''I don't believe so, sir.
I'm not much of a shot, and I'd rather stay in that sack.
It's a Sunday morning, you know.''
''I know,'' the Colonel said. ''You can stay in the sack until noon if you want.''
''I brought my repellent.
I ought to sleep O.K.''
''I'm not sure you'll need it,'' the Colonel said. ''Did you bring any K-rations or Ten in One?
They're liable to eat Italian food, you know.''
''I brought a few cans to help out and a little stuff to give away.''
''That's good,'' the Colonel said.
He was looking ahead now to see where the canal road joined the main highway again.
There he knew that he would see it on a clear day such as this was.
Across the marshes, brown as those at the mouths of the Mississippi around Pilot Town are in winter, and with their reeds bent by the heavy north wind, he saw the squared tower of the church at Torcello and the high campanile of Burano beyond it.
The sea was a slate blue and he could see the sails of twelve sailing barges running with the wind for Venice.
I'll have to wait until we cross the Dese River above Noghera to see it perfectly, he thought.
It is strange to remember how we fought back there along the canal that winter to defend it and we never saw it.
Then one time, I was back as far as Noghera and it was clear and cold like today, and I saw it across the water.
But I never got into it.
It is my city, though, because I fought for it when I was a boy, and now that I am half a hundred years old, they know I fought for it and am a part owner and they treat me well.
Do you think that's why they treat you well, he asked himself.
Maybe, he thought.
Maybe they treat me well because I'm a chicken colonel on the winning side.
I don't believe it, though.
I hope not, anyway.
It is not France, he thought.
There you fight your way into a city that you love and are very careful about breaking anything and then, if you have good sense, you are careful not to go back because you will meet some military characters who will resent your having fought your way in.
Vive la France et les pommes de terre frites.
Liberte, Venalite, et Stupidite.
The great clarte of the French military thinking.
They haven't had a military thinker since du Picq.
He was a poor bloody Colonel, too.
Mangin, Maginot and Gamelin.
Take your choice, Gentlemen.
Three schools of thought.
One; I hit them on the nose.
Two; I hide behind this thing which does not cover my left flank.
Three; I hide my head in the sand like an ostrich, confident in the greatness of France as a military power and then take off.
Take off is putting it very cleanly and pleasantly.
Sure, he thought, whenever you over-simplify you become unjust.
Remember all the fine ones in the Resistance, remember Foch both fought and organized and remember how fine the people were.
Remember your good friends and remember your deads.
Remember plenty things and your best friends again and the finest people that you know.
Don't be a bitter nor a stupid.
And what has that to do with soldiering as a trade?
Cut it out, he told himself. You're on a trip to have fun.
''Jackson,'' he said, ''are you happy?''
''Yes, sir.''
''Good.
Shortly, we are coming to a view that I want you to see.
You only have to take one look at it.