THE DIVERSION

On April 5, 1954 at 10:00 AM, the telephone rang at the Police Station in Rome, Michigan. It was answered on the third ring by Chief Howard Davidson. The Chief answering the telephone was not unusual as the Rome Police force, at the time, consisted of only the Chief and his deputy, Miller Fenwick.

A muffled voice on the calling end cried, there’s a rabid dog running around out at the Ridgeway place. You better come right away before someone is bit.

Then the line went dead.

The Chief immediately sprang into action, doffing his western style Stetson and grabbing his fleece lined jacket as he yelled at his deputy.

Miller, rabid dog at the Ridgeway house. Grab a shotgun and meet me out front. I’ll go get the cruiser.

Miller lunged to his feet and nearly knocked his coffee cup onto the floor. He was fat, with a tremendous gut that hung over his belt, as if he were an eight-month pregnant woman. His face presented a high blood pressure florid picture and he displayed the over-sized, misshapen drinker’s nose. He opened the middle drawer of the desk and fumbled for the keys to the gun case.

He unlocked the case and pulled out a Winchester Model 12 20-gauge shotgun. It had a 28-inch solid rib barrel with a mirror bright bore. The wood on the stock and barrel were well worn and scuffed from use.

He scooped up a half a dozen 20-gauge buckshot shells and dumped them into his vest pocket. On strict orders from his ex-wife, Miller always wore a vest so that he did not have pin holes in his shirts. It had been years since his wife left him and the small town of Rome, but he still dutifully wore the vest. He had been unable to button the vest for years due to his increased girth.

He swiped his left hand at the door to the gun case in a failed attempt to close it and hurried to the front door. After exiting, he turned and locked the front door with the well-worn brass key from the large key ring and attached the key ring to a pant loop on his uniform.

He hurried down the four steps as fast as his over-burdened legs would allow where he saw the familiar center bullet of the Rome 1954 Ford Mainline Police Cruiser approaching with Howard Davidson behind the wheel. The Chief expertly slid the Mainline to a halt at the curb and he impatiently motioned for Fenwick to hurry.

Miller tucked the shotgun through the open backdoor window and squeezed his portly body into the passenger seat. Before he had closed the door, the Chief kicked the 256 V-8 engine into gear and roared away.

Chief Davidson made a screeching right off Main Street and raced up Chestnut Street and out towards the exclusive Harbor Side section of town. Miller held his breath and hung onto to the window post as if he were on the tilt-a-whirl ride that was featured at the Jaycee’s annual 4th of July carnival. He sighed a silent prayer that he would not have the same embarrassing results that he experienced on the tilt-a-whirl ride.

As soon as they rounded the corner of Main and Chestnut Street, a shadowy figure slipped through the unlocked side door of the station and went up the steps to the main floor.

The figure moved quickly to the open gun case and removed a 12-gauge M1912 shotgun. No attempt to take any shells was made or needed.

As swiftly as the figure had entered, the exit was completed at an even quicker stride. An even paced walk down Main Street and around the corner at Elm placed the figure at a tired non-descript sedan with dust covered windows that was rapidly gaining on 100,000 miles that was parked in the empty library lot.

In less than a minute, the figure was seated in the vehicle with the shotgun safely tucked under some newspapers spread across the back seat.

A quick adjustment of a frayed and tattered cushion elevated the driver to the correct height behind the worn, beige steering wheel. The brass spare key was inserted and twisted to the right while two of the instrument panel lights flashed red objections, protesting the driver’s attempt to awaken the sleeping motor.

The engine sputtered and stalled on the first attempt. On the second try, the engine produced a screaming wail of surrender from the fan belt and exploded to life. Too much pressure on the accelerator had flooded the engine. The driver made a mental note regarding the engine flooding to be more careful the next time when starting the vehicle.

