It was the summer of nineteen-sixty-eight. The duty Sergeant at the gate of Camp Raffaeli said that a kid was looking for me.
“He speaks poor French. I think he"s English. I"ll send him on his way if you like, Sir.”
I was curious. “I"ll speak to him, Sergeant.”
A stocky young man, fair complexion, and a head of red hair, a pack at his feet, looked around. I came forward, dressed in working uniform, apple green beret tilted towards the left brow. I looked him over, and his smile faded.
“I"m Ronsard. Who are you?”
“I"m Steve O"Hara, your cousin from Westburn.”
Apart from a visit from my father, I"d had nothing to do with anyone from Westburn for many years. “We don"t enlist here. Go to the recruiting offices on the mainland.”
Steve O"Hara flushed, face a medley of embarrassment and an
