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Fr. thomas maclean
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It was maclean said that the ghost of old Lahboo the Tight-Fisted haunted the place since his murder, and no one cared to test the truth of the stories told about the building.
I left the rifle, checked the War Bag and put its strap over my head, tying the waist-string quickly. I locked the shed again and jogged as far as the bridge while I got my breath back.
We could take no more long excursions maclean while the war lasted. However, we had country roads to tramp, Morgan Woods to roam and picnic in, the river for fishing and swimming, Lake Winnego and my small sailboat not far off.
One moment she was standing on an open road with a naked girl running toward her, bawling. The fr. thomas maclean next, on a hillside looking down on a razed valley, snatched through a pall of smoke.
Perfectly understandable really because, in fr. thomas maclean the end, when the days are dark with death and the overcast nights filled with a jungle terror, when commanders are mowed down by machine-gun fire and mates are blown to bits by mines a pace away from you or slit from throat to navel by a silent invader, those peculiar notions are all that stand between you and utter madness.