“You can see how easy it is,” the Colonel told the girl. “Everybody ought to do it before breakfast.”
“We cannot all be combat infantrymen,” the girl told him softly. “I respect it more than anything except good, honest fliers. Please talk, I’m taking care of you.”
“Good fliers are very good and should be respected as such,” the Colonel said.
He looked up at the light on the ceiling and he was completely desperate at the remembrance of his loss of his battalions, and of individual people. He could never hope to have such a regiment, ever. He had not built it. He had inherited it. But, for a time, it had been his great joy. Now every second man in it was dead and the others nearly all were wounded. In the belly, the head, the feet or the hands, the neck, the back, the lucky buttocks, the unfortunate chest and the other places. Tree burst wounds hit men where they would never be wounded in open country. And all the wounded were wounded for life.
“It was a good regiment,” he said. “You might even say it was a beautiful regiment until I destroyed it under other people’s orders.”
“But why do you have to obey them when you know better?”
“In our army you obey like a dog,” the Colonel explained. “You always hope you have a good master.”
“What kind of masters do you get?”
“I’ve only had two good ones so far. After I reached a certain level of command, many nice people, but only two good masters.”
