I often wonder what he was thinking that morning as he crossed that swollen river into Germany. Perched up on the half track, I’m sure the vast majority of his concerns that morning were for the young kids at his feet, buck privates piled into the back of the clattering machine that was half tank and half truck. But I’ll bet one corner of his mind that November morning in 1944 was thinking about going home. Home was Lewiston, Maine. A small town in Maine dominated by old brick textile mills and a smelly river flowing by it. His father...