A grinding shift of the gear lever down to first gear and a nervous uneven easing off the clutch, slowly jerked the vehicle to action and it sputtered from its resting place and like an old person rising stiffly from a comfortable lounge chair bounced out onto Main Street and towards the driver’s destination.

The old vehicle lumbered past the Chamber of Commerce offices, past the enormous red and yellow sign of the Hashtown Restaurant, past the Rome Theatre with its sleeping marquee and turned right onto Hickory Street.

It moved past the Hardware Store and Joe’s Five & Dime and when it passed Angel’s Gas Station the heater had finally produced warmth and it was on its way to the outskirts of town where the high school was located.

CHAPTER 3.

THE ARRIVAL

The vehicle slowly cruised past the high school field. The dirt and dusty filmed windows of the sedan were up and the deep-fry smell was not as strong. Patti Page was asking, How Much is That Doggy in the Window, on the radio. It had been on the Hit Parade charts for almost twenty weeks. The driver wiped a misty eye and reached over and turned the radio off. It was time for more serious matters that required the utmost concentration. The field was located on the south side of the school building. The field was currently dotted with the members of the 10th grade girl’s physical education class. All dressed in white t-shirts with Rome Physical Education printed in maroon across the front. All were wearing the required maroon shorts with white athletic socks and white sneakers.

The class members consisted of all shapes and sizes. Some were tall and thin with supple athletic bodies. Some were pudgy with stocky legs propelling them unevenly around the field. They were a melting pot of blondes, red heads, and brunettes. A few were dark skinned with black hair.

Most of the girls were running around the field haphazardly chasing a tattered soccer ball. The more ardent participants where sweating and attempting to block each other from access to the elusive object in hopes of sending the ball towards the opposing goal. The less enthusiastic members were gathered in small groups shivering against the chill and pointing at the active players while pretending to care about the outcome. Some girls were blatantly not watching the action and were engrossed in discussing things of greater importance like clothes and boys.

The driver smiled. That should take care of Joe Hayden, the school custodian. The driver remembered that Joe liked to spy on the girls during gym class. The driver eased the vehicle into a visitor parking spot just to the right of the section reserved for the administrators and teachers and set the parking brake. A flock of Black Birds took flight from the rumbling vehicle, abandoning a discarded half eaten sandwich. One of the birds retained a small portion of the treat in its beak and flapped its wings furiously as it attempted to escape the assaults of the others as they tried to steal the morsel.

The driver removed one of the thin leather gloves and swept a hand back through tousled hair and slid on a dark blue baseball cap. Next, a pair of Italian made Ray Ban 2132 Outsiders Wayfarer Unisex Sunglasses were fit snuggly across the face and tight under the bill of the cap. The gloveless hand was returned to the anonymity inside the leather glove. Then the driver removed a raincoat from a paper bag on the floor of the passenger side of the vehicle.

The driver swung both legs out of the vehicle and placed small heavy paper grocery bags over each shoe, taking great care to securely fasten them with strong, thick rubber bands. The driver slipped into the slightly wrinkled, dark blue raincoat which blended harmoniously with the baseball cap. The driver checked the leather gloves for proper fit and re-checked the surrounding area for any pedestrians.

The engine had been idling softly and continued to whirr quietly with the parking brake set as the driver closed the door. It would continue to idle in neutral for the short time the driver would be gone. No need to chance a failure with engine turn over or choking. Or worse, engine flooding during an attempted quick restart.

The driver removed the shotgun with the 20" barrel from under the random spread of newspapers in the back seat. The driver proceeded to expertly insert two 12-gauge brass shells through the loading/ejection port in the bottom of the receiver and pushed them forward into the magazine until retained by the shell stop. A quick press of the slide release until the slide retracted and then a slight push forward. The shotgun was loaded and ready for firing.

The driver then tucked the loaded shotgun under the rumpled blue raincoat with the left hand. Then slipped the right hand through a previously cut hole in the coat pocket and grasped the shotgun by the walnut fore-stock.

