Jesus, how many lies do men tell just to make mothers not worry?

He chewed on his pencil a bit, then tried to write honestly about fear. To describe to a grieving woman how fear was a skeleton for some soldiers, but for most, it was an exoskeleton. The fear within turned inside-out to something functional: black humor, superstition or detachment.

Yet things pull us back within and most times, that thing is the memory of love and kindness, such as we saw in North Platte. For your son to have grown up in such a generous and loving community I’m sure left him with enough good memories to sustain him through anything. That’s what we’re fighting for, ma’am. All the love and generosity and all the memories not yet made.

I don’t know if this will make you feel better, Mrs. Messer, but more often than not, we soldiers are hungry, rather than scared. And a gift of cookies makes us feel like we can do anything.

There, he thought, pleased. Surely a woman can worry more constructively about hunger than fear.

Kennet had never been a husky fellow to begin with. Now his belt was cinched three inches tighter than where it had been in England and when he wasn’t thinking about death, he was thinking about food.

Dear God, food. Not the C-ration crap they were forced to choke down but real, honest-to-God, down-home and made with love food. Some soldiers couldn’t bear to speak of it. Others spoke of nothing else. But they all thought about it.

Kennet thought food might succeed in making him go mad, where the horrors and trials of war failed. A soldier said apple in passing and Kennet’s mouth flooded with saliva. He could see the crisp, tart word written out a page, all round looping letters ready to burst their juice. His teeth came together, tasting, crunching and chewing, and he nearly wept he was so hungry. Remembering the ham sandwich in North Platte, tangy with mustard and pickle on soft white bread buttered on both sides. The cold, thick milk in a little glass bottle. The fluffy angel cake that painted your tongue with sugar and left a citrus tang clinging to the ridges of your palate. A ball of salty-sweet popcorn to munch through the night. All those delicious, sticky bits to pick out of your teeth.

If the boys stood around and talked about baseball, Kennet could only think of a hot dog with relish. Or a bag of roasted peanuts. He longed for a cheeseburger, seared on the outside and pink within, piled high with lettuce and onion and ketchup. A mountain of crisp, shoestring fries on the side. All those warm, sloppy mouthfuls washed down with an ice-cold Coca-Cola. Rattling slurps through a straw to suck out every bubbly droplet clinging to the ice cubes.