Ghost Story I struggled to my feet, in hope of reaching the alluring vision. By Frank I. Sillay
During the year I was stationed in Iceland, I took a few weeks of leave and spent it doing the tourist thing around Britain and Europe. Due to a series of accidents and misunderstandings, I found myself, at one point, hitchhiking from Copenhagen to Frankfurt. I had almost despaired of getting a ride, darkness and snow were setting in, when a rattletrap panel truck stopped and picked me up. The driver’s English was of the same feeble level as my scraps of German -- that is to say, totally inadequate, so we discovered that both of us had almost enough schoolboy French to meet our limited needs. To summarize, August was a student at a polytech nearby, which was having a mid-term break, and he had stepped in to fill a last-minute vacancy as handyman/driver at the residential dormitory to help the supervisor, who was committed to attending a conference over the break. He was coming back from restocking essentials in the nearby market town and assured me I could have a bed overnight. Rooms in the main building were all tenanted, though their occupants were away for a few days, but there were several cottages out back which were sometimes used for staff. My kind host unlocked one of these, and a quick look revealing that it was ready for use, he left me to it.
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