One of our neighbors when I was a kid ran the meat department for the local Albertson's. He had plenty of cautionary tales when he came over and got drunk with my dad on the gallons of wine my dad made. Mostly the stories concerned fooling customers that old meat was actually fresh.

Frank liked to talk about his service as a butcher at an army base during Korea. He liked to brag how he had cheated the army and sold the choicest cuts to civilians. My dad came home from Korea with a deep trench of a scar just above his knee you could see when he wore shorts and a constellation of puckered scars around his calves.

My father laughed about the scars when people asked, "I zigged when I should have zagged," he'd say and everyone would laugh. Some times after a few too many drinks my father would tell my sisters and I how much he had enjoyed his military service - he told a lot of funny stories about guys who fucked up during his commando training.

That all ended when my oldest brother was killed during the last weeks of fighting in Vietnam. My dad quit shooting varmints on our property and forbade my sisters and I from taking out the .22 rifles and pistols to plink at cans. My father looked at me differently from that time on.

So I was very surprised when my dad agreed for us to go hunting with Frank. My dad came home one evening and summoned me to the open trunk of his Oldsmobile. He produced two Husqvarna .30-06 rifles adorned with scopes and brusquely informed me we needed to sight in the scopes. He pointed to a .50 caliber ammo box as an instruction to pick it up and carry it along. It was full of ammo and we shot some of it off in the back yard.

We went out to hunt with Frank. He picked us up in the wee hours of what turned out to be another muddy-sky day typical of fall days in the PNW. We drove out the forever long boring miles to the Simpson timber down by Roy Washington, then wound forever again down a gravel logging road.

Finally we parked next to a gravel pit where other men were firing off their guns and got out of Frank's crappy old station wagon and went into the trees with our guns.

Most of the day was more boring-ass trooping around through the trees Simpson had planted to harvest later with Frank cursing and assuring my dad and me he'd get doe.

Frank halted to unzip and piss. My dad tapped me lightly on my shoulder then pointed toward a nice four-point buck that had halted between the trees less than a hundred yards away. I sighted him, fired and hit him right below his eye. I hadn't aimed that way. He went right down. Frank was cursing - we started toward the buck and there were three more shots.

Four guys came out of the trees and insisted my buck was their kill.

Frank surprised the shit out of me. He stepped forward and said, "No sir, this young man shot him, it's his." The biggest guy of the four stepped forward and asked Frank, "Is this worth your live? It's ours"

My father without a word hit the big guy in the face with the butt of his rifle. Then he was on top of the guy, smacking the guy's head against the dirt shouting, "You fuckers need to pay, pay, pay.."

Frank and two of the other guys got my father of of the tall man. By that time I had put another round in the chamber and pointed my rifle at the fourth guy, who was a kid my age. He whispered at me, "No, don't do that, no." I lowered my rifle and said, "Hey fuckface.' He dropped his gun and repeated, "Dad, let's go, let's go..."

They all went away. Frank, my father, the other guys had hurt each other. The big guy had his face smashed open, my father had aimed to kill him. The kid my age started crying and I did too. It was all just too much for us. They all cleared out.

Frank went back to the place where he'd left his rope and deer bag.

When he'd hung the deer he opened up its guts. They poured out, stinking. We lugged the carcass back, minus the guts and head, etc back to Frank's old wagon and drove back home. None of us said anything. Frank took the deer to his shop and cut it up. All I saw was brown paper. Frank made some sausage and we ate some of it one Saturday night with sauerkraut.

I wish my father would have said something, but he never did.

Frank took me aside one afternoon when it was spring again and I was mowing the lawn. He said, "I'm glad you didn't shoot that kid. He wasn't really part of any of it." Then he paused and told me, "that would have ended your life." Frank turned to walk off then he turned back and said, "Your father was wounded in combat." He turned and walked toward his house. "I didn't do shit in the war. I just made money"

Then he finally turned again and said, "Don't ever fuck with a wounded combat veteran."

Years later, after I was wounded in combat, I understood.