It seemed that Brian always had the meanest appetite on Saturday mornings, that was probably because the smells coming from the kitchen on Saturdays included the aroma of fresh backed bread, and that also included large round cinnamon rolls with thick sweet glazing and a sprinkling of black walnuts that had been sealed away in fruit jars from the winters cracking. The large pot on the stove for dad's coffee had a mate on the week-ends that contained a whole milk hot chocolate that truly can't be described with just words.

Brian seeing his father leave the barn and head for the house ran to join him. To Brian this large barrel chested lover of the land carried a power within him that was both unstoppable and gentle all at the same time. His russet hair seemed pale next to Brian's carrot top, and if he had started life with a multitude of freckles as his second son, they had long since been buried deeply under the year round tan which outdoor life inspired.

This breakfast would be especially merry, besides the usual fun times and talk, this morning they would discuss the carnival. Father and the farmer for whom he worked took their turns on weekends. One week father would stay and work straight through, the next he was off Saturday afternoon and Sunday. A tradition had started where on working week ends only the adults would go to town on Saturday night. On weeks when the weekends were free made Saturday night a whole family affair. When James returned, hopefully around two, they all would be off to town where main street had been closed and turned into a wild affair of carnie rides and games of chance to draw business for the locals and to celebrate the coming summer

The little mouse, and inspiration

It was actually almost three before James made it home and cleaned up enough for the adventure to begin. The family all piled into the old Hudson and motored the seven miles to the small agriculture community of around five thousand people, which to Brian and his siblings this vast metropolis was the end all in itself, but add a carnival or the county fair, then it was heaven incarnated on earth. Their usual parking spot just off main had long ago been filled by other excited farm folk come to see the sights. They were forced to park the comfortable old Hudson in aunt norma's drive and walk the two blocks to main. Fathers one pride was that old car, and he would not stand for anyone to even lean against it, so it's protection was the first thought of the day.

Brian received a quater of a dollar every other Saturday night. This was usually quite sufficient, for it was enough to take him to the movies, and still buy him a burger and Coca-Cola at Wimpy's afterwards. On these special days though a quarter seemed highly inadequate. The sights and smells made his spirit boil with joy. He traversed the entire main street several times before really looking closely at things, just soaking up the excitement that permeated the air. And then he saw it, the magic mouse. To an adult it would have been a cheap toy that tended to amuse. It was made of rubber and had a wire so small and light that it could not be seen without a very close inspection. The hawker was very good at making this seemingly alive mouse run around on his hand and arm. Brian had to have this magic mouse, he just had to. The price however was a deterring fifty cents. The hawker seeing that Brian would not be able to add cash to his coffers, offered to pay him fifty cents to blow up balloons for a couple of hours. The first ten minutes were not so bad, then the ears began to hurt from the exertion of blowing so hard. Then the eyes began to ache, then the headache began. Finally the man smiled and said he had enough balloons. Brian head hurt badly, he had sold a good portion of his precious afternoon, but he had his little mouse. The mouse of course was cheap the wire broke shortly and the sweat from a grasping hand of young ownership made it lose its shape not long after. But Brian loved that mouse, and it became a symbol far more important than the mouse itself. A short time later the family loaded up once again the old Hudson and was off for home. It was a very strange feeling, to feel the quarter of a dollar still in his pocket, a feeling of power, a feeling he did not understand, but one that he liked.

PRIDE , AND THE RAFFLE

During the next week of school Mrs. Fisher announced that they were going to be a raffle to raise money for badly needed equipment that was beyond the yearly budget of the school. The prize to the youngster who sold the most tickets would be a copy of the Jack London book "Call of the wild". To Brian the thought of owning that particular book made him giddy with excitement. That very evening Brian pulled the excessively heavy all chrome plated Schween witch he and his brother shared a common ownership in from the shed and began to scour the countryside for sales of these magic tickets. Brian soon realized that the need of the school, and his own need for the coveted book, brought more sympathetic sales than any need for these honest farm folks to win the prize these tickets gave a small chance of gaining. Dark found Brian many miles from home and brought him the realization that in his excitement he had neither ask permission for this absence from home, nor had he made any arrangements for someone else to do his chores. Driving down hard on the pedals of that old bike with his already tired legs, he pushed that old Schween to speeds he had never been before, the adrenaline poured into his body as he thought of the anger he had surely provoked from his father, and shame as he thought of the worry he was most certainly causing his mother. Barely stopping at the stop sign He crossed the last hard surfaced road before home. He pushed himself even harder. Overly tired Brian's foot slipped from the pedal, the momentum of his stroke driving his leg forward and his foot into the spokes. That wheel which only a spite second before had been a blur of speed, became a very effective braking device. The large heavy bike followed Brian over as he flew over the handlebars and rode him for the next few feet. The rough gravel road scraped away not only his school clothes but a goodly portion of skin from hands, forearms, and face. Trying to rise Brian found he could not stand on the foot that had caused the catastrophe. Using the bike as a crutch he slowly limped the last half mile home. Well before he reached the lane the shock was wearing off and the true pain of his injuries was starting there nagging assault.

