Morlane hung his head. At times like these, his emotions were torments of conflict. He was grateful, yes; but he was ashamed. He was melancholy, true; but he was jubilant. Every month for the last 4 years he had made the trek; every month he had experienced these emotions again. He couldn't talk to anyone about these feelings. His father, raised on a quiet farm, couldn't know about such things. His fiancee, sophisticated city girl that she was, couldn't be expected to understand. Only his regiment could understand. And he was the only one left. Except for --

"GOD BLESS AMERICA! LAND THAT I LOVE!" The saccharine song, in the hated voice of a coward, the man who had run when he should have stood. The one man who hadn't deserved to live; one of the two who had. It was Rooster's voice. Private Morlane had hoped he would fill his own grave in this cemetery before he ever heard that voice again.

"Rooster," he said without turning. "Let the regiment sleep."