Alamosa, Colorado, 1932
It was the third year of what became known as the great depression. Small businesses and large struggled to stay afloat, not all successfully. In the small town of Alamosa, a dusty Ford pickup truck came to a stop in front of the general store. Alvin Branson let his wife out to go into the store to meet with her friends for coffee while he picked up some things at the hardware store. Once out of the truck, she turned back to him and spoke through the open window.
"I'll be a while, why don't you go over and have a beer and I'll catch up with you there, yes?" she said in a strong French accent.
"Okay, I'll meet you at the Water hole." Alvin replied.
They went their separate ways, and Alvin picked up some fence wire and some odds and ends which he dropped in the back of his pickup. Then driving over to the saloon, that the owner had whimsically named "The Water Hole," he parked his truck and pushed through the bat wing doors. Sitting down at the bar next to a weathered cowboy he'd known since childhood, he ordered a beer. A cool brew was placed in front of him, and the two cowboys toasted one another and drank. Alvin pushed his battered Stetson back on his head.
"Hey Joe, let me have one of those hard boiled eggs."
The bartender placed a hard boiled egg on a paper napkin in front of Alvin, and his friend watched his ritual. Alvin always sliced the egg in half length ways, and salted and peppered each half with care before eating. His friend smiled at this familiar behavior.
"Ya know Alvin, most folks just bite into the danged thing. But you're the only one I know that field dresses it every time."
"Well," Alvin replied, "I like to get the salt and pepper even on it. If I'm gonna eat, I want to do it with a little finesse."
But as much as his friend found it amusing how Alvin ate his hard boiled egg, he was always more interested in the knife that Alvin used. It was unlike any he had ever seen in Colorado. The wood handle was round, and at the end of it was fish tail shaped. It didn't appear to have a back spring, and had a blade that swept up at the tip, not unlike a skinning knife. When Alvin had come back from the war in France, he had been carrying it, and Alvin was reluctant to speak of his experience in the trenches. But his friend's curiosity was getting the better of him.
"Alvin, how long have we known each other?"
"Oh, ever since Miss Cruther's one room school house on the edge of town when we were kids." Alvin said.
"Well, having known you that long, I'd kind of admire to know how you came by that strange Frenchy knife, and then come home with the prettiest girl ever seen in these parts. I know you don't like to talk about the war, and I know ya got powerful hurt over there, but I gotta know."
Alvin smiled, took a long drink of his beer, and turned to his old friend.
"I tell ya what, partner. Story tellin' is dry work, so you fill my mug, and I'll tell you all about it."
The bartender scooped up Alvin's empty mug.
'Heck, if Alvin is gonna tell us a war story, I'll buy the beer!"
Alvin took a sip of the fresh brew, as the saloon loafers gathered around.
"Well, we were in the trenches...
France, the trenches, 1918.
The four men were sitting around an upended crate playing cards by the light of a candle stuck in the neck of an empty wine bottle. Two American and two British officers were enjoying a moment of quiet in the night. One young American lieutenant smiled and laid his hand down on the crate.
"Read 'em and weep gentlemen." he said as he spread his hand out on the crate. He found his glass empty, and a massive sergeant that was acting as his batman filled his glass with wine. The sergeant was a huge ex-lumberjack from Minnesota named Larson, but called Moose by the men in his company. At six foot five he had to duck his head in the dugout room in the trench. As they drank and one of the English officers shuffled the cards, a shot sounded outside. Then another, then a burst of heavy small arms sounded.
"Christ, it's a raid!" someone shouted. The all bolted for the curtain that was the doorway to the trench, and Alvin grabbed his Colt 1911 from his holster and racked the slide. Outside someone had fired a flare up over the trench, so everything was bathed in a garish yellow light. Swirling figures fought in the close combat of the raid. A German unit had crawled close enough to attack under cover of darkness. For the next few moments it was fast and close, and the slide of Alvin's .45 locked back. Franticly he clawed for a fresh magazine, and while he was changing it, a German soldier with a fixed bayonet on his rifle lunged out of the swirling action and stabbed Alvin in the chest before he could react. Sudden white hot pain lanced through him, and he collapsed in the mud of the trench. The German soldier put his boot on Alvin's chest trying to pull his bayonet out of Alvin's chest where it was stuck between the ribs, and Alvin screamed in pain, and knew then he was going to die.
Suddenly Moose Larson came running out of the chaos, screaming like a Viking berserker, wielding his sharpened entrenching tool like a battle axe. The German tried to raise an arm to defend himself, but it was like a twig. Moose swung his entrenching tool with all his strength and caught the German soldiers neck, his head lolled sideways almost severed, the blood looking like a black pulsating fountain in the yellow light of the flare.
Moose knelt and cradled Alvin's head in one hand, his entrenching tool in the other, protecting the young officer he'd become fond of.
"Lieutenant? Lieutenant, do you hear me? Don't you go, you hear?" he implored the critically injured young officer.
"Where's the Doc?" Moose yelled, "Somebody get the Doc!"
Alvin felt a creeping darkness coming over him, and it was easy to give in to the dark. All the noise and pain of the fight was too much, and Alvin Branson surrendered to the darkness.
