Cadwaller’s Gun Posted by: Pam As of now—6:22 a.m. on Tuesday, June 6, 2006, my eighty-sixth birthday—my full name is Pamela Buchanan Murphy Gerson Cadwaller. I’m waiting with some asperity for a telephone call from the President of the United States. You know how his minions must’ve hounded poor Potus, congratulations to the likes of me not crisp in their relation to his game plan. “The old bag will never make it to ninety, Mr. P.!” they said. “And she did a lot of something or other back in the way-back-when.” True enough, I did. Google away. For the fuck of it I sometimes do myself, checking Pam’s grip on cyberspatial immortality. Are you surprised this old bag knows how to surf the Web? Mine was the first female voice broadcast from Omaha Beach. Beyond its grassy bluffs, a lone Spandau still hammered as D-Day waned. I believe I can handle your toy. That five-mile crescent was ours by then. The proof was that rations were being unloaded around us along with ammunition.
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