One time it had been two sailors when he had been walking with the girl at night. They had whistled at her and, the Colonel thought, that was a harmless enough thing and he should have let it go.
But there was something wrong with it. He sensed it before he knew it. Then he knew it solidly, because he had stopped under a light, in order that they might see what he wore on his shoulders, so that they might take the other side of the street.
What he wore on each shoulder was a small eagle with wings out-stretched. It was embroidered onto the coat he wore in silver thread. It was not conspicuous, and it had been there a long time. But it was visible.
The two sailors whistled again.
“Stay over there against the wall if you want to watch it,” the Colonel had said to the girl. “Or look away.”
“They are very big and young.”
“They won’t be big for long,” the Colonel promised her.
The Colonel walked over to the whistlers.
“Where is your shore patrol?” he asked.
“How would I know?” the biggest whistler said. “All I want is a good look at the dame.”
“Do people like you have names and serial numbers?”
“How would I know,” one said.
The other said, “I wouldn’t tell a chicken Colonel if I had.”
Old army boy, the Colonel thought, before he hit him. Sea lawyer. Knows all his rights.
