The crowing cock, the most ancient reveille, broke the silence at Ole Buck Farm beginning Bradley’s last day as a civilian. It was a cold time, January of 1950. The vice of January squeezed the green and the warmth from the hills. The politically cold world dreaded war between the two great allies, the USSR and the USA. The partnership that defeated the Nazis dissipated with hate. As the sting of winter hit the hills of Ole Buck, the chilly winter of mistrust threatened life on the planet. In the modern, postwar world sprang radios, fine automobiles, air travel, ocean liners, electricity, and televisions, but with these new toys came jet bombers, intercontinental missiles, and the nuclear bomb.

      Innovation and turmoil failed to penetrate the Appalachians. In the Atomic Age, Ole Buck was a relic of the Feudal Age. The family farm, wrestled from the wilderness, hadn’t changed that much since the revolution. Hill people lived like pioneers. Children were born in the farmhouse. Baptisms occurred in the river. The mountain people grew their own food and tobacco. What they didn’t cultivate grew wild. Abundant berries, nuts, roots, and honey flourished in the green hills. Water bubbled from a spring only a short walk away. Coal cut from the mountainside and wood heated homes in the winter. Lanterns and fire lit the home. The school, church and store operated in the hills. Downhill stood an outhouse. Few radios broke the peace of Ole Buck. The banjo, fiddle, mandolin, and guitar strings vibrated mountain music. People sang. Mountain people distilled their own inexpensive liquor, moonshine cost only two dollars for a gallon. The standing stones of the graveyard stood at the top of the mountain.

      The cock’s crow always preceded daylight. The daylight softened the Appalachian Mountains of eastern Kentucky. Somewhere in the mountains stood a large farmhouse. In a quiet room of the farmhouse stood an iron bed, the only piece of store bought furniture there. A mattress of feathers covered the bed. Upon the featherbed lay five slumbering brothers underneath five patchwork quilts. The abundance of bedding provided the only barrier to the cold because the room lacked a fireplace or stove. The boys’ breath escaped in vapor soon vanquished by the icy air.

      Bradley woke, but failed to immediately coax himself from the warmth of the bed. The dim light crept through the window revealing dark clouds and a fog hanging in the mountains. The mountains appeared black, the sky only marginally lighter. Bradley yawned. He smiled realizing that his future absence meant more room for his brothers.

      Quietly, Bradley slipped from the warm bed. If his brothers woke, they gave no indication of it. Bradley stood in his undershirt, long johns, and socks. He slipped on his overalls and boots. Pulling his heavy plaid outer shirt, Bradley examined his face in the mirror. He grabbed the community comb from the top of the dresser and dragged it through his hair, slicking his hair down with spit from his hand. Passing from the unadorned room, he looked over his shoulder at his sleeping brothers. No one moved.

      Ma stirred quietly in the kitchen, floating like a ghost in the dim light. Her hair was pulled back, and her glasses protruded in front of her face. She wore an apron over a simple cotton dress. She draped a red sweater over her shoulders. Having suffered a stroke years before hindered Ma’s movement. In addition, Ma’s stroke caused her to lose some control of one of her hands. This malady gave Ma trouble washing dishes because she couldn’t grip a wet plate. When at home, Bradley washed dishes for the family at Ole Buck. He did it for Ma. Who would do it when he left? It was a concern for Bradley, but a man can’t stay at home his whole life to do dishes.

      In the kitchen, Ma tended a coal fire in the iron stove. Steam rose from the spout of the metal coffeepot. Bradley stared through the kitchen window. The puny light from the iron gray sky decorated the tree-covered hills as in a morbid, awesome ghost painting. Though the early morning world of the mountains seemed etched in charcoal with black, white, and the infinite shades of gray, the young man’s heart burned with the bright colors of excitement and gaiety.

      Across the road stood the Combs house, the home of a boy his age. Void of any human activity, no lights burned from the structure. The oldest son, Anderson Combs, may have begun his journey. Anderson’s decision did not please his family. This eighteen-year-old ridge runner convinced Bradley that, together, they should join the Army. The two risky schemers craved adventure. The ornerier the adventure, the better. Anderson thought joining the Army ornery enough, so he was plainly eager to enlist.

      Bradley agreed, anticipating the adventure. His time to leave Ole Buck arrived. Ole Buck reclined in a pre-electric era. No fine automobiles, airlines, or ocean liners carried Bradley; his means of locomotion was the two feet given to him at birth. Other means required