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“SO HOW DO YOU LIKE BEING A GRADUATE STUDENT?” he asked me. “SO WHAT’S HE LIKE FOR A ROOMMATE?” he asked Hester. He was tan and fit-looking; maybe it was all the tennis. His uniform had only one medal on it.

“THEY GIVE IT TO EVERYONE!” said Owen Meany. On his left sleeve was a patch indicating his post, and on each shoulder epaulet was a brass bar signifying that he was a second lieutenant; on each collar was the brass U.S. insignia and the red-and-blue-striped silver shield of his branch: the Adjutant General’s Corps. The MEANY name tag was the only other hardware on his uniform—there were no marksmanship badges, or anything else.

“NO OVERSEAS PATCH—I’M NOT MUCH TO LOOK AT,” he said shyly; Hester and I couldn’t take our eyes off him.

“Are they really in plastic bags—the bodies?” Hester asked him.

“Do you have to check the contents of the bags?” I asked him.

“Are there sometimes just parts of a head and loose fingers and toes?” Hester asked him.

“I suppose this might change how you feel—about going over there?” I said to him.

“Do the parents freak?” Hester asked. “And the wives—do you have to talk to the wives?”

He looked so awfully composed—he made us feel as if we’d never left school; of course, we hadn’t.

“IT’S A WAY TO GO TO CALIFORNIA,” Owen said evenly. “I FLY TO TUCSON. I FLY TO OAKLAND—IT’S THE ARMY BASE IN OAKLAND WHERE YOU GET YOUR BODY INSTRUCTIONS.”

“What are ‘body instructions,’ for Christ’s sake?” Hester said; but Owen ignored her.

“SOMETIMES I FLY BACK FROM SAN FRANCISCO,” he said. “EITHER WAY, I GO CHECK THE CONTAINER IN THE BAGGAGE AREA—ABOUT TWO HOURS BEFORE WE TAKE OFF.”

“You check the plastic bag?” I asked him.

“IT’S A PLYWOOD CONTAINER,” he said. “THERE’S NO BAG. THE BODY IS EMBALMED. IT’S IN A CASKET. IN CALIFORNIA, I JUST CHECK THE PLYWOOD CONTAINER.”

“For what?” I said.

“FOR LEAKS,” he said. Hester looked as if she might throw up. “AND THERE’S INFORMATION STAPLED TO THE CONTAINER—I JUST MATCH THAT UP WITH THE K.I.A. SHEET.”

“‘K.I.A.’—what’s that?” I said.

“KILLED IN ACTION,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“BACK IN ARIZONA, IN THE FUNERAL HOME—THAT’S WHEN I CHECK THE BODY,” he said.

“I don’t want to hear any more,” Hester said.

“OKAY,” he said; he shrugged.

When we got away from Hester—we went to the Gravesend Academy gym to practice the shot, of course—I kept asking him about the bodies.

“USUALLY, YOU DISCUSS WITH THE MORTICIAN WHETHER OR NOT THE BODY IS SUITABLE FOR VIEWING—WHETHER OR NOT THE FAMILY SHOULD SEE IT,” he said. “SOMETIMES THE FAMILY WANTS TO BE CLOSE TO YOU—THEY FEEL YOU’RE ONE OF THEM. OTHER TIMES, YOU GET THE FEELING YOU SHOULD KEEP OUT OF THEIR WAY—YOU HAVE TO PLAY THIS PART BY EAR. AND THEN THERE’S THE FOLDING OF THE FLAG—YOU GIVE THE FLAG TO THE MOTHER, USUALLY; OR TO THE WIFE, IF THERE’S A WIFE. THAT’S WHEN YOU GIVE YOUR LITTLE SPEECH.”

“What do you say?” I asked him.

He was dribbling the basketball, his head nodding almost imperceptibly to the rhythm of the ball bouncing on the floor, his eyes always on the rim of the basket. “‘IT IS MY PRIVILEGE TO PRESENT TO YOU OUR COUNTRY’S FLAG IN GRATEFUL APPRECIATION FOR THE SERVICE RENDERED TO THIS NATION BY YOUR SON’—NATURALLY, YOU SAY ‘BY YOUR HUSBAND,’ IF YOU’RE GIVING THE FLAG TO A WIFE,” he added.

“Naturally,” I said; he passed me the ball.

“READY?” he said. He was already moving toward me—already timing his leap and, in his mind’s eye, seeing the shot fall—when I passed the ball back to him.

Those were brief days and nights; we tried to remember which government spokesman had said that Operation Rolling Thunder was “closing in on Hanoi.” That was what had prompted Owen to say: “I THINK HANOI CAN HANDLE IT.”

According to the State Department—according to Dean Rusk—we were “winning a war of attrition.” That was what prompted Owen to say: “THAT’S NOT THE KIND OF WAR WE WIN.”