BETWEEN THE STONES LIE THE STORIES
The mood on our “short bus” hauling a mixed bag of veterans around a military hospital was light with laughter and the inevitable silly stories of how we’d been whacked, dropped or crunched. The topic turned to places and times we’d served. The eldest of us was a gentleman with a shock of thin white hair over a lean, lined face lit with eyes the hue of well-washed denim. He had been smiling silently, occasionally clicking his prosthetic left “hand” on a metal rail. Both of his exposed ankles were plastic and steel. Someone asked gently where and when he had served.
Only as he leaned forward into the sunlight could we see the slashing scar almost hidden in the topography of his face, running from his hairline to his jaw.
“Just one day, boys,” he said. “Normandy. June 6, 1944.” His eyes glistened; perhaps a bit more moist than age had graced him with. Memories, I thought; the memories of one very long day.
-Heathen
