When I was a boy in Georgia, there were a couple of these trees in the neighborhood, in Cobb County. When we did not like someone, we'd cut these fruits in half and put them on their fence posts. You're right about the smell when the fruit rots. We didn't know then what they were, but you described the fruit to a tee. Once, in the rain, I threw a hatchet at one of the guys who was cutting the fruit into quarters instead of halves, and chased after him, barefooted. I slipped and ran my foot onto the edge of the hatchet, sticking up out of the ground. I laid back a piece of hide and meat about two inches square, and a half inch deep. No stitches; just wrapped it up so Mom wouldn't find out. Talk about poetic justice! I haven't attacked anyone with a hatchet since! I did break another guy's knife and three of his ribs later, as a young Sailor. I guess I'm about even. 'Course, that was way after the WBTS, but some of my relatives might have done the same back then, while they were in the Texas Brigade at Antietam, in the Cornfield. (The 18th Georgia) LOL Stan