It was low tide, so he started at the water line and began sweeping the detector back and forth. Almost immediately the instrument started beeping, indicating the presence of some metal object buried beneath the sand. He took a
small garden spade out of his pack and started digging. Only a few inches down he discovered what had triggered the
metal detector - a .30 caliber shell casing from an M1 rifle. He tossed it into a cigar box that he carried in his pack and
continued his search. Subsequent passes with the instrument turned up more shell casings and bits of shrapnel. He tossed
them all into the cigar box. Over the past three years he had dug up a bushel basket full of such items. He only saved
them now so that he wouldn’t dig them up again on future weekends. He usually tossed them out when he got home.
On his fifth pass, the detector gave a strong beep. Probably some more junk, he thought, as he started digging. It only
took a minute to unearth the treasure. His hands were trembling as he brushed away the sand and took a closer look.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he knelt there in the moist sand, and as the sun sank low over the English Channel, Mike
Donavan wept…
Mary Donavan stood at her kitchen sink finishing her breakfast dishes. She loved the view from the window over
the sink. She could look out and watch the cows chewing their cud in the barn yard, or watch the progress of the corn in
the field across the road. It was late July and the corn was already over six feet tall. They knew how to grow corn in Iowa,
and the Donavan farm was one of the best in the county.
She heard the car coming down the county’s gravel road, and looked out in time to see Paul Bellows slow down
and pull into the road leading up to the house. Paul was the mail carrier. He usually stopped at the big mail box at the
end of their road. The fact that he was pulling up to the farmhouse meant only one thing; he was delivering a letter from
Mike. He always liked to deliver these in person. She hurriedly wiped her hands on her apron and opened the front door
as Paul reached the steps leading up to the wide porch that went around all four sides of the old farmhouse.
“Mourning Mary,” he said. “Got a letter for you. All the way from France.” He knew it was from Mike, but
feigned ignorance. He handed her the envelope.
“Thanks Paul,” she replied.
He hung around making small talk for a few minutes, obviously curious as to what Mike had to say. The whole
county knew he was in Paris and was eager for news, but when it became clear that Mary wanted to read it in private, he
wished her well and left to continue his deliveries.
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