late, he thought, and the beautiful sleep half again as late. She certainly would not call early, and the shops did not open until nine or a little later.
Hell, he thought, I have these damned stones. How could anyone do a thing like that?
You know how, he said to himself, reading the ads in the back of the paper. You’ve put it on the line enough times. It isn’t crazy or morbid. She just wanted to put it on the line. It was a good thing it was me, he thought.
That is the only good thing about being me, he considered. Well I’m me, God-damn it. For better or for much worse. How would you like to sit on the can as you have sat almost every morning of your damned life with this in your pocket?
He was addressing no one, except, perhaps, posterity.
How many mornings have you sat in the row with all the others? That’s the worst of it. That and shaving. Or you go off to be alone, and think or not think, and pick a good piece of cover and there are two riflemen there already, or some boy asleep.
There’s no more privacy in the army than in a professional shit-house. I’ve never been in a professional shit-house but I imagine they run it much the same. I could learn to run one, he thought.
Then I’d make all my leading shit-house characters Ambassadors and the unsuccessful ones could be Corps-Commanders or command military districts in peace time. Don’t be bitter, boy, he said to himself. It’s too early in the morning and your duty’s not completed yet.