CHAPTER 4.

Then the driver became the stalker. The stalker casually walked to the east side of the building where the large dumpsters were located. The stalker could see Joe Hayden wedged uncomfortably between the south-east side of the building and the double fence posts that helped support the fencing around the field. Joe had an unobstructed, but private, view of the football field and the girls at play. The stalker smiled.

Up three steps to the custodial entrance, announced by the crudely painted letters on one of the double doors. The double door entrance had one of the doors wedged ajar by a small piece of wood.

The stalker allowed for another smile. The one door conveniently wedged against locking was obviously Joe’s effort, as if he were a partner to the plan. The stalker pushed against the open door. One hinge squealed in objection to the movement as the door was opened. At the unexpected sound, the stalker nervously checked to the right and to the left in case someone heard the noise.

Then a quick, unobserved entrance through the opening and a turn back and a one knee bend to replace the wedge. The stalker took four quick steps up to the freight landing. All clear in the basement area below. The stalker took the slight turn to the right and went down another section of six steps and was in the school basement.

The basement design was basic and utilitarian. In the center of the space was the large furnace that provided the building heat. There were two old, caged bulbs spaced diagonally across the ceiling. They provided a harsh, illumination for the room. Light also flickered across the low concrete ceiling and bare concrete walls through the glass in the furnace door. The large ductwork that dispersed the heat cast ominous shadows onto the dusty floor.

The air in the basement was dry and stagnant. A wood work bench sagged against a corner wall. A large vise centered on the workbench seemed to accentuate the sag like a fat kid sitting on a chain-link fence.

Brooms, rakes, mops, buckets and various cleaning solutions were stacked against the wall to one side of the bench. A variety of hand tools were hung randomly on a large section of pegboard attached to the other section of the wall. Among the cleaning solutions next to the work bench were two cases of industrial size bleach.

On the floor at each end of, and tucked half under, the bench were a battered red gas-powered lawn mower and a rusted, green gas-powered snow blower. Two dented gasoline containers rested next to the units waiting patiently to disperse their contents into the combustible engines.

The lawn mower was for the small grass area at the front of the school. A large riding mower to handle the football field and larger grassy areas was stored in an auxiliary garage nearer the field. The snow blower was for the walkways and Administrator and Visitor parking places in the front. Rank had its privileges. Teachers and students had to deal with the daily elements to the best of their abilities.

The doors were lit by the exit signs. The red tinted glass was missing from the exit sign into the school lobby. The light was brighter in that area. The door to the lobby was steel with a glass and wire mesh window.

Methodically the stalker removed and opened four bottles of bleach from the top box. The stalker then placed them strategically along the floor from the rear entrance to the door that accessed the school lobby. A couple of saw horses and some safety cones had to be moved to provide a clear exit pathway. The stalker then opened the furnace door. It provided additional light to the exit path.

Everything was set. All that was left were the twelve steps up the stairs to the high school lobby.

CHAPTER 5.

THE MURDER

He was tall, wide shouldered and two inches over six feet tall. His once lanky frame which had carried a lean one hundred and seventy-five pounds now was soft and displayed the addition of 40 pounds. He was 24 years old, but years of drinking and late-night carousing added the appearance of another 10 years.

His clothes were well tailored and of the latest style. They provided an aristocratic look to his bearing and presented an air of authority. As wartime restrictions on cloth had long ago eased, his khaki colored chinos were full and styled with cuffs. They were neatly pressed. He wore a white shirt with small, blue checks neatly tucked in his trousers. A subdued patterned blue tie hung loose around his neck. A thin black belt held everything together.

The only piece of clothing that did not match the outfit was the maroon, boiled wool, Varsity Jacket. It was emblazoned with the school colors of maroon and white. The large, white Varsity R stood out proudly for all to recognize his former prowess on the football field. The leather sleeves with banded wrists were cracked from age and much past wear. They now were an off white almost yellow color instead of the original bright white.

