text: For the first time in years, my leg didn’t hurt. You see, I have a slight kink in my lower spine that causes a constant low-level pain. I have mostly learned to live with the pain but on that day, I was especially grateful for a reprieve. It was on a Friday in September 1970 when I walked along a narrow, little-used trail that wound through a dense forest in northwest Pennsylvania. I was on a quest to find something, anything that would help me understand what happened to my father during the war. As a child, our relationship was wonderful. He called me Davey and taught me to throw, catch, and hit a baseball. ‘Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio was his favorite player and almost every day in the summer, we listened to Yankee games on WJZ radio out of New York City. Did you know that WJZ eventually came WABC radio which is still operating to this day? I was about seven years old when Dad was drafted into the Army and eventually deployed to Korea. He served on a mortar team in active combat. Mom and I initially received regular letters from him, but these tapered off to the occasional one-side-of-one-page note eventually to no communications at all. Since we had not received the visit that every military family dreads, we believed he was alive. Dad returned after two years a changed man. Our relationship was terrible after the war, and we often argued. He was angry and abused my mom; mostly with words, but he occasionally punctuated his words with his hands. He never touched me, but I hated him for what he did to mom. He would not talk about the war except for the occasional funny story involving his army buddies. Dad would sometimes show me photographs pulled from an old shoe box he kept on a closet shelf and belly laugh while talking about something crazy someone did in Korea. I loved hearing him and I laughed too until his smile receded into a distant stare. I figured he remembered something that wasn’t funny, so I would quickly leave the room whenever that happened, which was often. Dad’s anger subsided in late 1962 and things really started to get better. We didn’t know why, but we relished the change in him and didn’t ask any questions. Together we planned a family camping trip, a visit to Niagara Falls, and best of all, tickets to a Yankees game in New York City! A double-header! I couldn’t wait to see Mickey Mantle play! We were happy and our days were full and bright until one day in early spring 1963, he suddenly died of a heart attack. We were devastated. About a month after Dad’s funeral, I decided to look through his shoe box of keepsakes hoping to find some clues to his time in the war. The box held what you might expect: photographs, pins, receipts, patches, and various other things. There was nothing unusual except a cryptic letter to my dad from someone named John in D Company. It read: August 1962 Jacob, Enough time has passed that we should be safe. We have information that you need to hear. Meet us at Akko Bridge on September 24th, 4 PM. John, D Co After reading the letter, I really wanted to find Akko Bridge, but mom and I were mourning and, at the same time, busy trying to figure out our future. So, I kept the letter determined to one day find the place. But as they say, life goes on, which it did, and I totally forgot about Akko Bridge for about seven years. Then, one day in the fall of 1970, the old letter dropped from a stack of papers onto the floor, and I knew that it was time to start the quest. In an old book in our town’s library, I discovered that Akko Bridge crossed a river of the same name near the small town of Kaylor, Pennsylvania. I lived in near Pittsburgh at the time which is about an hour drive from Kaylor. I travelled to Kaylor one Friday determined to find the bridge. I stopped first at the town post office. The young clerk had not heard of Akko Bridge but directed me to the hotel suggesting I speak with a man named Judd Miller. More than 90 years old at the time, Miller was a life-long resident of Kaylor and the clerk thought that if anyone knew of such a place, he would. Everyday, Mr. Miller sat on the porch, reading a newspaper and greeting visitors to the aging hotel. As I approached the slightly sagging porch, I saw a man with a shiny head, that apparently hadn’t supported hair for quite some time, reading a newspaper. This must be old Judd, I thought. His crisp copy of the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review swayed in harmony with the movement of his rocking chair. “Mr. Miller?” I asked. He lowered his newspaper, looked at me and smiled. “Welcome to our hotel, young man. May I help you?” “I hope so, sir. My name is Dave and the lady at the Post Office suggested I talk to you. I am looking for a place called Akko Bridge. Do you know of it?” “Hello, Dave. Yes, I know Akko Bridge. I haven’t been there in, good Lord, must be twenty years now. Why do you ask?” he said. “I’m retracing steps of my father. He passed away earlier this year, and I believe he spent some time there with his army buddies. Probably camping.” “I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” said Miller. He reflected for a few seconds then said, “I wonder if that old bridge still crosses the river? It was in poor shape the last time I was there. Built in the early 1920s, I believe. Here, let me draw you a map. It’s deep in the woods.” Mr. Miller sketched a rough map on part of his