He slept. On his back, snoring quietly, he slept the sleep of the blissfully ignorant. Nothing troubled him, despite living in a world of torment and murder. A day spent learning the trades of killers, a body exhausted of energy, and a short night utterly devoted to recharging the batteries.

That morning the platoon had suffered at the whims of a sadistic drill sergeant. Up and down the hills. Left and right in the mud. Over and over again. Frustrations and rage with but one thing to focus on. One responsible party for thirty five young men who didn’t have the regulation socks to wear. One soldier, crucified on the cross to die for their sins.

The night before, while on fireguard, he had thrown a load of black wool socks into the washer with the rest of the sock laundry under cover of darkness. That morning, in surprised rage, the discovery was made.

A platoon of angry men held him down in the night. They beat him with bars of soap contained inside the purple socks discolored by his carelessness.