He was a man who rarely smiled unless with the satisfaction of overcoming a presumed challenge to his status. He was quick to smile when he triumphed over an adversary. When he did smile, it seemed to the casual observer that his whole face seemed to light up.

However, if one carefully examined his features they would detect an uneasy glint to his eyes and a tightness of his jaw line. The hazel eyes were dull and expressionless. He had dark brown hair, showing a few specks of gray worn at medium length and parted on the right. His fair complexion was accentuated by the paleness of his skin due to drinking and to lack of exposure to the sun.

He had always used his size and strength to impress the girls and to intimidate the boys. His general appearance fit perfectly the successful young business man. He was currently pacing restlessly before the Rome High School trophy case.

He had always enjoyed standing in front of the trophy case. He would look at his reflection, slightly distorted by the well-polished silver and gold trophy cups. It was fitting that he met the others here to discuss the preparation for tonight’s award ceremony. This evening he would be honored with induction into the Knights Round Table. The Rome Knights annually selected an eligible athlete to be awarded this honor. This was his first year of eligibility for the honor.

He had not enjoyed school. He had resented the confinement of the structure and the rules that had to be adhered to. He casually studied the pictures of previous graduating classes hanging on each side of the trophy case. He waited impatiently for the others to arrive.

Brian Ridgeway seemed to have everything that a young man could want. He was second in command at the Ridgeway Processing Plant which grew to prominence by supplying K-Rations to the troops during the WWII and the Korean War.

His family employed many of the community and many others relied on the business products and services the workers consumed for their livelihood. Unmarried, he drove a new, Lincoln convertible and had enough money to enjoy the nightlife of near-by Detroit.

The Korean War was over, and a general feeling of prosperity permeated through the community and the future looked bright. Dwight D. Eisenhower, the 34th President of the United States was embarking on his second year in office and there was a feeling of comfort throughout the country. Everyone liked Ike.

A back log of orders for K-Rations and C-Rations was still to be filled and the process of converting to other lines of product for the post war consumer was in place.

Brian lived in one of the largest, most expensive houses located in the exclusive Harbor Valley area of town. Although he was 24 years old, he still lived with his father, Nolan and his Aunt Agatha and occupied the same bedroom he had as a teenager. It was understood that Brian would eventually assume control of the company as his father had from his father.

He was startled from his thoughts by a figure that seemed to effortlessly glide toward him.

What the hell are you doing here? mocked Brian.

He never received an answer as the dark hole of a M1912 shotgun suddenly appeared. Known as The Trench Gun the M1912 was first supplied to the US Troops during WWI.

However, it was during WWII that more of these shotguns were ordered than any other combat shotgun in history. Over 80,000 of them had been purchased by the military and most commonly used in the Pacific theatres.

The M1912 was chambered most commonly as a 12-gauge and could hold 6 rounds of hardened, double ought buckshot. There was also a bayonet lug for the attachment of a bayonet if desired. It was a short-barreled pump action weapon that could be slam-fired.

This weapon had no bayonet. It had only a huge gaping eye that seemed to bore right through him. The weapon had no trigger disconnect which allowed shells to be fired one after the other simply by working the slide as the trigger was held down. This feature resulted in the introduction to military slang of the terminology slam-fired. When fighting in a trench or the jungle, the shorter shotgun could be fired rapidly in numerous directions.

The repeating, pump action shotguns were first used by the Marines in the Philippines. Later, General Black Jack Pershing employed the weapon in the pursuit of Pancho Villa. Eventually, these riot guns quickly gained favor with civilian police forces.

The emotionless eye of the gun stared blankly at him and seemed to sharpen its focus as it continued to point in his direction.

The stalker had transformed into the shooter. Slowly, the shooter removed the sunglasses and tipped the cap back revealing a face to Brian Ridgeway.

Oh, my God, it’s you… please, wait I can make things right, were the last words a terrified Brian Ridgeway spoke.

