Gerber cracked up and did a little war dance, “Aiee aiee chi chi wawa!”

By the time Felix came back, the supply clerk was gone, and Felix was not one bit happy. He was a new guy, half bad—no one knew what he would do. Start a fight? Scream? We just didn’t know. People in recon were capable of anything including mayhem and murder. Suddenly he picked up the gasoline and doused the ailing roadrunner. None of us said anything. I think we were too shocked to say anything. The bird hunkered down miserably as its eyes began to blink in rapid fashion. Next Felix pulled out a matchbook and started flicking lit matches at the bird.

Again, no one made a move to stop him. I’d like to report that we were about to do something, but the bird was pretty much written off as dead by that time. Finally Felix lit half the book and immolated the bird. His accent was pure Connecticut, completely new to me. He thumped his chest and said, “They-ya, you cocksuckah. Bo’ne to kill! Arroo-gah!” The bird hunkered down into the crouch of death. Sickened, Gerber hoisted his new footlocker on his shoulder and started down the hill back to the barracks. One by one, the rest of us followed him, each one of us alone with the guilt of our own complicity. It was exactly one week after that when we shipped out to Vietnam.

A Run Through the Jungle