HARRY MORGAN-WINTER down and I was hitting him on the head with a bottle. Just like playing on a drum. I bet I hit him fifty times.* 'More/ said the bloody-faced one. 'It didn't make no impression on him.' 'I can take it,' said the other. He whispered in Richard Gordon's ear, It's a secret'. Richard Gordon handed over two of the three beers the white-jacketed, big bellied nigger bar- tender drew and pushed toward him. 'What's a secret?' he asked. 'Me,' said the bloody-faced one. 'My secret.' 'He's got a secret,' the other Vet said. 'He isn't lying.' 'Want to hear it?' the bloody-faced one said in Richard Gordon's ear. Gordon nodded. 'It don't hurt.' The other nodded. 'Tell him the worst of it.' The red-headed one put his bloody lips almost to Gordon's ear. 'Sometimes it feels good,' he said. 'How do you feel about that?' At Gordon's elbow was a tall, thin man with a scar that ran from one corner of his eye.down over his chin. He looked down at the red-headed one and grinned. 'First it was an art,* he said. 'Then it became a pleasure. If things made me sick you'd make me sick, Red.'