James was a bit more short than a slender man could truly be, but he sure was slim. I remember the day he turned twenty and I lifted him over my shoulders the same way I did when he turned twelve. Nothing in the way he talked made him seem small though. He knew what he was talking about, he sure did. Whenever anyone had a problem, he'd figure out what was right and if they couldn't settle it like that, well he'd pick a side and fight. No one wanted to fight James either, sweet guy like that, and no one wants to get beat by the small guy. Damn, he was swell. I remember the last letter he wrote me. He talked on and on about how he only had a couple months 'til we could down pint after pint at the Red Cavern down the road. He said we'd play a game of ball to decide on the tab. I promised myself I'd let him win a game so I could finally buy my little bro a beer, hell maybe even a whiskey. We never did play a game, o'course.
The next letter I got wasn't written in Jamie's casual scrawl, but typed by some secretary, sympathetically announcing how James G. Pavon was shot down in the line of duty. If I'm honest, I'm glad he died out there, with the honor he deserved, didn't come home in pieces like some of them. You can't look a man with no legs in the eyes. I guess you can't look a dead man in the eyes either, but at least you don't feel so damn guilty.
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