Jane nodded with a pleasant smile.

``All right. There was a sniper's nest in a mountain cave, and it was picking off our men with devilish accuracy. The Colonel ordered that it be wiped out, and I suggested,' You ask for volunteers, and promise each man on the patrol a quart of whisky, ten dollars and a week-end pass to Davao'. Trig was one of the five volunteers. The patrol snaked around in back of the cave, approached it from above and dropped in suddenly with wild howls. You could hear them from our outpost. There was a lot of shooting. We knew the enemy was subdued, because a flare was fired as the signal. So we hurried over. Two of our men were killed, a third was wounded. Trig and a very black colored boy from Detroit had killed or put out of action ten guerrillas by grenades and hand-to-hand fighting. When we got there, Trig and the Negro were quarreling over possession of a gold crucifix around the neck of a wounded Filipino. The colored boy had it, and Trig lunged at him with a knife and said,' Give that to me, you black bastard. We do n't' low nigras to walk on the same sidewalk with white men where I come from'.

``The Negro got a bad slice on his chest from the knife wound.''

``What did the Colonel do about the men?'' Jane asked in her placid, interested way.

Mickie laughed. ``He recommended both of them for the DSM and the Detroit fellow for the Purple Heart, too, for a combat inflicted wound. So you see Mr. Christiansen knows what it's all about. But not Jeff Lawrence. When he was in the war, he was in Law or Supplies or something like that, and an old buddy of his told me he would come down on Sundays to the Pentagon and read the citations for medals -- just like the one we sent in for Trig -- and go away with a real glow. These were heroes nine feet tall to him.''