When Francis hits the table Raju looks up sharply, tight expression snapped into a frown. It’s a more aggressive version, suddenly, of what Lieutenant Little had said all those months ago. Francis believes the same, doesn’t he?Maybe Little even took what he’d said from Francis, his captain, who must believe it too, ideals and humanity above all else, at any cost, and what that means for the men for whom that cost is too high, who go out and fight in the ways that they have to. That’s what Francis is saying. That’s what he thinks. That’s what he’s thought of Raju this whole time, he just doesn’t know it.

The sour thing in Raju’s stomach reaches up into his sternum and starts squeezing. His grip is tight over the thread, and his other hand is a fist on the table as he leans over it. His expression is stricken but his voice is hard, demanding:

“What do you think those children are doing while their fathers are stealing and shooting and killing? A father’s fight is the son’s. That starts early. There’s no time in his life he doesn’t know it. You don’t get to make them innocent just because you want them to be; they aren’t going to lay down and thank you just so you get to keep your hands clean.”