Daddy'd wake me early. it'd be dark, quiet, cold and rainy outside. I'd carry my rifle and hurry to keep up. We'd share cold biscuits. 'bout the time we got to his meadow spot the sun would be showing it's morning face, helping warm me up. We'd hide, silent, waiting. My shooting was more likely to scare things off than kill them. But, Momma was so proud days we'd bring home something I'd shot.
Now, damp and cold, I hold my rifle and wait for a stray Yank. If I get one my Momma and Captain will be so proud.