My homecoming was understandably sad.  All the real friends I had ever had were the Jokers; all dead now at Anzio and dozens of other bloody battlefields.

My first night in the states I was in Washington DC, it was a rainy night. The rain was a thick mist really, with just enough breeze to give it life and the myriad of lights did many beautiful things to the mist. If Washington had ever looked prettier it must have been very long ago. The unaccustomed lights dazzled me with an awesome foreboding; I was sure the bombers would come. I thought peace was all a gigantic hoax! And that war like some evil spirit was lurking in the shadows waiting for the right moment to pounce on me again. I walked the streets with a sad loneliness that was as absolute as creation's first dawn. Loneliness and peace was breaking my heart into little pieces. I had not the capability to cope with my loneliness; nor the ability to cope with or comprehend peace - an incredible, awesome thing to me.

As I walked I instinctively surveyed my surroundings with the practical curiosity of the combat infantryman. Manholes became foxholes, unobstructed streets would afford good fields of fire, car parks became tank parks, etc., etc.

As I walked, lonely and broken hearted for my comrades forever lost to me, every awesome noise of war just echoed, reechoed in my mind and heart. I cried, wept. Every once in a while I would lift my head and catch a face full of rain to hide the fact that I was crying.

I stopped to talk with an old cabbie, vintage about WWI.  We talked leaning against his ancient hack at the curb. That very discerning cab driver quickly saw it was tears on my face; perhaps there were tears in my voice, too.

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