I can be there by 12.30, okay?” “What?...errr…sure. 12.30? Can we make it 1?” James could barely stammer his reply to what was not quite a ...equest. “Should I make a reservation?” “Hmm. No need. I’ll bring lunch.” And then she hung up. James was at a loss. He called his secretary and had her quickly re-arrange his schedule asking her to make up any old excuses for him. Once his secretary, Mary, knew the real reason for the sudden re-scheduling she took on that “Aawww!” look women tend to. Each year, he observed the file of crippled soldiers, long since passed their usefulness to a society, doing it's best to forget for the other three hundred and sixty four days, except in the glorified films of heroic deeds with John Wayne, or another popular actor, leading a squad of crack troopers into an impossible confrontation, overwhelming odds, somehow beaten at the loss of one or two, good men. The silver screen could not convey the disease, shit, fear and boredom of warfare.He had. More

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