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holding his gun, pulled me over to the girl. With the gun against her long, shiny black hair, he pressed my finger under his own over the trigger and together he made us squeeze.
    Villagers shrieked, scrambling in all directions while I looked down through my tears and saw an old woman bending over the girl's body, sobbing, rocking back and forth with grief, the little boy clinging to my leg. I picked him up and cradled him tightly against my chest, stroking his face and picturing his perfect mother just minutes before.
    The old woman finally stood up holding out her arms for the boy and as I handed him over, Carbini snarled, “Remember, Weylan, it was you who pulled the trigger, and if you try to deny it, that's just what I'll write on the Investigating Officer's Report.”
    I snapped back to present time. “That's—that's a lie, sir.”
    “Who do ya think they're gonna believe—you or me, dipshit!”
    That night, the pow-wow around my bunk turned ugly. I lay on top of my covers, trying to stay neutral and project myself back to my summer camp. Lucky for me, after numerous hits on a communal doobie, I was three-quarters there.
    “That son-of-a-bitch has got to pay,” a private named Milton hissed.
    Through my fog, I could hear several yeah's wafting through the tent, intermingled with the deep inhaling sounds of pot intake.
    Billy R. intervened. “What do you have in mind?” Somehow, his voice always sounded so much more reasonable than the others.
    “Fragging, that's what I'm thinkin'.” Milton shot back.
    “Jesus! Are you crazy?” A slight quaver had crept into Billy's low voice.
    “What the hell do you care about him? You hate him as much as the rest of us. Do you really want him to put Weylan, your buddy, on report?”
    “Of course not, but killing him is not the answer. There are other channels…”
    Indignant snorts exploded around me and by two a.m., the small circle around my bunk may have still been plotting, but I was out like a light, grateful for my unconsciousness.
    We woke to teeming rain. The monsoon season had officially begun, and although we were told these downpours would be mostly at night and early morning, it was of little comfort when the rest of our day was spent in incredibly thick, oppressive air that made the sweat constant and our jungle rot worsen. Occasional cracks of thunder became indistinguishable from artillery fire, so all our nerves, already frayed, notched up at least two strokes as we witnessed Carbini become more and more out of control.
    We loathed him, and I don't think anyone, not even Billy R., could argue with that. My days were spent concentrating on just staying alive, exchanging letters with Lily, smoking joints whenever possible, and trying hard not to think about the girl. But she continued to haunt me and at the oddest moments, too, like in the middle of shaving, I could suddenly sense her behind me, or worse, when a soldier recently tripped on a bamboo root, cutting the side of his head as he hit the ground, I flashed on her lying in her own blood, rendering her boy needy forever.
    Lily's letters, once so appreciated, now began to irritate me. How dare she go on about these dilettantes in her precious East Village building? Let her go through what I'd been through instead of talking about hippies getting stoned and bitching about everyone in the military.
    One night, as I huddled in a dark foxhole, listening to the whispers of two disgruntled soldiers next to me, my mind turned first to Lily, then to her.
    “Did you hear? It's on for some time tonight. But that Billy R. is such a goddamn saint. He wants to try ‘n stop it.”
    “Yeah, he's become a real pain in the ass.”
    I swiveled my head around like a night owl. “What do you mean? What are you guys talking about?”
    “Weylan, you're somethin' else, man. What planet have you been on lately? You, of all people, should know what we're talkin' about! Carbini, man! That's who we're talkin' about. He's