It was kind of a weird invention.  A weird weapon—and I’m not sure why they called it “Goliath” because it was only a foot tall.  But in a way it was the first of its kind.  Remote controlled.  Technology we take for granted nowadays, but in 1944—advanced.  Maybe that’s why no one believed it.  No one believed it could be done.  Morale was pretty low—Christmas under a siege.  Maybe that’s why David knew he had to do something.  He knew he had to put his guitar away.  Now was not the time for songs.  There would be songs later—sure—but now was not the time for them.  The people in Bastogne, the soldiers, didn’t need words right now, sung or otherwise.  And when Johnny Tribout tried to save that little girl who ran from the church doors, wounded in the process, David had to do something.

            And that’s why David stayed awake.  He didn’t sleep.  He saw Christmas Eve turn into Christmas Day, and everyone, even those that slept, knew there would be an attack—they all knew the enemy would be coming in the morning.  And so maybe David went over it.  He went over it in his mind.  He thought about the children he watched through a window the night before on his patrol.  The dream of it, and the woman.  Maybe he saw what he had to save.  He remembered being a child, remembered how he talked to his dreams then, talked to the sleep that wouldn’t come, talked to that voice that asked him his name, that same voice you heard in his journals later.  And he was twenty-six years old now.  Soon to be twenty-seven.  He was old enough now with all that happened before—his childhood in East St. Louis growing up with his older brothers, with the memories of how he got his first guitar and how he first learned to play it, the bullet hole that gave it its new sound, his trips to Mississippi, going electric, his recruitment in the Army and what happened then—he was old enough now, with all that had happened, to stop his interrogations.  His interrogations of himself.  And of course he still asked questions, but now he knew what the answers would be.  He knew how he would have to answer if there were to be any answers at all.  And what he asked now depended on how he knew he would answer…  They all knew.  They all knew the enemy was coming, and David knew there were no words to it.  Because once the interrogations are over you don’t answer with words, directly.  You no longer speak of it.  You just act.  You act according to your name, and his name was David…  All I can really do is replay the scene for you, the action of what happened there in Bastogne Christmas Day, 1944.  And all you can really do is conduct your own interrogations based on what I tell you, based on what you know, based on your name—what you get out of it what you bring to it.  The rest just window dressings.  Window dressings to your soul.  Your eyes perhaps remembering the child you once watched through them.  The child you once knew that now you remember through the glass.  A child not much unlike that little girl running from a church door Christmas Day in Bastogne that Johnny tried to save.  And so… this is what happened: