Caught in Fate's Trajectory, Along With Gerald Ford

And he drank more and more heavily. His bar friends rallied round the local hero, giving him rides home when he couldn't drive. And he returned the generosity by buying rounds of drinks, especially when he received his disability checks, says Wayne Friday, an old friend.

"I think about him a lot because he was well liked," says Friday, a former San Francisco police commissioner. "People really liked the guy and not only because he spent a lot of money on drinks. But after the incident, and after his family disowned him, there were people . . . who would always make sure he had a place to go on a holiday."

Eventually, the family tensions eased and Oliver Sipple was welcomed back into the fold, says his brother.

"They accepted it," George says of his late parents. "That was all. They didn't like it, but they still accepted. He was welcomed. Only thing was: Don't bring a lot of your friends."

Oliver died in 1989 of pneumonia. His family collected his effects from San Francisco, including a framed letter from President Ford that he had hung on the wall of his apartment.

"I want you to know how much I appreciated your selfless actions last Monday," it read. It was signed, "Jerry Ford."

Presidential letters are the stuff of history, often treasured by those who receive them. But the letters sent to Sipple and to Ludwig, the man who was hit by Moore's bullet, were reminders of bitterness and disappointment.

"My brother always felt he [Ford] could have at least shook his hand or at least stood up someplace and had him appear with him and congratulate him," George Sipple says.

Talking about the letter, Sipple says, "It's not really a big deal anymore."

After talking about the letter, he went into his basement to retrieve it and discovered it was missing.

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Ludwig's letter is gone as well. He sold it long ago. Sold it out of anger.

His life was not nearly as impacted by the events of Sept. 22, 1975, as Sipple's was, but his brief period in the public eye left him disillusioned.

Now 73, living in Sacramento and promoting a book about his journey from Nazi Germany to the United States, Ludwig describes how his brush with history unfolded.

On his usual taxi rounds that day, he noticed the crowd at the St. Francis Hotel. A police officer told him President Ford would soon come out to greet the crowd, so Ludwig joined in the wait.

He was still standing next to the cop when he heard a loud cracking sound. Then he felt a sharp pain in his groin. When Sipple hit Moore's arm, the bullet whizzed wildly, crashing into the hotel's facade and ricocheting toward Ludwig. It didn't penetrate his skin, but left a bruise as if Ludwig had been hit by a rock.

In the pandemonium that followed, Sipple and Ludwig were taken in for questioning. Ludwig was checked at a hospital emergency room, too. And both were released back into their private lives.

The press wrote their stories. The White House made contact. As Ludwig recalls, he was asked if he needed any help. All Ludwig wanted was to meet the president. But he was told the president had no time in his schedule.

Embittered by the apparent brushoff, Ludwig told a newspaper reporter, "To hell with Ford." After the article was published, the FBI came calling. Ludwig, an escapee from Nazi Germany as well as from the Japanese occupation in Shanghai, found himself facing American interrogation for his comment.

He did not get his meeting with the president, but he did receive a White House letter expressing regret for Ludwig's injury. For him, it wasn't enough.

"A letter is so informal, to me," says Ludwig, who wished the president had called him personally. "He didn't do much else."

So the letter is gone.

"A guy offered me a hundred bucks and I took it," he says.

It was an impulse he now regrets. But history cannot be undone.