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The attacks usually wouldn’t start until late, after midnight. There would be gunshots, the rhythmic thumping of mortar fire, and the whistling of heavy artillery. Either our base was under attack, or the air strip or some groups of men were getting fired upon. The sounds went on and on. Sometimes we saw red flares shoot up—a red alert—meaning the enemy had infiltrated our perimeter. Somewhere, close by, enemy soldiers were coming. The shelling . . . Continue Reading

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In: Nonfiction, Way Back When
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  My father passed away from cancer July 19, 2014. When he was almost completely bedridden, he and I listened to an audio interview of an old family friend. My father broke down and said, “Just think of all the stories I could tell but never will.” I vowed rightContinue Reading