For the first time in that sorry war, George was distraught about his friend. He was angry at the artillery, at his friends, at Kenny for getting killed. He hated God. How could something like this happen? They left him alone.

It had been two weeks or more when the word came down. Sergeant Hurdle was to escort Dryer’s body to North Carolina for burial per the family’s request. George said no.

“Sergeant, this ain’t no fuckin' democracy,” the Major said. Major Sanford was the XO and a no bullshit sort of guy. He hated most everybody and more or less ran the battalion.

The trip to Williamstown, North Carolina was a blur to George. He had gone by way of Dover, Delaware where the Army morgue was housed. From there he was to accompany Kenny’s body to the funeral. He was in a daze. The big briefing took place in a movie auditorium where he, along with fifty or so others, had it impressed upon them how important this job was—never leave the body till you deliver it to the funeral home. Deliver it, an “it.” George wasn’t sure he could do this and thought to himself, I ain’t going back to the Nam, no way.

The train ride to someplace-George didn’t know was not very eventful. George slept in a sleeper car next to where Kenny lay. He wanted to cry but was numb instead. What was he doing here, should be back in Nam. What could he say? Was this a cruel joke? The emotions ran from anger to a kind of depression that fell over him. He expected it to linger and it did.