Back Night Train
Chapters (37)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. The Truth of Thom Jones
  5. Selected Stories
  6. The Pugilist at Rest
  7. The Black Lights
  8. I Want to Live!
  9. Silhouettes
  10. Mosquitoes
  11. A White Horse
  12. Cold Snap
  13. Superman, My Son
  14. Way Down Deep in the Jungle
  15. Pickpocket
  16. Pot Shack
  17. I Need a Man to Love Me
  18. Sonny Liston Wasa Friend of Mine
  19. The Roadrunner
  20. A Run Through the Jungle
  21. 40, Still at Home
  22. Tarantula
  23. Mouses
  24. Daddy’s Girl
  25. New Stories
  26. Night Train
  27. Volcanoes from Hell
  28. A Merry Little Christmas
  29. All Along the Watchtower
  30. Diary of My Health
  31. The Junkman of Chengdu
  32. Bomb Shelter Noel
  33. Acknowledgments
  34. Credits
  35. About the Author
  36. Also by Thom Jones
  37. Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.

The platoon waited at parade rest while Sergeant Wright came out of the duty hut and took command of the situation. An ambulance was called, and it came almost immediately. A number of corpsmen squatted down alongside the fallen man for what seemed an eternity. Eventually they took Hey Baby off with a fractured skull. It would be the last we ever saw of him. Three evenings later, in the squad bay, the assistant D.I. told us rather ominously that Hey Baby had recovered consciousness. That’s all he said. What did that mean? I was worried, because Hey Baby had seen me make my move, but, as it turned out, when he came to he had forgotten the incident and all events of the preceding two weeks. Retrograde amnesia. Lucky for me. I also knew that at least three other recruits had seen what I did, but none of them reported me. Every member of the platoon was called in and grilled by a team of hard-ass captains and a light colonel from the Criminal Investigation Detachment. It took a certain amount of balls to lie to them, yet none of my fellow-jarheads reported me. I was well liked and Hey Baby was not. Indeed, many felt that he got exactly what was coming to him.

The other day—Memorial Day, as it happened—I was cleaning some stuff out of the attic when I came upon my old dress-blue uniform. It’s a beautiful uniform, easily the most handsome worn by any of the U.S. Armed Forces. The rich color recalled Jorgeson’s eyes for me—not that the color matched, but in the sense that the color of each was so startling. The tunic does not have lapels, of course, but a high collar with red piping and the traditional golden eagle, globe, and anchor insignia on either side of the neck clasp. The tunic buttons are not brassy—although they are in fact made of brass—but are a delicate gold in color, like Florentine gold. On the sleeves of the tunic my staff sergeant’s chevrons are gold on red. High on the left breast is a rainbow display of fruit salad representing my various combat citations. Just below these are my marksmanship badges; I shot Expert in rifle as well as pistol.