THERE is happy commotion in the Marine squadbay. Along the rows of metal bunks men shuck their new field boots, let them thump to the deck, and gently peel socks off their blistered feet. Belt buckles jingle. Off come green dungaree shirts, darker where the men have sweated, and out from under the hoisted sopped tee-shirts pop heads almost shaved of hair. Down go trousers, skivvies—and the men, naked now but for the jingling of dogtags, step away from the mounds of sweated uniforms, grab towels, plop off down the squadbay to the showers.

Officer Candidate Wilson sees blood on his white tee-shirt, his skivvy shorts, and ringing fills his head. The sting had been there, along the scar on his belly, since he did the sit-ups in the PT test. Had done only five, only five. Could not pump out even one more. He had hoped the pain didn't mean his incision had pulled open. Now he knows this has happened.