I recall a friend who marched and campaigned against that awful, terrible napalm. Later on, under
circumstances he had never imagined he would be in, he found himself praying for some napalm, and being damned glad to see it when the evil flowers blossomed.
No emotion. Just listing the history and credentials.
Unlike my secretary in Vietnam, half of whose face was permanently and horribly scarred by napalm. Wrong place, wrong time. It was even more of a drag when I had to take her to see her ostensibly injured brother. When we arrived he wasn't in the ward. "Oh," a corpsman said, "I know where he is." He took us around back of the Quonset hut and opened the door on a Conex container. It was about half full of dead bodies. Grabbed a toe tag and said, "Here."
No emotion. Just history.