Michael Malone - Weebly

he lay among his relics. Chair lift tickets hung from his
sky-blue parka like scalps. Bright strips of ribbon were
pinned to his air force jacket. Citations for speeding
decorated his walls. This morning he lay on the bed in
his chieftain hut surrounded by testaments to all the
exams he had passed: his old gold and tin and plastic
trophies, his old medals and badges, and pictures of old
girlfriends hanging like diplomas over his desk.
He lay and stared at his hand in its creamy plaster
cast, and he confessed to himself that he was afraid to
look at the faces of an unassuming middle-aged couple
who were too frightened to ride in a plane, much less fly
one. He was scared of a man who was in awe of Mr.
Ransom, when Lance didn't hesitate to call the banker
"Ernest" although (because) he knew it offended him.
Scared of two people who could not bear to watch the
war on television, much less fight or have their son fight
in it. He was afraid of Mr. and Mrs. Strummer, whom
he had scarcely met.
What could he say to them? What could they
answer? When someone in the squad lost a friend, you
said, "Tough luck, man," or, "Hey, listen, that's real bad