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stationed?”
His tired eyes sharpened in a way that made him look twenty years younger and a hundred years sadder.
“Vietnam,” he said.
My throat tightened. “What year?”
“Sixty-nine to seventy-one.”
“Hamburger Hill?”
The old man went rigid. “Yes.”
“My father was there,” I said. “Specialist David Johnson.”
He stared at me so hard I thought he might stop breathing.continue reading …
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