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mouth a banner that says THIS WE’LL DEFEND . Really, the Army could have borrowed the seal from my dad rather than the other way around.
    On his right forearm is a copy of a famous portrait of the Sioux chief Sitting Bull in white buckskins, looking hard and sharp straight at you, a single feather rising behind his head. A ribbon beneath the portrait reads WOUNDED KNEE .
    Both Rudi and Morris are eager to join the viewing, and they get up from their seats. But Dad withers them both with a quick-shot look that practically radiates heat and drops them back in their chairs like a pair of ducks shot out of the sky.
    â€œOh,” Morris says. “Permission to stand, sir?”
    â€œGranted,” Dad says. This is quite a party for him.
    The boys rise again, only for Rudi to be shot back to earth again.
    â€œSorry,” he says. “I thought that counted for both of us.”
    â€œDon’t think, son,” Dad says. He says it in a way that is totally different from how any of us would have said it. No joke, no teasing. He says it with warmth and sincerity and hope that Rudi will be able to take that really good advice with him into the Marines and carry it all the way right back to this table after it’s all over.
    â€œYes, sir, I won’t,” Rudi says. “I mean, no, sir. Yes, sir.” He looks at my dad with the scared puppy-in-love eyes that normally tell me that I am his hero.
    â€œOh, get over here, Rudi,” Dad says, breaking protocol every which way now under Rudi’s peculiar spell.
    Just then my little brother, Caesar, comes bounding in and presents himself in the doorway.
    â€œOh, what part of the induction program are we at now?” he asks mischievously.
    â€œTattoo Worship,” Mom responds with a giggle.
    â€œHah,” Caesar says. “At least I haven’t missed the ritual buzz-cutting ceremony. I skipped dessert over at Nick’s for that. And they were having Moon Pies.”
    â€œRitual what ?” Beck asks. Beck really likes his hair. It’s auburn, halfway between curly and wavy, and hangs just below his ears. He is the closest we come in this group to anything approaching hippie.
    â€œRegulation haircuts,” Dad says, like he’s Monty Hall pulling the curtain on Let’s Make a Deal . “Professional and free.”
    I keep my hair pretty close to regulation as it is, so another sixteenth of an inch one way or another never matters much to me. Also, I knew this was coming. Now’s the time for me to sit back and enjoy.
    â€œWell,” Morris says extra calmly, “don’t they give us haircuts as soon as we report for duty?”
    â€œOf course they do,” Dad says. “But you want to make a good impression, right from the get-go. Like I did. The Army didn’t even wind up giving me a haircut, after the one I gave myself.”
    Yes. Himself.
    â€œTrust me, men. A good impression goes a long, long way when you enter the service, especially in wartime. The very last thing you want to do is show up looking like hippies, let me tell you.”
    Dad’s hippie-ometer is set for ultrasensitive. He has considerably less patience for them than I have, and I have none at all.
    â€œWho’s first up?” Dad asks.
    For the second time ever I see Rudi shoot his hand up into the air.
    â€œWell done, my boy, that’s the spirit,” Dad says. He gets up and crisply leads a small procession out to the barbershop I know so well. That would be our back porch. Rudi is actually sort of marching, trying to stay in lockstep with my father, whose natural stride is a kind of march. Morris follows right behind, in a way that is completely descriptive of him. You can’t quite tell if he is for or against what is happening, but there is a sureness to his commitment to it anyway. It’s a sort of determined slouch in the direction of events.
    Beck and I meet at the doorway at the same time, stopping to