Sergeant Reese followed several steps behind him.
The corporal and the other soldier remained outside.
Private Martinez came too, carrying my purse because I had forgotten it on the table.
I thanked her.
The office was small, with a desk, two filing cabinets, and a framed American flag folded inside a glass case.
Whitaker pulled out a chair.
“Please sit, ma’am.”
I sat.
He remained standing.
“Before we begin, I want you to know that I have already notified the command team about what happened in the dining hall.”
I
nodded.
“That seems appropriate.”
He looked toward Reese.
“Sergeant, you can explain your conduct to the commander. But first, I want you to listen.”
Reese stood with his hands behind his back.
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
Whitaker opened a drawer and removed a flat brown envelope.
It was old.
Very old.
The edges had softened, and there was a yellowing label on the front.
He placed it on the desk.
“About six months ago, we were reorganizing the historical records connected with this battalion. We found this envelope in a storage
