Cutting ears off dead NVA had become routine; stocking shelves at Kroger’s seemed something he’d only dreamed. Then, on a mission in the Iron Triangle, Freeze stepped on a Bouncing Betty that didn’t go off and nothing seemed real anymore. It was like he’d stepped out of Nam when he stepped on the mine. And now he wasn’t anywhere. The day after Freeze stepped on the mine, the new brown-bar reported for duty. His name was Reynolds, and from the moment he arrived at Lai Khe, he had it in for Freeze. Freeze had just come in off the line that morning, and he was stumbling drunk outside the bunny club, wearing only his bush hat, sunglasses, and Jockey shorts. He had a bottle of Carling Black Label in one hand and a fragmentation grenade in the other. He was standing there, swaying back and forth, when Reynolds came up to him, his jungle fatigues starched and razor-creased, and stuck his square, government-issue jaw into Freeze’s face. “What the fuck are you doing, soldier?” Freeze looked at the brown bar on Reynolds’ collar and saluted with the grenade.
