"For getting these damn records by himself. For killing... how many men?"

"I think it was five in there." The captain still looked confused.

"For this and for killing five men."

"For that?"

"Certainly."

The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Williams does it all the time. I don't know what's so special about this time. If we make a big deal now, he'll be transferred out. Anyway, he doesn't like medals."

MacCleary stared at the captain, looking for the traces of a lie. There was none.

"Where is he?" MacCleary asked.

The captain nodded. "By that tree."

MacCleary saw that barrel chest in the crotch of the tree, a helmet pulled over a head. He glanced at the farmhouse, the bored captain and then back at the man under the tree.

"Keep a guard on those records," he said, then he walked slowly to the tree and stood over the sleeping Marine.

He kicked the helmet from the head with enough dexterity not to cause injury.

The Marine blinked, then lazily opened those eyelids.

"What's your name?" MacCleary asked.

"Who are you?"

"A major," MacCleary answered. He wore the leaves on his shoulders for convenience. He saw the Marine look at them.

"My name, sir, is Remo Williams," the Marine said, starting to rise.

"Stay there," MacCleary said. "You get the records?"

"Yes sir. Did I do anything wrong?"

"No. You thinking of making a career out of the Marines?"

"No, sir. My hitch is up in two months."

"What are you going to do when you get out?"

"Go back to the Newark Police Department and get fat behind a desk."

"It's a waste of a good man."

"Yes, sir."

"Ever think of joining the CIA?"

"No."

"Would you like to?"

"No."

"Won't change your mind?"

"No sir." The Marine was respectful with a sullenness that let MacCleary know the sirs were short convenient words just to avoid complication or involvement.