(Note: The author writes works of fiction)

The Evans family is from Renfro, Miss., which is as backwoods as possible. We skinny-dipped in the Little Low Butcher River, a slow-moving creek through the red clay of middle Mississippi.

My father drove a 1922 school bus, which held 20 kids for all grades. At the time, there were no sports. It was school and back home to work on the chores. I was a slow learner by the age of 17, and still in the 8th grade after many setbacks.

Two months before my 18th birthday in 1944, I was invited to Europe. I, like everyone else, was scared and afraid, for I had not been more than 10 miles from home. Now I was headed to war in another world.

We arrived by train and were welcomed to Camp Shelby, Hattiesburg, Miss. The drill sergeant, after relieving us of our hair, gave us everything in standard army green and assigned us to squads and sleeping quarters. For the next eight weeks, we were taught how to stay alive and all the ways to kill people. Drilling and running every day, we learned how to fight as a team. We endured the rain, heat and army cooking.

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