The deer run to the safe haven of the sun. They have no choice. The infantry man must face the musket fire under the ever-darkening sky. He has no choice. The line of his gun is straight; he aims for the mark; he is pure of spirit. The powers that be have persuaded him. Like old hollow oaks, their half-exposed roots reach for the man’s footing. He is their “political prey.” Subliminally, he fires in their direction.