"Yes, sir."

"Did you fire? Did you? I want to know. I'll have to report this."

"Yes, sir."

"Who authorized you to open the ammunition locker? Who ordered you to open fire? Just who, Sgt. Krummel?"

"Good question," I muttered. Levenson giggled.

"What's that, sergeant? Damn those lights, anyway," he said, shielding his eyes.

"He must really be pissed," Morning whispered. "He cursed."

"We were fired upon, sir. I assumed in an emergency that I was authorized to answer. I couldn't reach the major, Capt. Saunders, or you, so I assumed responsibility myself."

"Oh," he said, tugging at his ear to let us know he was thinking. "All right," he said, obviously disappointed. "I suppose we can find a regulation to cover the situation for our report. Open the gate."

"Sir, I can't unlock the gate from here unless you put your badge in the key-box."

"I told you, I didn't have it. I didn't have time to get it."

"Then I'll have to come down to let you in." It curdled my blood to lie to the bastard about being fired upon first, changed me from a man to a kid with his fly open. And I didn't really have to. I had said that I was not worrying about my stripes any more. There must have been guilt on that Apple Tree instead of knowledge – or maybe they are the same. Take two men, stick them in uniforms, tack bars on one, and the other one will find himself guilty. To hell with this man's army, I thought, Just to hell with it.

"Okay, the guards I posted, move out. All the rest of you shitheads, downstairs. Clear your weapons before you try to climb down. I don't want you shooting your own tender asses off."

"We'll back you up, Slag," Haddad said, slapping me on the shoulder. He could smell trouble for all of them if I got stuck. "All the way."

"Just move out, shopkeeper. Just move out."

Downstairs was a mess. Six three-thousand-dollar radios had taken slugs through their respective consoles, and now were bits of wire, plastic, and glass. A couple of typewriters had been hit; type scattered like broken twigs. A swivel chair had been blown over a desk, and the desk's drawers were hanging out. A sixty-thousand-dollar piece of equipment, our message encoder, had gained a new eye but lost a rectum the size of a basketball.

"Fourteen chickens and a hand grenade," Cagle chanted. Levenson hammered at a typewriter with a clenched fist and a wide grin, but the mill answered with only a tilted "E." Haddad was clucking through the radios like an old woman at a fruit stand looking for a rotten tomato she might get for free. I pushed the three guards out, took the weapons from the rest, and started them unplugging equipment before a fire started, and policing up the junk.

"Hey, Cagle," I said casually on my way to the door, "If Dottlinger asks – we were fired on first, okay?"

"Fuck you, Slag-baby. I ain't lying to save no lifer's stripes," he answered without stopping his broom.

Where would a man be without friends, I wondered on my way out. They keep us from taking ourselves too seriously, keep silly little things from becoming big…

But then there are the Lt. Dottlingers whose worlds are constructed of mountainous molehills. He complained about my slowness, then wouldn't come in. He wanted a look at these Huks, and also thought I'd best fetch a couple of weapons and another man. I went back, got Morning and two carbines.

"Is Slutfinger very pissed?" Morning asked.

"Who cares."

"You do. All you fucking lifers do." He had a deadly stillness to his face.

"Not so much as you think. Besides, he's too curious to be pissed now. Wants to observe the disaster firsthand, get an eyeful and claim it for a bellyful…"

"And we have to guard him against dead little fuckers. Where was he, when the lights went out?"

"I don't know. He doesn't go to the Officer's Club."

"I hear he has the thing going again with Reid's wife, the turd."

"Just be glad Saunders wasn't here. Trick Two would have charged those jeeps."

"I thought you might." He wasn't smiling.

"Huh?"

"How long have you been waiting for a chance like this."

"No longer than you, Morning."

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice tired, as we followed Dottlinger toward the clustered headlights.

But Morning's mood couldn't stop the grin on my face. The carbine seemed very small in my hand, like a toy outgrown. My body was tight, hard, as it was after a workout with the weights, solid. Dottlinger's nose, Morning's mood, the lie before – these no longer clouded the night. Not them, nor the sick, greasy nudge of fear. The enemy had risen out of darkness, had stood erect and dared me, and if he paid a price, it seemed only what he owed for the honor of standing. I had been afraid but had acted, and the action transcended, as ever, the emotion. Morality did not matter, nor mortality, only the act, the duty, simple and clear. I could not have chosen otherwise. Hundreds of lines through the space of time had converged in that fire-seared, light-spitted night, and one of the lines was me. Some stopped, some dodged the impact, and others could not have crashed if they wanted to; but mine endured. I too stood and dared, then, now, and forever. The cool night air blessed my face, and whatever throats gagged on the odors of the night, mine didn't. I breathed only victory as I strode over the gravel into the smoky circle of light.

People moved in all directions: hospital orderlies tended the wounded, gathered the dead; photographers recorded the scene from all angles; a priest with a pale, yearning face blessed friend and foe alike. A tall Air Force captain came over to Dottlinger, smiling, and extended a congratulatory hand.

"Lieutenant! I was just on my way down to thank you and your men for their timely help. Understand your men knocked off the first jeep, the one with the cannon on it," he said, shaking Dottlinger's surprised hand. I might have been crazy, but this captain was a fool. What had been, however perversely, salvation for me, became a golf match in his mouth. His voice, prideful voice, sullied the world.

"Sorry, sir, but all the credit goes to Sgt. Krummel here," Dottlinger answered. I was surprised he didn't lie. Then he lied. "I was making the courier-run."

"Well, I guess I owe you a great big 'thanks,' sergeant," he gleamed.

"Don't forget God," Morning whispered in my ear.

"No telling how many lives you saved."

"Or took," came the whisper.

"We really broke their backs this time," the captain continued. "Three jeeps and ten men here, and another jeep and four men at the gate." He smiled. "We were waiting for them, all right."

"Sir?" I asked.

"Trap," he answered, quickly, proudly. "But they pulled a fast one on us." He frowned slightly. "Came through the gate instead of busting the fence as we expected. But we broke their back, all right."

Morning whispered again. "Who the fuck trapped whom?" I heard him walk away. Looking around the field, I couldn't answer him.

The captain discussed the Communist problem in Asia, and Dottlinger agreed, but before they resolved it, Tetrick and Capt. Saunders, just back from the States, came wandering across the crowd in civilian clothes. They looked like Town. Capt. Harry smiled as if he loved the entire concept of humanity, and Tetrick frowned as if he were worried about it.

"Any of our men hurt?" he asked as soon as he saw me. I shook my head but he kept frowning.

"Everyone all right?" Capt. Harry asked. "Looks like the men got a little action tonight." He rocked his large body, smiled and slapped me on the shoulder as if I were his brother.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, goddamnit, that's all right. Trick Two's a good bunch, and I knew they would do all right." Dottlinger stopped trying to get his attention, and huffed off. "But wish to hell I'd been here. We'd have run right out and knocked the bastards right off the road. Yes, sir, by God."