How an honorable discharge led to a life of pain for a WWII vet

The familiar car sat in an unusual spot – amid the growing line of vehicles parked along a busy street in the early morning hours by employees of the Fitzsimons Army Hospital. It was my father’s car. But he didn’t work at the suburban Denver hospital. Puzzled, I pulled over and crossed the street. No one was behind the wheel. As I got closer, though, I saw someone in the back seat. The deeply rippled, bruised face stunned me, but I recognized the bloody polo shirt and khaki pants. A handgun lay on the seat.