War Comes Home
In a few days it would be winter, and it was growing cold even here in the south, near the coast below Savannah, where a tired man in a tattered gray coat limped to the top of a rise and looked down on a big, gracious house a few hundred yards ahead. It was his home and it looked good to him. In the dusk he couldn't see that here and there a fence was sagging, that the paint on some of the outbuildings was peeling. It's doubtful he would have cared. He was tired, his feet hurt, he hadn't...