It was the third year of what became known as the great depression. Small businesses and large struggled to stay afloat, not all successfully. In the small town of Alamosa, a dusty Ford pickup truck came to a stop in front of the general store. Alvin Branson let his wife out to go into the store to meet with her friends for coffee while he picked up some things at the hardware store. Once out of the truck, she turned back to him and spoke through the open window.
"I'll be a while, why don't you go over and have a beer and I'll catch up with you there, yes?" she said in a strong French accent.
"Okay, I'll meet you at the Water hole." Alvin replied.
They went their separate ways, and Alvin picked up some fence wire and some odds and ends which he dropped in the back of his pickup. Then driving over to the saloon, that the owner had whimsically named "The Water Hole," he parked his truck and pushed through the bat wing doors. Sitting down at the bar next to a weathered cowboy he'd known since childhood, he ordered a beer. A cool brew was placed in front of him, and the two cowboys toasted one another and drank. Alvin pushed his battered Stetson back on his head.
"Hey Joe, let me have one of those hard boiled eggs."
The bartender placed a hard boiled egg on a paper napkin in front of Alvin, and his friend watched his ritual. Alvin always sliced the egg in half length ways, and salted and peppered each half with care before eating. His friend smiled at this familiar behavior.
"Ya know Alvin, most folks just bite into the danged thing. But you're the only one I know that field dresses it every time."
"Well," Alvin replied, "I like to get the salt and pepper even on it. If I'm gonna eat, I want to do it with a little finesse."
But as much as his friend found it amusing how Alvin ate his hard boiled egg, he was always more interested in the knife that Alvin used. It was unlike any he had ever seen in Colorado. The wood handle was round, and at the end of it was fish tail shaped. It didn't appear to have a back spring, and had a blade that swept up at the tip, not unlike a skinning knife. When Alvin had come back from the war in France, he had been carrying it, and Alvin was reluctant to speak of his experience in the trenches. But his friend's curiosity was getting the better of him.
"Alvin, how long have we known each other?"
"Oh, ever since Miss Cruther's one room school house on the edge of town when we were kids." Alvin said.
"Well, having known you that long, I'd kind of admire to know how you came by that strange Frenchy knife, and then come home with the prettiest girl ever seen in these parts. I know you don't like to talk about the war, and I know ya got powerful hurt over there, but I gotta know."
Alvin smiled, took a long drink of his beer, and turned to his old friend.
"I tell ya what, partner. Story tellin' is dry work, so you fill my mug, and I'll tell you all about it."
The bartender scooped up Alvin's empty mug.
'Heck, if Alvin is gonna tell us a war story, I'll buy the beer!"
Alvin took a sip of the fresh brew, as the saloon loafers gathered around.
"Well, we were in the trenches...
France, the trenches, 1918.
The four men were sitting around an upended crate playing cards by the light of a candle stuck in the neck of an empty wine bottle. Two American and two British officers were enjoying a moment of quiet in the night. One young American lieutenant smiled and laid his hand down on the crate.
"Read 'em and weep gentlemen." he said as he spread his hand out on the crate. He found his glass empty, and a massive sergeant that was acting as his batman filled his glass with wine. The sergeant was a huge ex-lumberjack from Minnesota named Larson, but called Moose by the men in his company. At six foot five he had to duck his head in the dugout room in the trench. As they drank and one of the English officers shuffled the cards, a shot sounded outside. Then another, then a burst of heavy small arms sounded.
"Christ, it's a raid!" someone shouted. The all bolted for the curtain that was the doorway to the trench, and Alvin grabbed his Colt 1911 from his holster and racked the slide. Outside someone had fired a flare up over the trench, so everything was bathed in a garish yellow light. Swirling figures fought in the close combat of the raid. A German unit had crawled close enough to attack under cover of darkness. For the next few moments it was fast and close, and the slide of Alvin's .45 locked back. Franticly he clawed for a fresh magazine, and while he was changing it, a German soldier with a fixed bayonet on his rifle lunged out of the swirling action and stabbed Alvin in the chest before he could react. Sudden white hot pain lanced through him, and he collapsed in the mud of the trench. The German soldier put his boot on Alvin's chest trying to pull his bayonet out of Alvin's chest where it was stuck between the ribs, and Alvin screamed in pain, and knew then he was going to die.
Suddenly Moose Larson came running out of the chaos, screaming like a Viking berserker, wielding his sharpened entrenching tool like a battle axe. The German tried to raise an arm to defend himself, but it was like a twig. Moose swung his entrenching tool with all his strength and caught the German soldiers neck, his head lolled sideways almost severed, the blood looking like a black pulsating fountain in the yellow light of the flare.
Moose knelt and cradled Alvin's head in one hand, his entrenching tool in the other, protecting the young officer he'd become fond of.
"Lieutenant? Lieutenant, do you hear me? Don't you go, you hear?" he implored the critically injured young officer.
"Where's the Doc?" Moose yelled, "Somebody get the Doc!"
Alvin felt a creeping darkness coming over him, and it was easy to give in to the dark. All the noise and pain of the fight was too much, and Alvin Branson surrendered to the darkness.
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