"I'm not, sir. We couldn't really kill them, could we? It'd be suicide, wouldn't it? It's not total war, is it?" "Not total, no. There'll be an end to it one day, and then a beginning again. I know it's hard, but it's the only way." * * * * * The last of the big trucks had rumbled in from the battlefield. The sergeant watched the gate close in the fading light. Beloved enemy, he thought. "Three hundred today," he said aloud. "And one was my personal contribution. My platoon was strung out behind me, and she came up over the hill--" "Sergeant!" "She was mine. I got her personally. I aimed slow and held the sight on her. Then I let go. It was almost like--" "Sergeant!" The lieutenant was trembling. "The third person singular is prohibited! You know that, sergeant!" The sergeant was calm. "Yes, sir." He looked at the young officer. "But I feel better for having told about it. I'm all right now, sir. I hope I didn't upset you." "No," the lieutenant said. "No. We'll forget about it." "I'll have one of those cigarettes now, sir, if you don't mind. It doesn't matter about the tip, now that it's dark." "Well...." The lieutenant hesitated. "I was going to send them back to Quartermaster, with a report. But all right. Here. I'll have one, too." As the sergeant lit them he could see a bit of the red tip in the lieutenant's mouth. He dragged deep on his own, pretending he could taste lipstick. "Lieutenant," he said. "It doesn't matter where you hit them, does it? I mean it doesn't hurt them at all?" "No," the lieutenant said. "No, it doesn't matter. They just go to sleep." "I'm glad." After a while the sergeant said, "I guess I'll hit the sack." "It's still early." "Yes. But I like to get up early. There's always a line in the latrine--at the shaving bowls." "Combat troops don't have to shave," the lieutenant said. "I know. But we do. We all do."