D. K. Webster
For the first time in years, he felt like he was back in school. He'd caught on quickly that he was out of his depth trying to work with soldiers from World War I and World War II. He'd been prepared for those coming back from Iraq, but war as he was familiar with it wasn't like the people who were coming to him for help. The best plan was to bone up on history.
Sweets sat in his office with a stack of books on the wars, the conditions of soldiers who came home from the trenches and both fronts in the forties. He also had a few simply on the culture of those decades. Social mores were almost foreign to him. He scribbled notes from several open books on the desk, only looking up when he heard someone enter the psych office. His pencil stilled and he laid it down so he could fold his hands.
"Hello," he said politely.
Sweets sat in his office with a stack of books on the wars, the conditions of soldiers who came home from the trenches and both fronts in the forties. He also had a few simply on the culture of those decades. Social mores were almost foreign to him. He scribbled notes from several open books on the desk, only looking up when he heard someone enter the psych office. His pencil stilled and he laid it down so he could fold his hands.
"Hello," he said politely.