Private Fleming slept for the first time in months. Not the uneasy sleep of a soldier in battle, nor the vigilant sleep of a new mother, but the sleep of a child. He never thought slaughtering so many would bring about such a feeling, that it would be so refreshing.
Gone were the feelings of remorse. He no longer wondered if he would in other circumstances greet his appointed enemies as drinking buddies. No. He was what his country had always dreamed of in a soldier: a killing machine. A tank. Yes, Private Fleming would like to be their tank: untouchable, unflappable about his duty. A tank had no business in dealing with regret, it only dealt in misery and death.
However, tank is a man-machine, and Fleming was a man made into a machine. Someday he feared he would remember that distinction.
But as he dreamed of ploughing the farm and watching his children feed the chickens, Fleming was at ease. Tonight was a respite from guilt and memories.