The first time

Staff Sergeant Reid said it was a good shot, the gook running and fifty meters away.

“Where’d you hit him?” he asked.

Tom touched the center of his chest. “Right here. He was at an angle. The bullet went in at an angle. Probably right through his heart.”

Sergeant Reid nodded. “Good shot.”

Tom said, “He was on fire.” Sergeant Reid looked at Tom. “That’s why I shot him when I did,” Tom said. “He was on fire. I mean, I would’ve shot him anyway, even if he hadn’t been on fire. But he was on fire.”

“Yeah,” Sergeant Reid said. “I saw him running through the napalm.”

“He cut left,” Tom said. “He was running fast.”

Sergeant Reid looked toward the black line, but not at it. “In Korea, Third Division, we went up a hill. Chinks were at the top. Artillery tore everything apart, but when we got near the top, a Chink jumped up, maybe seventy-five meters away.” He made a small shrug. “It was automatic, you know? I brought up my rifle, snapped shot him. Head shot. When we got to the Chink, he was lying face down, back of his head gone. I wanted to help him. I killed him, but I wanted to do something for him.”

Tom said, “I guess that’s the way it is.”

“The first time,” Sergeant Reid said, “the first man you kill, you want to do something for him. You know you can’t, but you want to anyway.” He lit a cigarette. “Willie Joe pissed at you?”

“Kind of.”

Sergeant Reid smiled. “He’ll get over it.”

“He said they’re supposed to fry. They fuck with us, they fry.”

“There it is,” Sergeant Reid said. “He’ll get over it.”