“That’s it,” he said. “You and me are taking a walk to the gate. Get up.”
I didn’t get up.
He straightened up. He looked me over, from my white hair down to my church shoes, hunting for something else to use against me.
And he found it.
On the collar of my gray coat, there’s a pin. It’s small. The brass has gone dark with age. The blue enamel is chipped on one corner.
It’s a blue shield with a white heron, wings spread wide.
It’s the same as the one on his chest. Mine’s just fifty-six years older.
He stared at it.
Then he jabbed his finger at it, an inch from my throat.
“Where did you get that?”
I set down my glass.
“That’s my battalion’s crest,” he said. His voice was shaking now. With anger. “Men bled for that. Men died for that. You don’t buy it at some flea market in Hopkinsville and pin it on your coat to get a free lunch. Take it off.”
