But There Are No Loners. No Man

He [gen. Douglas Macarthur] Was A Great Thundering Paradox Of A Man, Noble And Ignoble, Inspiring And Outrageous, Arrogant And Shy, The Best Of Men And The Worst Of Men, The Most Protean, Most Ridiculous, And Most Sublime.

It Was His [gen. Douglas Macarthur's] Relationship With The Administration In Washington Which Became Poisoned By His Egomania. Link Upon Link The Bond Between Events On The Battlefield And His Own Ruin Was Forged, And, As Is Essential In Genuine Tragedy, The Gods Used The Victim Himself To Forge The Links.

But There Are No Loners. No Man Lives In A Void. His Every Act Is Conditioned By His Time And His Society.

One Strange Feeling, Which I Remember Clearly, Was A Powerful Link With The Slain, Particularly Those That Had Fallen Within The Past Hour Or Two. There Was So Much Death Around That Life Seemed Almost Indecent. Some Men's Uniforms Were Soaked With Gobs Of Blood. The Ground Was Sodden With It. I Killed, Too.

An Edwardian Lady In Full Dress Was A Wonder To Behold, And Her Preparations For Viewing Were Awesome.