I was about to cut Hopkins down when a captain from the 82nd stuck a .45 in my ear and said “leave him.” So I left him up there to turn in the breeze. By daybreak I’d see a dozen more dead boys in trees that never reached French soil.
His lungs filled and he sank like a stone in that cold dark eddy. He still comes around, though, on the darkest nights. The children feel his presence.
He brined in pickle juice beef ribs the size of tennis rackets and cooked them low and slow over mesquite smoke. We knew our fate was deserved (we’ve done this a long time) but it was a helluva last meal.
