I have been all over the world, fighting the "enemy". I have killed more of the enemy than all my comrades, and saved most of my comrades' lives more than once. But now the war is over, and I am out of work. And I wonder: Was it courageous to kill so many? I walk the streets on this bitter, cold, night, looking for a place to speep. Only part of my mind is paying attention to the street unfolding beneath my feet. The other part is asking: Was it courageous to try to save others who were as guilty as I? Others scurry past me, faces half-hidden inside long, warm coats. I envy the warmth they must be feeling, buried beneath layers of clothes. I am walking in my threadbare army fatigues, with no coat or change of clothes. But my mind is only half on my frostbitten fingers and toes. The other half is pondering: Do I deserve any warmth after I gave put so many people into eternal cold? And I walk through the city, thinking all the night long.