“This is how the First World War begins; millions die and Europe changes forever. So, my question to you and to General Schlieffen: Is war won by strategy or luck? Is history written by the design of rational nation-state actors, or is this all happening by accident? And, Mr. Flanagan, if you flick that pen one more time and drop it, you will disappear quicker than the Russian Second Army.”

“Heil Hitler,” Flanagan muttered, just a touch too loud.

Donahue placed the cap on his blue marker very slowly. “Excuse me, son?”

Flanagan sank into his seat. “Nothing.”

“Stand up!”

Donahue’s command was like the crack of a volcano. A terrified Flanagan stood.

“To the back of the class.”

“For what?”

Donahue’s face was bright red, full bull moose. “Mr. Flanagan, my class time is too short for your nonsense. Back of the room! Now!”

“Sir, I don’t think—”

“That’s right, keep talking,” Donahue growled. “Make this easier for me and worse for you.”

“Fine.” Flanagan shuffled to the back of the room. No one dared make eye contact with him or Donahue. Jesus Christ, Dan thought, Flanagan’s triggered a Nam flashback.

“You know what I see?” Donahue was barking so loud, the windows shook. “Know what the Führer thinks?”

Silence.

“I asked you a question, Mr. Flanagan. You know what I see?”

“No, sir.”

Donahue stepped into Flanagan. They were inches apart. “A disrespectful little shit.”

The sophomores stared straight ahead at the whiteboards. Dan was straining his side-eye to witness the massacre behind him. Donahue might destroy Flanagan in order to save him. Flanagan’s chin was trembling. He gulped a breath. Donahue moved in even closer.

“Are you going to cry now? What kind of a wiseass are you? You waste my time as a student, and when you want to act like a joker, you can’t pull that off either.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dan felt like crying for Flanagan, and Sticky gave him a “holy shit” look. How could we have possibly lost the Vietnam War? Dan wondered.

“No apology necessary, Mr. Flanagan. I feel sorry for you. You are a first-class fuckup, and for the rest of the year, you will speak only when spoken to. You will not like me, but you will respect me, and you will learn. How tall are you, Flanagan?”

Flanagan wiped his nose in his sleeve, head bowed to the carpet. “Five foot four, sir.”

Donahue uncapped his blue marker, made a histrionic display of ballparking Flanagan’s height from the floor, and then drew a small circle on a poster of the Magna Carta. “Put your nose right here, Mr. Flanagan.”

Flanagan stepped to the poster and put his nose in the circle. It was two inches taller than nostril level, just enough to raise his chin and tip his toes in discomfort.