personal reminiscences, of the Turkish Theater where Benson had served,
and the Madras Beachhead, where Myers had been.

"Bring home any souvenirs?" Myers asked.

"Not much. Couple of pistols, couple of knives, some pictures. I don't
remember what all; haven't gotten around to unpacking them, yet.... I
have a sixth of rye and some beer, at my rooms. Let's go around and see
what I did bring home."

They finished their drinks and went out.

"What the devil's that?" Myers said, pointing to the cardboard box with
the envelope taped to it, when Benson lifted it out of the gray-green
locker.

"Bill, I don't know," Benson said. "I found it in the pocket of my coat,
on my way back from my last hunter patrol.... I've never told anybody
about this, before."

"That's the damnedest story I've ever heard, and in my racket you hear
some honeys," Myers said, when he had finished. "You couldn't have
picked that thing up in some other way, deliberately forgotten the
circumstances, and fabricated this story about the tank and the grenade
and the discrepancy in your watch subconsciously as an explanation?"

"My subconscious is a better liar than that," Benson replied. "It
would have cobbled up some kind of a story that would stand up. This
business...."