It was a bright, clear February afternoon in Gettysburg. A strong sun and layers of warm clothes did little to ease the biting cold. Our climb to the crest of Little Round Top took us to plain monuments, barren trees and polished cannon. From the top, we peered down on the wheat field where men had fallen so close together that one could not see the ground. Rifle balls had whined as thick as bee swarms through the trees, and cannon shots had torn limbs from the young men fighting there. A frozen wind whipped tears from our eyes. My friend Amy huddled close, using me as a wind breaker. Despite the cold, it was hard to leave this place.

Driving east out of Gettysburg on a country road, the gray car ahead of us passed through a rural crossroad just as a small pickup truck tried to take a left turn. The car swerved, but ran into the pickup on the passenger side. We immediately slowed down as we passed the scene. The driver of the car looked fine, but we couldn't see the driver of the pickup. I pulled over on the shoulder and got out to investigate.

The right side of the truck was smashed in, and the side window was shattered. The driver was partly out of the truck. His head hung forward over the edge of the passenger-side window, the front of his neck crushed on the shattered windowsill. He was unconscious and starting to turn blue. His chest slowly heaved against a blocked windpipe.