She would at least be his last thought. Looking around he saw the fire ahead of him, the fire of what they taught in some churches. Fire and brimstone.

It was as if he knew already what he would find on the ground, fire, smoke, bullets, mines, grenades. He was afraid. On the ground, using a flashlight allowed you to see, but it allowed you to be seen. He wanted to die first and get it over with. To just be gone. The smells are still in him, he thinks now. The smell of war, of human flesh, chemicals, smoke, fear.

The others who survived that push, that first touch of feet, bend of knees, roll on dangerous earth, would stay together in the firmament of jungle law, in the darkness of the water, the earth. In all that destruction they’d say such things as, “You’re a sorry excuse for a man,” and laugh, blowing out smoke.

Then he remembers the bodies carried out and away, some in bags, some just thrown on top of each other until they could be carelessly gathered and their blasted remains sent away. Then, another bomb. They may have been good sons and brothers, good to their wives at home, but a disease traveled through them in war. It was a fire of fear, excitement, hatred. There was no trust of anything, anyone. Everything alive was destroyed, as if all life but your own was dangerous and yours was the only one that existed and it wanted only to live.

“There is a reason everybody cries when they are first born,” he says out loud.

The others all look at him.

They returned to camp sometimes. They were given real coffee and even heard a radio, but half the time even they didn’t know exactly where they were. Thomas always kept a map. Thomas was crazy about maps. He studied them, watched directions. He even wore a compass around his neck. That was how he knew they were going to the wrong location, that world he would remain inside for how many years he didn’t know until later. Once there, he lost track of time. As he does now, touching the map of names, touching it as if to be certain it is real, they were real, as if to touch them.

And so he reaches the place at the Wall. So. His name listed as one of the dead. Then a cross with a circle at the edge of it, which means he was resurrected. He wants to laugh. It is so crazy, but he wants to fall on his knees.

Dimitri, quick, finds the names and dates and, like everyone there, he touches them. There, there they are. Thomas’s men. Murphy. Voight.

The sun reflects in it, the clouds, his own face, his own name.

Dimitri stands beside him. “Geez, you’re not only a hero. You’re a dead one!”

“Don’t I know it.” Smith, Anderson, and two others. They had been good boys at home. Wholesome. Once.