He said that the blood was not his own, but that of a comrade a few feet away who had been blown apart by an enemy grenade. And after having left the rice paddies of Vietnam, he eventually took up residence in the pew of a small mid-western church. For he said that he had been covered by the blood of one friend in combat and by blood of another on a cross in another sort of combat. And such was his love for both that he committed to forget neither.
-Craig D. Lounsbrough
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