He stopped halfway through a swig from his stubby of Dixie. “You knew my brother? You knew Henry? How? When?”
“In the army, Sal. I was a sergeant in the 110th. I was there when your brother died.”
“You saw it happen?”
“In a way, I was responsible.”
He stiffened up. His eyes narrowed. I noticed his free hand clenched into a fist. “How so, Ben? How were you responsible for Henry dying? I heard it was a German sniper.”
“It was, but Henry died saving my life in Belgium during the Battle of the Bulge. A German mortar round wounded me, and your brother carried me back to our lines. A sniper shot him while carrying me. He could have dropped me to save himself, but he didn’t. He just swore and kept on going. He bled out in the effort by carrying my sorry ass back to the medic station.”
Sal's demeanor changed. Tears welled in the big man’s eyes.
“Yup, that sounds pretty much like Henry. You can’t blame yourself, Ben. That was his choice, not yours.”
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