The first helmet is too small, resting squarely on top of his head. The second helmet is much too big, and it falls over his face. The last one balances perfectly. He ties it underneath his chin, then struggles to fit himself into a tiny waistcoat. He misaligns the buttons of a long jacket and painstakingly refastens them. Bip preparing for basic training is identical to Bip primping for a gala. The same movements, the same romantic music. A new surrounding narrative.
Bip takes a large gulp of water from his canteen. Missiles soar overhead. He shares water with a soldier to his left. The explosions get louder. He ducks down and covers his head. After this round of bombing stops, he tries to put his arm around the comrade for comfort, but he grasps only air. As he feels for his friend, his hand lowers to the ground, finally resting just a few inches above the stage floor, as if touching the back of a corpse. He pulls the soldier up on his lap and rests his head against the man’s chest, listening for a heartbeat.