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pastor honored an elderly man in the congregation. He had served in the Navy during World War II and had three ships shot out from beneath him. The pastor joked that that was the reason no one would go fishing with the man. The honoree and congregation laughed, but J. J. could see the pain on the man’s face, just below the surface.
    The pastor told of the man’s efforts to save a dozen men in a burning engine room before the destroyer went beneath the waves twenty miles off the Philippines. He entered and reentered the burning space below decks to pull wounded men from the smoke-choked room. He saved twelve lives, throwing the men overboard before making the jump himself. In the water he found two of the most severely wounded and helped them stay afloat until rescue arrived.
    The pastor held up a simple frame that held a typewritten accommodation from Admiral Nimitz. The congregation stood and applauded. The hero couldn’t face the people. Later J. J. joined several other men who pressed for details to the story. The elderly man tried, but broke down two minutes in. Over sixty years later the sailor couldn’t face what he had seen and done.
    J. J. saw the same look on Zinsser’s face. Apparently Moyer did too. “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other later,” Moyer said. He raised his glass of beer. “To the new guy.”
    The others raised their glasses in a toast.
    Zinsser took a deep breath. “Thanks guys, I won’t let you down.”
    “Our hour is up, men. Time for you to beat it. Go home. Enjoy the evening. I want everyone on base, on time, and ready to rock. Clear?”
    “Hooah!”

CHAPTER 4
    JERRY ZINSSER DIDN’T GO home. His bare apartment held no appeal. He had another destination in mind. He sat in his 2005 Chevrolet Silverado and starred at the lobby doors of Moncrief Army Community Hospital, Fort Jackson’s medical facility. He closed his eyes, but the image of the doors and what lay behind them continued to play in his mind. He had never been a patient here. His wounds were first treated at a field hospital in Nariobi, Kenya, then in Landsthuhul, Germany.
    Brian Taylor hadn’t been so lucky. The doctors in Germany had been able to keep him alive, but they couldn’t save his legs, his arm, or most of his colon. Despite his injuries, Brian “Echo” Taylor was more man than any person Zinsser had met.
    Zinsser wiped his eyes, pulled a facial tissue from a box on the passenger seat, and blew his nose. Deep breath. Deep, cleansing, invigorating breath. He drew in air until his lungs hurt then released it in a slow jet from his lips. He looked at his hands. They shook. He flexed his fingers twenty-five times as he had done a thousand times in the last week. The tremors settled.
    In a monumental battle of mind over body, Zinsser forced his jaw to unclench. His stomach still roiled with acid, but he could deal with that. He removed a small roll of Rolaids and ate half of them.
    Five minutes later Zinsser convinced himself that he was still a brave man, exited the truck, and walked into the hospital.
    Room 253 held only one occupant: Brian Taylor. The room was dark. Brian liked it that way. Zinsser took one step over the threshold then stopped. Brian’s form lay on the bed, a clean white sheet covered him from his shoulders to just twenty-four inches below his hips. Where legs should have been there was just flat, white sheet. The portion of the sheet over his left shoulder covered the stump of his arm.
    Zinsser’s eyes began to burn. Careful not to wake his friend, Zinsser slipped across the floor and lowered himself into a yellow Naugahyde-covered chair. It squeaked lightly as he moved his frame across the chair’s surface. Brian didn’t move. Zinsser looked at the plastic bags hanging from the IV pole. He didn’t have to rise and read the labels to know what they contained. Antibiotics and morphine. The latter kept Brian asleep most of the time.
    The dim room provided Zinsser with a