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lines, filling in the obvious gaps, shrinking the exaggerations, deducting the halftruths and the prejudices, correcting the misinformation about things I knew of and trying to imagine the truth of the things I didn’t, the facts that were unstated, the events
that were undescribed, the elements that were ignored or those taken out of context and slanted by clever wording to give a predetermined impression.
    But I smiled as I read the story. I liked the face of this Lloyd Jackson, twenty-eight, born in Birmingham, Alabama, infantry veteran of three major campaigns during the big war, the one that established the Four Freedoms once and for all. He was a holder of two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star and a Silver Star. But he had no Good Conduct Medals. He had been given company punishment on a number of occasions and had served sixty days in a disciplinary battalion for going AWOL. After three and a half years of service, three years of which were overseas, he was discharged as a private.
    I showed the paper to Dragline who read it with a studied frown, his lips sagging loose and open. Koko came over and squatted beside him, his eyes wide, his grin broad and nervous. Koko began to insert bits of information and interpretations of his own, embellishing the story out loud. Dragline growled at him a couple of times but it did no good.
    Shut up, willya? Ah’m readin‘.
    Yeah. I know. I’m readin‘ too.
    Naw, you ain’t. You’re makin‘ it all up as you go.
    I’m just sayin‘ how it really was.
    How the hell do you know how it was?
    Aw, you can tell. This guy’s cunt sent him a Dear John and so he started hittin‘ the bottle, see? Probably a little punchy too, from too much combat and all. And he
was a tough bastard, you know? Wouldn’t never take no shit from nobody. So one night he got fed up with this Square John job he had and he—
    Jes shut up. Let me read the gawd damn thing.
    Come on Drag! Don’t pull it away. I want to read too.
    Well read then. And shut the hell up.
    So long before Jackson arrived at our camp, before he even knew what The Hard Road was, before he had even been tried and sentenced, he had already become a legend to the Bull Gang, his influence stirring our imaginations and quickening our hearts. For the rest of the afternoon we thought about him as we walked beside the highway stooping over to pick up trash, ignoring our aching backs, ignoring the roaring traffic, the sun, the guards, ignoring our fate and our Time.
    It was as though we were casually strolling along Franklin Street in Tampa late one night after everything was closed up, no cars parked along the curbs, the sidewalks empty, the shop windows glowing with serene displays of luxuries appreciated by no one but ourselves. And we were drunk, all tanked up on beer and wine and whiskey and the whole town was soft and dim and lovely.
    Suddenly a pick-up truck came zooming down the street. A sign on the door of the cab read “Acme Plumbing Service.” But Jackson was driving it hell-for-leather, as though it were a scout car entering a bombarded city on the heels of the retreating enemy. He jammed on the brakes, the rear end swinging around. Then he sat there,
staring through the grime of the windshield, the street lights and traffic signals glowing through the dimness of his intoxicated mind.
    All he could see were the green benches and the parking meters spaced along the curbs. He realized that they were advancing, marching forward in open ranks, a battalion of emaciated soldiers with ugly faces beneath odd-shaped foreign helmets. And across the forehead of every one of them was tattooed in red letters the word VIOLATION.
    Jackson shut his eyes, opened one of them and squinted. Then he tried squinting the other eye. Leaning his elbow on the steering wheel and resting his chin in his hand he pondered the tactical situation. Had he done a violation? Did he dare make a violation? Had a