The stories of Bryan Young

I wrote this in pen in my journal while I was in D.C. 5/7/47 Dear Mrs. Dearborn, My name is Sam Michaels and I served with your son during his time in the army. Before he was killed, we had become good friends and he made me promise, in the event of his death, that I write to you, to explain why he died and what he died for. I cannot imagine the grief a mother must endure following the loss of her only son, only that as great as my grief for the loss of your son is, yours must be far greater and deeper. It is a deep hurt and you have my most respectful condolences. Mitch was a good friend, a loud mouth that always managed to say exactly the right thing to soften the tension in any situation. For example, one tense evening in a fox hole, a German barrage began to shell our camp. Myself and the other two in the hole (PFC’s Hunter and Barry) were tensing, beginning to lose our nerve. Your son told us, “Hey guys, they’re playin’ our tune.” He meant the steady drum

Hemingway once wrote a story in six words. Neal from Leftwich pointed me to it. Here's mine: He had it coming. Didn't he?