Was it? Who could say? All Eddie knew was that he'd awoken in a
medical unit and his life was never the same. His running was over. His
dancing was over. Worse, for some reason, the way he used to feel about
things was over, too. He withdrew. Things seemed silly or pointless. War
had crawled inside of Eddie, in his leg and in his soul. He learned many
things as a soldier. He came home a different man.
DID YOU KNOW," the Captain said, "that I come from three
generations of military?"
Eddie shrugged.
"Yep. I knew how to fire a pistol when I was six. In the mornings, my
father would inspect my bed, actually bounce a quarter on the sheets. At
the dinner table it was always, 'Yes, sir,' and, 'No, sir.'
"Before I entered the service, all I did was take orders. Next thing I
knew, I was giving them.
"Peacetime was one thing. Got a lot of wise-guy recruits. But then the
war started and the new men flooded in—young men, like you—and they
were all saluting me, wanting me to tell them what to do. I could see the
fear in their eyes. They acted as if I knew something about war that was
classified. They thought I could keep them alive. You did, too, didn't
you?"
Eddie had to admit he did.
The Captain reached back and rubbed his neck. "I couldn't, of course.
I took my orders, too. But if I couldn't keep you alive, I thought I could
at least keep you together. In the middle of a big war, you go looking for
a small idea to believe in. When you find one, you hold it the way a
soldier holds his crucifix when he's praying in a foxhole.
"For me, that little idea was what I told you guys every day. No one
gets left behind."
Eddie nodded. "That meant a lot," he said.
The Captain looked straight at him. "I hope so," he said.
He reached inside his breast pocket, took out another cigarette, and
lit up.
"Why do you say that?" Eddie asked.
The Captain blew smoke, then motioned with the end of the cigarette
toward Eddie's leg.
"Because I was the one," he said, "who shot you."