In late October 1968, I came home from Vietnam. With six months to go before the end of my four-year enlistment, I was assigned to the Marine Corps Supply Depot, Philadelphia. In late December I sat at a desk addressing envelopes when my sergeant walked over to tell me to report to the first sergeant’s office.

I looked at him.

He said, “You got orders.”

“Orders for what?”

“Body escort. The first sergeant will give you the details. Why don’t you get down there and see him.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. I was heading for the door when he said, “You can refuse the orders.”

“I can?”

“But I didn’t tell you that.”

I drove down Broad Street with a can of beer between my legs. I turned up the radio and ran two red lights. The Marine sentry at the Navy Yard waved me through. I found the red brick building and parked behind it. I finished a second beer and tossed the can onto the floor of the back seat.