"Yeah!" the other gibed. "And what happened to your crutches?"

Tom regretted very much not having left the building by a rear exit. Their reaction to meeting him in that manner, considering their determination not to exhibit any anxiety over their own imminent ordeals, was bound to be antagonistic. However, his own responses had not yet stabilized adequately following the experience to permit much tolerance. He ignored them and started on.

"Come on, Tom," the first persisted, stepping swiftly into his path. "Tell us about it. How many of 'em did you get?"

"Bet he didn't get any. Bet he just buried himself in his foxhole till it was all over. Bet he was scared stiff."

"Naw, not the Colonel. He was out there in front all the time. Weren't you, Colonel?"

Irritation flamed into anger. Raising his hand, he was about to push them aside when the hot searing pain of the bayonet struck him, hurling him back against the wall. For an uncomprehending moment he leaned immobile, his mouth gaping, his eyes awed. Then, realizing the only way out, he relaxed. The agony subsided and vanished. So that was it, he thought bitterly. So that was the ultimate weapon—not the indoctrination. For the rest of his life he was to be burdened with the possibility of that vivid torture whenever he so much as considered using force.

The boys had backed away apprehensively, and now were moving on down the street with frequent backward glances. It made no difference to him. For the present, they were of another age, an age of violence, an age which he had outgrown.

The drugstore was crowded, but Tom made his way toward the rear without noticing the customers. His thoughts were soberly and intently focused on the future. Perhaps, he considered, by the time his great grandchildren were men a way of life would have been created which involved neither the inevitability of war nor the alternate necessity for an invisible, poised bayonet. And so far as his own life was concerned, if the latter meant that he could return home, instead of trudging back to the barracks, then he accepted it gracefully. The price of peace was bound to be high, he reflected, since man had never before been able to afford it.

Sliding into the phonebooth and pushing a coin into the slot, Tom began dialing.

 Prev. P 9/9