“I tried once, during the war. I was on leave with some of my buddies over in Africa—Salisbury, I think—and we went out and got drunk. I could barely stand up, but my friends steered me into a whorehouse, one of those cheap black places on the edge of town. The building was run-down and filthy, and the girls hadn’t bathed in several weeks. The room smelled of sweat—n***o sweat. I couldn’t do anything, and I broke down and cried. My friends thought it was because the girl was black, so they pooled their money and took me to a fancier white bordello. I couldn’t do anything there, either. I ended up vomiting all over the bed—hardly the most comforting experience for a young virgin, right?”
Hawker didn’t answer, and another long silence ensued. Finally Green spoke again. “I entered the army t
