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coffin…sized cartons。 The D。I。's are clearly more pretentious than usual； projecting the air that something sacred is about to happen。 By Army standards they're right。
What happens is； you get to the head of the line and throw out your hands and one huge mother of a sergeant flings a rifle at you as hard as he can … you've been Issued Your Rifle； and mister； God have mercy on you if you drop it； or fumble your catch and let part of it touch the ground。 Worse than calling it a 〃gun。〃 A few guys do catch copper…plated hell for having fingers too frozen to clutch； and you spend your time on line furiously flexing your fingers and praying to God you won't blow it。
Steve was right in front of me in line； and curiously withdrawn； I couldn't get a rise out of him with even the sourest joke。 I chalked it up to the cold and the solemnity of the occasion； and I guess I was part right。
All at once it was his turn and the big sergeant selected a rifle and pressed it to his chest and straightarmed it with a bit extra oomph because he was from Alabama and I prayed Steve would field it okay and he just simply sidestepped。
It was just like that： one rushing second and then time stopped。 Steve pulled to his left and the rifle cartwheeled past him and struck earth barrel … first； sank a motherloving three inches into the mud； the stock brushing my knee。 All around the parade ground people stopped cursing and joking and stared； stared at that damned M … 1 quivering in the mud like a branch planted by an idiot； stared and waited for the sky to fall。
The big sergeant got redder than February wind could account for and swelled up like a toad； groping for an obscenity that could contain his fury。 As he found it； Steve spoke up in the mildest voice I ever heard。
〃I'm sorry； sergeant；〃 he said； 〃but I can't take that rifle。〃
The sergeant came to life； verbal insubordination was easier to prehend and deal with than that rifle jutting impossibly from the mud。
〃Shut up and pick up your goddamned rifle； nigger；〃 he roared； 〃or you'll have it for breakfast。〃
Steve blinked； shook his head。 〃Sorry。 Can't do her。 That thing kills people and I just can't take it from you。〃
The sergeant hauled out his service 。45 and aimed it at Steve's navel。 〃This thing kills too； private。 Pick up that rifle。〃
I looked at Steve； paralyzed by his crazy stunt。 He was plainly scared to death； and I was as sure as he that he was about to die。 Pick it up； Steve； I prayed。 You don't have to use it now； just pick the goddamned thing up。
〃Sergeant；〃 he said finally； 〃you can make me pick it up； but you can't ever make me use it。 Not even with that automatic。 So what's the point？〃
The sergeant glared at him a long moment； then holstered his 。45 and waved over a couple of corporals。 〃Take this goddamn nigger to the guardhouse；〃 he snarled； and bent over the carton again。 Before I had time to think he heaved a rifle at me； and I made a perfect catch。 〃Next！〃 he bellowed； and the line moved forward。 I found myself in barracks； looking at my new rifle and wondering why Steve had done such a crazy thing。
I went off to Nam soon after that … tried to get word to Steve in the stockade； but it couldn't be done。 He got left behind with the rest of America； and I found myself in a jungle full of unfriendly strangers。 It was bad … real bad … and I began to think a lot about Steve and the choice he had made。 I couldn't tell the people I was fighting from the people I was fighting for； and the official policy of 〃kill what moves〃 didn't satisfy me。
At first。 Then one day a twelve…year…old boy as cute as Dondi took off my left earlobe with a machete while I got some K…rations out of my pack for him。 The kid would have taken off my head instead of my ear； but a pretty tight buddy of mine； Sean Reilly； shot him in the belly while he was winding up。
〃Christ； Tony；〃 Sean said when he'd made sure the kid was dead； 〃you know the word： never turn your back on a Gook。〃
I was too busy with my bleeding ear to reply； but I was ing to agree with him。 Just as Nam had been easier than jail； catching the rifle easier than refusing to； killing Gooks was easier than discussing political philosophy with them。
A week later it got to be more easy。
Sean's squad had been sent upriver to reconnoiter； while the rest of us got our breath back for the big push。 I was on sentry duty with a fellow whose name I misremember … not a bad guy； but he smoked marijuana； and I'd been raised to think that stuff was evil。 Anyway this particular day he smoked a couple of joints while we sat there listening to jungle sounds and waiting for relief so we could eat。 It made him thirsty； so I offered to spell him while he went to the river for a drink。 He slipped into the jungle； walking a little unsteadily。
A minute later I heard him scream。
It was only fifty yards or so to the river； but I came circumspectly； expecting to find him dead and the enemy in strength。 But when I poked my rifle through the foliage； there was nobody in sight but him。 He was on his knees with his face buried in his hands。 Oh Jesus； I thought； what a time to freak out。 I started to swear at him； and then I saw what he had seen。
It was Sean； floating lazily against the bank with his fingers and toes dangling from a sort of necklace around his throat and his genitals sewed into his mouth。
A friend； a man who had saved my life； a guy who wanted to be an artist when he got home； carved up like a Christmas turkey by a bunch of slant…eye monkeys … it became much more than easy to kill Gooks。
It became fun。
The rest of my tour passed in a red haze。 I remember raping women； I remember clubbing a baby's skull with a rifle … butt to encourage a V。C。 … sympathizer to talk； I remember torturing captured prisoners and enjoying it。 I remember a dozen little My Lais； and I remember me in the middle with a smile like a wolf。 Fury tasted better than confusion； and this time it was easier to kill than to think。
I don't know what would have happened to me if I'd e home kill…crazy like that。 God knows what happened to the ones that did。 But two weeks before I was due to go home I got a letter from a friend … in the States； a supply corporal back at boot camp。
Steve McConnell had died in military prison。 He 〃fell down the stairs〃 and broke nearly every bone in his body； but it was the ruptured spleen that killed him。 There had been no inquiry； the official verdict was 〃accidental death。〃 As accidental as Sean's … except our side did it。
In the time it took me to read that letter I went from kill…crazy all the way to the other kind； and the next morning I took my squad out and tried to die and loused it up and got my second Purple Heart and Silver Star。 I never got another chance in Nam； they sent me home from the hospital with some neat embroidery on this seam on my shoulder and a piece of paper that said I was a normal human being again。
Killing myself just didn't seem as reasonable in the States as it had in Nam somehow； so I tried forgetting instead。 For a while booze did the trick； but I couldn't keep it up； my stomach wouldn't tolerate the dosa