Gunner runs his hand up and down the length of my back and blows out a sigh. “I led the guys into the village that day. I’m the one who trusted our interpreter and thought he was trustworthy. I was pissed about everything back home and didn’t care what trouble we got ourselves into. I was the selfish one because while I felt that way, they all had families at home and people who loved them.”

“As did you,” I whisper.

“No. I had nothing anymore. As I explained, I’d said goodbye to everything that had mattered to me before in the letters Dickman suggested I write. One went to my mom where I told her I loved her, but that I could no longer live in her world full of excuses and misgivings. A few went to sports agencies telling them thanks, but no thanks. Another to the girl I had been dating at the time. I had nothing and no one who I felt missed me, so I was the reckless one, leading my men, my brothers, into danger.”

His words cut through me like a knife, and I struggle how to comfort, how to acknowledge, how to relate when there’s no possible way I ever could. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say. It was what I had to do to survive the situation I was in. But it also made me dangerous to those around me, because I didn’t care what happened to me since I’d already said goodbye to everything I’d loved.”

“Jesus, Gunner.”

“Yeah, I know better now. I know how precious life is and all that I would have missed out on . . . but that day, I didn’t care. I didn’t care, and so I pushed our team to go into that village and get the intel I was told was there. I harassed Dickman when he said no. I got the guys rallied up over it. I was the one who caused it.”

“You’re not at fault for what happened.”

“Men died, Chase. My friends, my brothers, died. And I’m the one who has to bear that burden my whole life.” His sigh is heavy, his chest shuddering right after. “I told you I wasn’t as good as you’ve made me out to be in your head.”

His chuckle is self-deprecating at best and the sound of it holds so much grief and guilt that I can’t not argue with him. I sit up so that he’s forced to meet my eyes.

“You weren’t the commanding officer. Dickman could have said no. He could have told you to go to hell. You are not—”