“You got it?” The Gunny pulled two more beers out of his flak jacket pocket and handed one to Mallory.
“No, Gunny. I ain’t got it.”
“Well, you’d best hurry up and get it.” Barlow nipped at his beer and tapped the letter-writing kit with a stubby finger.
“Jesus Christ, Gunny.” Mallory crushed his empty can and heaved it into a corner of the room. “I hardly knew Stankey. What the hell can I tell his parents?”
“You’re his squad leader.” Barlow leaned across the table close enough for Mallory to smell his boozy breath. The Gunny had more than the few beers he’d brought with him out to CP 54. “You write a letter to his next-of-kin. It’s tradition.”
“Is it tradition to get blown away because some stupid rule says you can’t shoot back at the guy who’s trying to kill you?”
“Shut up and write
