"Maybe not," I agreed, "but you will never write that book."

Again there was silence, and this time it was broken by the Kid.
He turned from the window and looked toward Hamlin. "That's
right!" he said.

He sat down on the edge of the table, and at the deserter pointed
his forefinger.

"Son," he said, "this war is some war. It's the biggest war in
history, and folks will be talking about nothing else for the next
ninety years; folks that never were nearer it than Bay City, Mich.
But you won't talk about it. And you've been all through it.
You've been to hell and back again. Compared with what you know
about hell, Dante is in the same class with Dr. Cook. But you
won't be able to talk about this war, or lecture, or write a book
about it."

"I won't?" demanded Hamlin. "And why won't I?"

"Because of what you're doing now," said Billy. "Because you're
queering yourself. Now, you've got everything." The Kid was very
much in earnest. His tone was intimate, kind, and friendly.
"You've seen everything, done everything. We'd give our eye-teeth
to see what you've seen, and to write the things you can write.
You've got a record now that'll last you until you're dead, and
your grandchildren are dead--and then some. When you talk the
table will have to sit up and listen. You can say 'I was there.'
'I was in it.' 'I saw.' 'I know.' When this war is over you'll