The first blast from the barrel tore into his body near the groin area. The shock spun his body to the right and into a half turn. Hot, excruciating pain enveloped him, and his shocked eyes widened in fear as he tried to focus on the assailant. A question passed through his mind; was he was going to die?

As if to answer his question, a quick, second blast hit him directly in the face. One of the hazel eyes and a section of the Saturn jaw disintegrated and were splattered against the trophy case glass as it shattered behind him. The force of the blast hurled his body backward through the remaining glass shards of the trophy case. His soon to be lifeless form turned slightly and settled into its final resting place sprawled amongst the overturn trophies.

Ridgeway’s blood gleamed wet in the reflections of the broken glass and quickly began forming into a pool beneath him. His breathing exhaled hoarsely. It was ugly to hear, but no one that cared was listening. A few, last gurgles and he was dead.

The shooter stooped down and picked up one of the ejected empty shells that had clanged and bounced across the marble floor. The first shell had become wedged under the falling body and was left lying in the quickly forming pool of blood. Unable to find the second shell, the shooter casually tossed the shotgun toward the victim. It bounced off the case and then slid down to rest against the lifeless body.

Cries of astonishment could be heard from the classrooms down the hallway. The shadow outline of a figure appeared at the glass portion of the administrative office and peered out frantically from side to side.

CHAPTER 6.

Then the shooter became the escapee and hurried to the custodial door to achieve a quick exit from the lobby. A removal of the sunglasses which were safely tucked into a shirt pocket and a twist of the door handle and the escapee would soon only be remembered by a cloud of gun smoke and a slowly closing door.

The escapee’s disappearance was facilitated as quickly as the stalkers appearance. The shadowy figure had vanished by stepping through the recently oiled basement door.

The basement hand rails were used by the escapee to gracefully travois the stairs three steps at a time. The stairs consisted of 12 steps down to a bare concrete floor. In four, expert lunges the floor was reached. Everything in the basement was the same.

The escapee quickly removed the blood-spattered rain coat and tossed it into the furnace. The gloves and the paper bags from the feet were removed and added to the flames. The baseball cap was next. A quick nudge with a long sleeve shirt protected arm and the furnace door was slammed shut. Soon the flames in the furnace were eagerly dining on the recent deposits.

Then the escapee glided backwards out of the basement, calmly tipping over the previously opened bottles of bleach that had been placed along the exit route and walked out the rear door of the building to the parking area. The bleach slowly gurgled out of the bottles and spread aimlessly across the floor.

The escapee calmly walked to the lot containing the idling vehicle, opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel. A casual replacement of the sunglasses, then a careful survey of the surrounding area for any potential witnesses.

Now as the driver again, a quick release of the parking brake, a shift into gear and then a slow exit out of the parking lot. The driver completed a slow maneuver past the football field, followed by a left turn onto Hickory Street and away into obscurity.

CHAPTER 7.

THE AFTERMATH

Office and Class Room doors burst open and students and adults scrambled into the hallway. They stared in horror as all eyes were magically drawn to the Trophy Case area. The Trophy Case area was drained and empty of any life form.

All that remained was a mass of destroyed tissue and clothing splattered half in and half out of the shattered trophy case. Shrieks and cries abounded.

Two girls fainted. One boy ran gagging towards the boy’s bathroom. Mass confusion and panic ruled the moment.

Rushing from the door to the Administrative Office, Mr. Walter Pointer, the School Principal, attempted to take charge. He was a frail, slender man partial to muted nondescript clothing. Today he was wearing a brown, tweed jacket, light-beige shirt, brown bow-tie with yellow dots and dark brown slacks. He had a penchant for wearing bow ties.

At first, the words formed in his brain but did not translate to his vocal chords. All that he was able to utter were a few squeaks and the sounds associated with the clearing of his throat.

Finally, he gained some composure and shakily requested the students and teachers to immediately return to their classrooms.

