It is dark. I am with the platoon in a foreign country. We are on an exposed slope facing the wood line. A voice mocks us. I am trying to invent a weapon that will fire small grenades more accurately than tossing them. The clumsy firing device resembles a slow-loading flintlock. Only the first grenade explodes in the wood line. Nearby Ed W. quickly chucks grenades one after the other. The platoon retreats. I become separated, lose my weapon and panic. Then we regroup and fall back. An old officer says my boonie hat is worn out. The flimsy material has lost its shape. My CMB pinned in front is missing, as are the encircling love beads, the Cav patch sewn on top, the grenade rings clipped round the brim. There is no ground-in muck, no accumulated sweat. This hat cannot be mine. We enter a large wooden house and line up in a stairwell, which leads to a cellar where we will be issued new hats. A pretty American girl with long hair makes her way past. I have no desire for her. It is a good feeling to be with my men.