Brian opened his eyes and looked around, the foxhole looked and smelled of death. Cassedy lay face down in a pool of water and his own blood. Jay was in the corner, he was still breathing, but you could see no life in his still open eyes. Brian looked down at his left shoulder, it was shattered with numerous bullet wounds, and still leaked away his lives blood. He would die in this hell. This hot terrible country of only death, hate and destruction. This Veit Nam. Brian closed his eyes to rest.

He awoke in his bed, and he was drenched in sweat from the pain in his foot and his many scrapes and contusions. He had made it to the lane but had passed out, and was found by his father returning from being out hunting for him. The doctor had been summoned, and Brian had been only partly conscious for the next two days. The anger he had expected from his mother and father over his transgressions never came, their joy over the fact that their son would survive his injuries buried all thoughts of retributions for his sins. Brian closed his eyes to sleep and mercifully escape the pain

.

Opening his eyes only slightly, he held very still as he could hear the trudging of booted feet as the regular Veit Cong marched by the hole in which he lay with his dead comrades. He mulled over in his mind whether to continue to play dead, or to try to surrender with the hope of staying alive. He was spared the decision however as his mind faded once again into blackness.

Brian stood tall both proud and embarrassed, but he clutched the book with a feeling akin to what he imagined true love to be like. He was expected to say something , he knew , but the words seemed to stick in his throat. Why it was so easy to let those wonderful words roll out across paper, and so utterly impossible to say them out loud to this group who only contained friends he did not know. He looked up and saw his mom's smiling face in the audience and gained courage. "I don't believe that I deserve this prize" he sputtered, "but it would be wrong to say that I do not want it in the worst way." " I can only say thank you."

A haze of pain in his shoulder jerked him back to consciousness, it was quiet, the Viet Cong had all passed by. He struggled to a sitting position, making his head spin. They were all dead. The whole platoon lay scattered about, now just fodder to help the jungle vegetation thrive. All those people, those ended stories, ended before the plots could even be grasp. Some had been his friend, others just a backdrop to his life, which might also be going to end before he mapped out a scenario for it's own plot. He crawled from the hole. More dragged himself than crawled. The pain didn't seem to matter anymore, it was a comfort in a way. It meant he was still alive. Using an M-14 he pushed himself erect, stopped and let the perpetual rain clouds stop spinning, and stumbled through the rubble that had once been the camp of the proud 85th. In the next four hours he managed to travel about a mile towards what he hoped was friendly lines. He stopped then, pulled some vegetation over himself and passed out again.

Brian stood at the edge of the grave a long time after the others had gone back to the church. If he left his mom here alone would he be abandoning her. Was her soul still there, watching? How could they live without her love, her kindness, her presence. At fourteen he should be old enough to handle this. Especially when they all had known it was coming. But he was having a hard time that an end had come where no end seemed possible. The door of the church banged closed and he saw it was his father. He walked up close, dropped to his knees and hugged Brian, never said a word, got up and headed back toward the church. Half way he stopped, turned and said to Brian "she will always be with us boy, She will watch over us all." He turned again and entered the church.

The twenty five foot to the top of the hill was hell for Brian, he thought about tossing the m-14 away to make the going easier. No he would need it for a crutch, if he ever made level ground again. Finally he crawled over the crest, and froze. Below him an entire Viet Cong company was setting up a ambush along the main road. In the distance he heard the rumbling of large diesel engines. Coming down the pass was a battery of eight inch howitzers. They would walk into a death trap if they got onto the flats, where the main ambush was set. Hardly thinking Brian dragged the M-14 up beside him, cradled it in the crouch of his bad arm and took aim at those hidden below. He had to time this just right. If he fired to soon those in the convoy might not hear, and if he waited to long, they would not have adequate warning. Judging he had waited as long as he dared, he started firing into the heart of the ambushing Viet Cong. They had no way to know that Brian lay at the top of the hill, nearly dead, and totally alone. So they not only answered his fire, but started to fire on the approaching artillery battery. The four self propelled eight inch howitzers, were backing and dropping their hydraulic spades immediately. Direct fire from a single eight inch is total hell. Do four at once and the concussion alone will kill most anything close. A few of the Cong may have got away, but they were surely damaged.

The Men of the 81st Artillery Battery found Brian's body on top of that hill. They carried it away like an honor guard would have done. Only with much more feeling. Brian watched as they hauled his body away. He heard a small laugh, he turned, it was his mom come to collect him. And do you know she was carrying an old porcelain mug of hot chocolate ,you know the kind that can't be described with just words.