It was common knowledge that his bow ties bobbed up and down when he cleared his throat between each sentence. The students and some of the teachers found amusement in this small quirk. No one saw any humor in it today. At first, no one moved.

Finally, the teachers began robotically herding a few stunned students back into the classrooms. Pointer instructed Mrs. Malone, the school secretary, to return to the main office and call the police.

She hurried towards the office as fast as her short legs that supported her 154 pounds would permit. Her hands were grasping frantically at her face and hair. A yellow, number two pencil and a cluster of bobby pins fell from her hair and danced across the floor.

A few came to a halt in the widening pool of blood.

Mr. Pointer then proceeded to the trophy case. He reluctantly bent down to examine the lifeless form. A wave of nausea enveloped him as his knee involuntarily dipped onto the edge of the bloody pool. He was sure it was the Ridgeway boy.

Why, now?

He was completing his twenty-fifth and final year at the school. In just a couple of months he would have completed his final paperwork, signed off on inventory and be free from Rome. Pointer worried how this tragedy would influence the board’s position on his proposed European Sabbatical.

Worst of all, Nathan Ridgeway was Chairman of the School Board.

More adventurous bodies gathered behind him jostling for a better view.

One girl dressed in a cheerleader outfit vomited. This set off a chain reaction of gagging and retching amongst the others. Their dispersal was quick and random as they sought sources for the deposit of their lunches. Trash receptacles, a water fountain and the hallway floor were the ungrateful recipients. The smell slowly permeated the air merging with the overpowering odor of gun powder and added to the unpleasant environment.

Pointer turned and for the first time in his twenty-five-year career as an educator issued a profanity towards a student, God damn it. I said return to your classrooms, now.

CHAPTER 8.

The lobby area and hallway quickly emptied. There was silent calmness except for the methodical ticking of the hallway clock. It was a General Electric Model 2012 encompassing a full two feet in diameter and protruding almost 2 ½" from the wall. It looked down in disapproval of the recent event that had occurred in its domain, its ticking scolding the people in the lobby.

Every minute that dragged by seemed like an hour. The bell announcing the class period change rang loudly. Doors opened, and heads sheepishly peered out. A few students and teachers emerged from the classrooms.

All students are to return to their previous class and remain in the rooms until further notification. Now, move it people, exclaimed Pointer, his voice rising an octave.

He forced himself to return his attention to the lifeless form at his feet. There was no instruction guide in any teacher’s manuals that he had read to handle a situation such as this.

Upon determining that the body was dead and there was nothing that he could do; Mr. Pointer stiffly rose and turned to the few adults remaining in the lobby. He summoned the janitor, Joe Hayden, forward and instructed him to cordon off the area until the police arrived.

Joe was quickly brought back to the issue at hand. He had momentarily escaped into a private, joy-filled world at the spreading gossip that the body lying half in the trophy case may be that of Brian Ridgeway. Brian Ridgeway had bullied and tormented Joe during his years at Rome High School. Joe Hayden had seen mutilated bodies and death before.

He responded with a curt nod of understanding to Principal Pointer and turned to follow his instructions. Joe limped to the door labeled Custodian, opened it and dragged his damaged leg down the stairs. Joe had received his disability and a purple heart in late December of 1944. Not the best return for service to his country.

The smell of gun smoke that still masked the lobby and the sight of all the blood sent his mind dizzyingly back to the fog and snow of Bastogne.

His infantry squad, part of the 4th Armored Division, had been patrolling a frozen area of rock and gravel out of Neufchateau. They were slogging along, smoking cigarettes and lost in their thoughts. The snow was swirling all around them. It was in his face, in his eyes, in his ears, on his neck, wet and cold.

Pfc. Ernie Watson was yakking away as he always did when he was nervous. He was listing all the places he would rather be and all the things he would rather be doing than wandering the woods of France. He and Ernie had a similar interest and taste in