One of the jurors at my last trial was missing part of his finger (it got cut off as a child by a hand pushed lawn mower). He started talking about how he was never drafted, but not because of the finger. His draft number was too high. That led into another chum telling us a story about his cousin. I think it has that urban myth feel to it.
The quiet outdoorsman was a peaceful man of God. He loved the outdoors and spent considerable time in the woods hunting. He was drafted into the Army and because he possessed outdoor survival skills, was assigned to the Rangers. His unit was sent behind enemy lines to do unspeakable assignments.
Throughout this ordeal, he consistently sent letters home to himself, which his parents piled in a desk drawer in his bedroom. After a few months of letters, the room started to develop a stench, forcing the parents had to keep a window open and a fan going. Fortunately, the man survived the war and was discharged from the Army. Once home, he opened his letters and his parents discovered that he was sending ears from his kills home as souvenirs. The smell was that of rotting flesh.
The man was disturbed when he returned, not the same peaceful man that had left. People were saddened by this change of character. He spent most of his last days in the woods. Alone in the woods, he ended up dying in a “hunting accident.”
