“Date of birth?”
“Ten November 1947.”
“Service number?” To Tony the man looked old, older than his own father. He was balding from the front. He was dressed in a loose-fitting suit, a striped tie. He sat in a chair before his desk. Tony was in an identical chair, facing him. “Dates of service?” The man had Tony’s admissions form, a copy of his service record, a copy of his preliminary physical. He had told Tony his name twice but Tony had forgotten it and felt uneasy asking again. The man reviewed the information slowly, lackadaisically, as if he were killing time. Tony focused on the green blocks of the half-tiled walls of the office, thought the work was well done. He looked out the window. It was sunny, windy. “... Panama, Viet Nam ...” The man talked on, told Tony a little about wher
