Beneath Red Tail Wings

The dangers of war are behind him, but not the memories, the guilt-driven never ending memories. The fiery liquor offers brief respite, then . . . the real nightmare begins.

September 1873

The festering strips burned, the fever sucked him dry. The voice of his father harangued his ears, accusing. "Traitorous, wretched boy! No son of mine would do such a thing!" "How could you do this? Did you think of us, you bastard? Do you know what this means?" The echo of the door slamming against his bat...