"We didn't kill no natives," the corporal said. "They just died when we changed the air. Tough."
He looked at Mr. Wallace and then into the silence around him.
"Well ... well, let's see. I guess you'd say that sort of got to him. I mean, you know, he thought it was—" the voice became distant, as though describing a fantastic event which he could not relate to anything in a rational environment—"he thought it was his fault. You know how some of these guys are. I used to have a platoon once, you know. And they say—" He twisted his mouth and changed his voice to a childish whine. "What for?" The voice reverted to normal. "They don't ask for any reason. They just ask. I say to them, I say, 'God damn it'—excuse me, sir—'I told you to do it, ain't that enough?' Well, this Schuster, sir, he worried all the time. He got so he cut himself shaving. Damnedest thing. Oh, hell, maybe for the last week, every morning, he came out a bloody mess. Patches of toilet paper all over his face. 'I can't shave,' he'd say. 'My God, I can't shave.' He wasn't nervous, either. His hands were okay. They didn't shake. It's just that he couldn't shave. Like I say, he was a nut."
No one spoke for a moment, and the corporal twisted uncomfortably.
Then Mr. Tucker said, "Well, Corporal, tell me this, please."
"Yes, sir."
"What's your own personal impression of General Shorter?"
"The old man?" the corporal asked in surprise. "He's okay."
"Feel free to discuss this," Mr. Flison said. "We'd like to know, really, what your opinion is."
"Like I say, he's okay. He's got a job to do. You know, he busted me once. General Shorter personally, I mean. Hell, I don't hold it against him, though. He's got his job to do, I got mine. I wouldn't say anything against General Shorter, no, sir. He's a soldier. I mean, you know ... he's a soldier."