He told himself he had made a good decision; he had his citizenship. Why, he was capable of anything! When he walked among the locals in town—how many had seen what he had seen? How many could have done what he had done? To witness carnage, to come close to the essence of life because one had been close to death, to see humanity’s depravation—it was not the same as wisdom, but it was close. He knew why the army did not want Negroes on the front lines. It was not because other soldiers would not accept them, or that was not the only reason. It was not because they could not exercise valor—of course they could. It was because the U.S. government did not want them to be admired, lionized, when they returned.

IN JULY, Amarjeet passed Everett Pike, one of the boys from the war, on Main Street in front of the post office. Everett waved first.

“Hey, Jeet! Where ya been all this while?” he said, his smile big, his voice bigger. “What’re you up to?”

Amarjeet was glad to see him too. “Farming again.” He felt a whiff of embarrassment.

“Me too. You know, my old man’ll never let me off that damn farm.” They laughed.

Shortly after they had returned, Everett had organized a ball game in the field outside of town for the boys from the military. He had been a great batsman in high school. Sam was there, so was Herb, a few others Amarjeet did not know as well. After the game, they had stayed in the park, drinking hooch under starlight, talking about men they had known in the war. It had been good to do that.

“Big things in the works for the veterans,” Everett said now, kicking the dirt road with the toe of his shoe. “They’re callin’ a meeting. No one who’s been over there should miss it.”

“Oh?”

“Hotel Barbara Worth.” Everett raised his eyebrows and dropped them. “Classy.”

“When?” Amarjeet asked.

At that ball game, the other vets had mentioned other times they had met, times that Amarjeet had not known about. Once at Everett’s parents’ home. Once at Mount Signal, for a picnic with some girls from their old high school. Once at the Hotel Dunlack for a dinner hosted by Sam Pinkerton’s father. Sam was civil to Amarjeet now, even warm, ever since recovering from his injuries and coming home. It was good to know that saving his life may have changed his views. Somehow, wherever he was, Amarjeet felt Harry knew that. It had been Harry who had gone over the top of the trench to get Sam out of the line of fire, but Amarjeet had pulled him down inside, to the deep safety of the dugout. But still, Amarjeet had not been invited to the dinner.

“You didn’t get an invite?”

“Naw—” Amarjeet said.