Forgive yourself. Separate your self from the soldier. You promised me you would keep a construct between you and the war. I know war and I know promises are heavy things. And I know you so well. You are my eldest and finest. The best thing that ever happened to your Ma and me. And the best goddamn thing that ever happened to Richie Hook. You’re a good solider, a good son, and you were a good brother to Richie. The best he could’ve hoped for. You loved and protected each other the best you could. He’s gone and you’re cut in two. Your heart’s broken because you were mates. Nothing replaces it.

You’re honorable and decent and kind. You’ll never get over this, but you’ll learn how to get next to it and bring it along.

And you’ll come out the better man for it.

“Can I tell you something?” O’Hara said.

“Mm.”

“The day they got Jock… You got me back on my feet. I’ll never forget it.”

“Probably because I slugged you.”

“The slug isn’t memorable, although I definitely needed it. It was when you said, ‘I want you two feet from my hip at all times.’ You bossed me around from hell to breakfast and I grabbed onto it like you wouldn’t believe. It helped me get through the rest of the fight. I never said thank you.”

“You’d do it for me,” Kennet whispered, and touched his own hip. “See, you’re doing it now.”

“I’m so sorry, Fish.”

Kennet turned up his palm. O’Hara put his on it and they folded fingers and thumbs down, gripping hard.

“I’m sorry, too,” Kennet said. “About Chris.”

O’Hara didn’t answer but Kennet knew why. Some pain defied description to the point where describing it was unnecessary. Almost offensive. Talking about it only cheapened it, and O’Hara’s grief was too dear.

Kennet and O’Hara returned to the platoon on April 22, both scarred men. Both changed men. Without discussion, they stayed together. Physically close—marching, guarding, eating and sleeping two feet from each other’s hip—but at a deliberate emotional distance. The company they kept was largely silent. Each only wanted the other so neither would have to talk.

Kennet no longer wrote in his journal. Without Hook reading the entries, he saw no reason to keep recording them. And what was the point revealing your most secret thoughts and feelings to someone, anyway? They’d only leave you in the end, taking your heart and soul with them. Better you kept it to yourself, kept your head down and just did your damn job. The history books would tell the story. That was their damn job.