He looked like a tobacco roll, standing all up-right and rigid and sickly-green, in his Olive-Drabs. A dutiful kiss he placed on the cheek of every woman in his life, from knee-high Eugenie to Grandmother Zittie. And always mother, in her mockingly stern countenance. It was mostly defiant, they had decided. The Gerries wouldn't get Mother, the Gerries would only get neighbour boys and cowboys and European boys.

And Zittie said he wouldn't go down.

The house went up in a smoke of furious anticipation.
"Where's the damn suitcase!"
The cry hit the side of the house and fell. On the south side, out of view, Georgi, embarrassed, shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. Father was railing out at something, and it weren't luggage.

'Bout time he felt it. Time they all felt it.

His polished army-boots spent a real long time holding onto that precious ground, as he took his first step into the automobile. Time reeled around his last steps on the family land. The grass was olive-drab- dry like the tobacco fields before the war had started across the sea. The stench of the dried fish pond weighed in our senses. And against the thick soles of our bare childish feet, even the morning ground felt like burning asphalt.

They-- we weren't a perfect family. A perfect family wouldn't exist in a world of death and flying warfare.

His other foot left the ground as he climbed in beside Father.. waving his Air Force cap, grinning like a devil, crazed and sunburnt. Deetie snapped a photograph, before Mother could ask for another one in front of the parlour window.

So long, I'd said, Tommy, bring me 235 enemy aircraft, brother dear.