His name was Donald Martin, but he was always Donny to me.
Donny was a dark-haired Louisiana boy with a quick smile and an even quicker temper. One minute he’d be laughing at something and the next he’d be in your face, cussin’ up a blue streak. I liked him, in spite of his unpredictable moods, and in direct violation of the distance I tried to keep between myself and the other guys in the platoon.
He and I were a lot alike, you see. We were both from religious families, and were testing the limits of how far we would go in rebellion against our upbringing. Both of us had enlisted and volunteered to be there. We both read when we got a chance, and passed books back and forth. Both of us had lives we wanted to go back to, parents praying for us, a girlfriend waiting for us.
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