Let’s begin with the first clean fact, James: This ain’t no war story. War stories are out–one, two, three, and a heave-ho, into the lake you go with all the other alewife scum and foamy harbor scum. But isn’t it a pity. All those crinkly, soggy sorts of laid-by tellings crowded together as thick and pitiful as street cobbles, floating mushy bellies up, like so much moldy shag rug…