My father was a trucker in a veteran of the Vietnam War.

He wasn't a weak person, and he wasn't one to tell crazy stories.

Once back in the 1970s, he had to drop off an empty trailer to a private home in northern

Minnesota.

He decided after he dropped it off to stop in and visit with a former service buddy.

Logan, dad's friend, got a little messed up by his time in Vietnam, and it turned him

into a hermit who never left his property.

He owned a good-sized piece of land with a home on it that had inner walls made of ammo

boxes filled with sand.

Well, they spent a happy afternoon drinking beer and reminiscing about their time in Vietnam,

and catching up on all that they had done since coming back to the States.

At the end of the day, my father decided to sleep in the cab of his truck so that he could

leave early without waking Logan.

It was 11 p.m. when he walked out to the tractor, crawled inside and fell asleep.

At 1 a.m., he was rocked out of his bed by something hitting the side of the cab really

hard.

He was stunned and unsure of what was happening, and so he looked around him and he tried

to get his bearings.

Before he had time to fully register what had happened, the truck was hit again by another

loud slam that had him thinking Logan was having flashbacks to the war.

Rather than confront his troubled friend, he jumped into the driver's seat and drove

to the nearest truck stop, and there he went incised to use the facilities and get a grip

...