“Of course they do,” I said quickly. “The man’s at death’s door and that’s close enough.”

Qazwini stared hard at Salim, who was beginning to stir. A lump the size of an orange appeared at his temple. The General knew damned well that I knew nothing about body counts or the determinants governing them, but all of us, with a little encouragement, find truth in what we want to believe.

“The man deserves a Purple Heart,” I said, “with an oak leaf cluster. For action above and beyond—”

“We’re all above and beyond,” Qazwini said, fancying the phrase. “All of us should get one.”

“Certainly you should. As the commanding officer.” I reached out a congratulatory hand. He took it and, son of a bitch, I should have known, guided it to his scrotum while he in turn gripped mine.

Salim groaned. Ish-Chayl helped him to his feet. “I think we’ve had enough for one day,” he said.

“Awright, you fuckheads!” the General yelled, like John Wayne on Iwo Jima. “Let’s saddle up and shove off!”

He led them out of the clearing. The Colonel and I remained there for a moment. He ran a hand over his eyes. “Good God,” he murmured. “What a mess.”

“Actually, we’ve accomplished a lot.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Now we’ve got Qazwini by the balls—figuratively speaking. Now we know how to deal with him.”

“We do?”

“Sure. In any emergency, give him a medal.”

My father tilted his head and studied me with undisguised appreciation. “For one so young,” he said, “you are a master of damage control.” And then he added his finest compliment. “You’d do well,” he said, “in Israel.”

I found the Colonel the next evening at his desk, pursuing his paperwork, preparing a T.O. for his war machine.

“Where’ve you been all day?” I asked casually.

“Oh, here and there. Floating around the backcountry. Moving around helps me think.” He smiled ruefully, and with a kind of gracious regret, added, “but now I’ve got work to do.”

Thus I was dismissed, puzzled by his clueless secrecy.

And worried about him. True, he had changed considerably since his days at Corn Pone U. No longer was he given to ranting and raging, no longer did he scourge his colleagues (and his son) in the snide, measured accents of an Oxford don. No longer did he blame anti-Semitic assailants for his failures; indeed, he was no longer a failure. He had even changed physically. His stooped shoulders, once so pronounced, and his air of tortured weariness had given way to a vigor and a drive that would have been esteemed in a ten-wheeled locomotive.