God, Guns, & Ginny
Well, of course it was righteous. Bear any burden, pay any price, what you could do for your country. Godless communists, after all. You may have been only seventeen, but you’d seen them already in Hungary, Cuba, Berlin. Something had to be done, and someone would have to do it. There is something about a thatched-roof hut in the middle of rice fields, burning, a mortally wounded woman softly keening, child dead in her arms, that can’t be blamed on Chairman Mao, Castro, Lenin, or Das Kapital. Heavy artillery flattened that home. Ours. Our guns did that. Long before I reached my thirteen months, I …