My father was trapped behind lines in the Battle of the Bulge. After sunset, deep in the black of the Ardennes Forest he was instructed to put his hand on the shoulder of the solider in front of him, as did that man, and the man in front of him. The snake of trapped men silently moved through the snow and the woods to the safety of morning light across the river. They did not completely escape detection. As the sun rose, the enemy awoke to discover the trail, grabbed their rifles and rushed in pursuit. Some of the men were shot as the Germans closed in. My father does not like to talk about it.

I am named after the Captain who lead the men out of the darkness, a man who stood at the sharp end with compass and pen light and confidence. It was the highest honor my father could bestow on the man who saved his life.

We are escapees, shuffling through the winter night terrorized. As I have said elsewhere, I am given to metaphor and this is a strong one. As best I know, the human species has no call to origins, to a place of conception. There is longing, however. Who does not long for a pen light in the darkness, a leading shoulder or a compass? How can we resist the clearing across the river?

We cannot be ambivalent about being surrounded.