At first sight I did not like him. The young man, a boy really, seemed to resemble the comical clash of his first and last name, which could have been Matthew Flunkt or Hamilton Crisp. Look at him. See how the unrelated words fill his face, call to mind a fool who will breed only grief and sorrow. Look at the boy-man sent to take my place in third platoon. It’s time to leave but I cannot leave them. Should I or shouldn’t I? I set down my gear. Extend my hand. More
This content originally appeared on CounterPunch.org and was authored by Marc Levy.