Chapter 11

           Ihavenothingtoofferbut

           blood,toil,tears,andsweat.

           W.Churchill,XXthcentury

           soldier-statesman

           AswecamebackintotheshipaftertheraidontheSkinnies-theraidinwhichDizzyFloresboughtit,SergeantJelal’sfirstdropasplatoonleader—aship’sgunnerwhowastendingtheboatlockspoketome:"How’ditgo?"

           "Routine,"Iansweredbriefly.IsupposehisremarkwasfriendlybutIwasfeelingverymixedupandinnomoodtotalk—sadoverDizzy,gladthatwehadmadepickupanyhow,madthatthepickuphadbeenuseless,andallofittangledupwiththatwashed-outbuthappyfeelingofbeingbackintheshipagain,abletomusterarmsandlegsandnotethattheyareallpresent.Besides,howcanyoutalkaboutadroptoamanwhohasnevermadeone?

           "So?"heanswered."Youguyshavegotitsoft.Loafthirtydays,workthirtyminutes.Me,Istandawatchinthreeandturnto."

           "Yeah,Iguessso,"Iagreedandturnedaway."Someofusarebornlucky."

           "Soldier,youain’tpeddlin’vacuum,"hesaidtomyback.

           AndyettherewasmuchtruthinwhattheNavygunnerhadsaid.