Yet Nathan had not been “in” the Army. Up until recently he was, like Jan, simply associated with the Army. Even his four years at the Virginia Military Institute and six weeks of ROTC summer camp had not prepared him for the psychological shock of walking into the headquarters of the 11th Airborne Division as a second lieutenant. He could almost feel himself being drawn deeper and deeper into an organization that, on the outside, appeared familiar, yet was turning out to be totally alien. By the time he finished with the centralized inprocessing at division, he carried his paper work as if it were a death warrant rather than his ticket to the future.

Feeling the need to recoup before reporting to the battalion he was assigned to, Nathan made his way to the main post exchange for lunch. Perhaps, he thought, everything would look a whole lot better after he had choked down a PX burger and Coke.

That hope, however, was quickly dashed. He hadn’t even managed to bite into his burger before a sergeant first class came up to the table to where Nathan was seated. “Excuse me, sir,” the sergeant blurted out. “I noticed your name tag and couldn’t help but wonder if your father is ‘The’ Scott Dixon.”

With his burger suspended midway between the table and his mouth, Nathan looked up at the NCO. The sergeant’s innocent question reminded him of the second cruel truth that had dogged him all morning. He was not just another newly minted butter bar, fresh from the Fort Benning School for Boys. He was the son of a general, a famous one at that.

After setting the virgin burger back in its greasy paper wrapping, Nathan wiped his hands on the small napkin that disintegrated between his fingers, leaving tiny shreds of paper stuck to them. Standing up, he looked at the NCO for a moment before sheepishly responding with a meek, “Yes, I am.”

The sergeant’s response was similar in every way to those that he had experienced all morning. First, a broad grin, made broader by the fact that the person asking Nathan could relax in the knowledge that he had not made a fool of himself by asking the wrong person. Then, the inquisitor’s right hand would shoot out toward Nathan. As they shook vigorously, the person would state that he or she had served with his father here, or there, or during a particular crisis or war. In the case of this sergeant, it had been the First Persian Gulf War when the man had been a private and Scott a major in the same tank battalion. Then the platitudes would flow. These ranged from polite and proper, “He is the best there is,” to “He was a damned fine officer and a hell of a tanker.”