Tribune-Review, carefully tore the map from newspaper, and handed it to me. “I believe the road leading to the bridge is no longer passable, so you will need to take an old trail that I knew like the back of my hand as a child,” he said. We talked a while longer, I thanked him, and resumed my journey. I drove to the trailhead, parked, and began the hike. About a mile in, the forest tightly hugged the trail and I suddenly heard voices carried on the wind. Rattled, I paused and listened for a few moments, but all I heard was the irregular crackling and rustling of a dense forest. If you have ever been alone in the woods, you know they are alive with the sounds and movements of branches, leaves, small animals, birds, and even the occasional deer. As the trail rose toward higher ground, I was even more grateful for a pain-free leg. Maybe it went on a permanent vacation? One could only hope! I eventually approached what appeared to be the top of the rise and heard a loud waterfall. Mr. Miller had told me that the bridge crossed a narrow gorge that the Akko River cut into the sandstone of western Pennsylvania over countless years. He also said that the sandstone beneath Pittsburgh is some three miles thick. I had no idea! When I finally reached the top of the rise, it was getting dark, but I could see a rusted steel truss bridge crossing the river gorge. It certainly had seen better days but didn’t appear in danger of collapse, and the roads leading to and from the bridge were not at all overgrown. I felt sure that I had found the Akko Bridge but wondered why Mr. Miller directed me to the trail instead of the road; although I was not in pain, it would have been much quicker to drive here. I stopped and looked around the area. There was nothing much to see but trees, rocks, and of course the old bridge, but to my right, I saw light dancing on the lower branches of the trees as if from a campfire. I could not hear anything above the sound of the waterfall but decided to make my way towards the flickering light. Creeping quite a way into the woods, I stopped within ten feet or so of a campfire. I could see four men seated on felled logs within a small clearing. Judging by the look on the three men’s faces that I could see, they were discussing something serious. A man in a red and black checked hunting jacket with his back to me spoke... “OK, John, why are we here?” “Take it easy Jacob. We must be careful.” Jacob? I thought, that is my dad’s name! “Why John? Careful of what? It’s 1962. It’s been over ten years, for Christ’s sake!” “Jacob, you weren't responsible,” said another man. “Don’t give me that, Ted. You were there.” “You were set up Jacob,” said Ted. “What??” said Jacob. “What do you mean?” I was shocked. The man Jacob was, in fact, my father and somehow, I was at the meeting mentioned in letter. If it really was 1962, either I was a time traveler or someone was playing a very sick joke on me. “You remember Bill Sells from Charlie Company. He went to work for The Agency after the armistice was signed,” said John. “Sells? No, I don’t remember him. The Agency?” asked my dad. “CIA,” said John. “He eventually received security clearance for classified war files, and it took more than a year, but he discovered a coverup on the civilian deaths you were blamed for.” “What??” said my dad. “That’s right, Jacob,” said a man who hadn’t yet spoken. “I’m Bill Sells. A secret unit operating across the border screwed up and mistakenly killed more than a dozen civilians. To avoid escalation of the war, your mortar team was deemed incompetent and blamed for the incident. The very high-level talks apparently worked and your team were scapegoated.” “What??” exclaimed my dad. He lowered his head into his hands and was silent, I assume he was trying to understand what he had just heard. The men were quiet for several minutes, until my dad raised his head and spoke. “Scapegoat?...I...I...have carried that weight for so long. The incident destroyed my marriage and my family. My son Davey... he hates me. My wife... I have treated her terribly.” My dad looked at the ground and cried heavy tears. The three men gathered around him, and each placed a hand his shoulders. I sat down on an old tree stump, head in hands, and cried too. I had no idea what he had gone through in the war. I don’t know how long I stayed in that position, but when I raised my head, the clearing was covered with brush. There was no campfire, no felled logs, and no men. I sat for a while trying to absorb what I had seen and heard. I eventually stood and walked towards the bridge; even in the dark I could see it was in very poor condition. The steel superstructure was damaged and heavily rusted. The bridge deck had large holes in it and the connecting roads were completely overgrown, just as Judd Miller said. I guess it would be hard for most, but I believed what I saw and heard that day. I viewed my dad in a new way and while I am still sickened by his abusive actions, I forgave him. I better understood what he had experienced and how it had affected him. Forgiveness removed a massive weight from me. I wiped the remaining tears from my eyes and started back down the narrow trail towards my car, glad that I brought a good flashlight. I will never forget what I experienced at Akko Bridge, and I hope wherever my dad is now, he knows that he is forgiven. Oh, in case you’re wondering, my leg is still pain free!