The boy was awake, nervously looking at the needle the corpsman had stuck into the back of his hand.

"Hi," Edwards said. "How do you feel?"

The soldier looked up at him apprehensively. The skin on his face had been seared red and all his hair and eyebrows and lashes had been brunt away.

"I know you're nervous," Edwards said soothingly. "Just try to relax. I'm the chief of the burn unit. I'll be your doctor for a while until you get better.' As he pulled back the blanket the soldier grimaced. "Sorry," he said, lifting the cover more carefully.

The burns, red and raw, ran the whole charred length of the boy's body. Unconsciously Edwards began adding up the percentages of burned area, tallying them in his mind. He suddenly realized what he was doing, and for a moment, as he stood there staring at the burns, he looked stricken. "How did it happen?" he asked gently, carefully dropping back the covers.

"I . . . I was carrying detonators. . ."

"Dear Bob: We are fighting very hard now. I haven't written Mom and Dad about it. I don't want to worry them. But we are getting hit and badly. I'm the only first lieutenant in the company who hasn't been hit yet. And last week I lost two RTO's. They were standing right next to me. It gets a bit spooky. I know what you said about my flack vest, but you haven't been here and you just don't know how hot it can get. On the move, it's just too damn heavy. You can't carry a 60-pound rucksack in 110 degree heat and an 11-pound flack vest. I make the point wear his, but then someone else carries his gear. It's like your complaint about patients demanding penicillin-sometimes you just can't use it. It's the same with a flack vest. Besides, it wouldn't stop a round and that's what we've been getting lately. But I'll wear it when I can. By the way, you're beginning to sound like Mom. About what's been happening lately. I'm not complaining, don't get the wrong idea. There is honestly, something very positive about being over here. I can see it in myself and my men. Not the war itself, God knows that's hopeless enough, but what happens to you because of it. I'll never be the same again. I can feel myself growing. Unfortunately you only see one end of it. That's a bit sad, because there are other endings and even middles. A lot of guys get out of here OK, and despite what they say, they're better for it. I can see it in myself. I'm getting older over here in a way that I could never do at home or maybe anywhere. For the first time in my life everything seems to count. All the fuzziness is gone, all the foolishness. I can't believe the things that used to bother me, or even that I thought were important. You really see yourself over here. It works on you, grinds you down, makes you better. Got to go. Thanks for the R and R. Say Hi to all the guys in the burn unit."

"What?" Edwards said.

"Detonators, I must have taken a round in my rucksack. They just blew up and then I was on fire. Tried to tear my gear off, but my hands. . . ."

"It's all right," Edwards said. The evac sergeant handed him the patient's medical jacket. Quickly turning the pages, he read: "Eighty per cent second degree and third degree. Debrided under general anesthesia at the 60 evac, Chu Ci. Six liters plasmonate . . . catheterized . . . furacin and sterile dressings . . . Demerol . . . 64 mg q three hours." He looked on the cover sheet. David Jensen, MOS B11; 1/30 E-2, Fourth Division, 20 years old.

"Twenty years old," he thought, handing back the chart. Grant's age.

"David," he said warily.

"Yes, sir."

"The first thing we're going to do is put you in a whirlpool bath to soak off your bandages and remove what dead skin we can. It's going to hurt."

"Yes, sir," David said, his voice wavering.