he was in love with someone else.

I knew that even before I finished reading the letter, and all at once the world seemed to slow down. My first instinct was to ram my fist into a wall, but instead I crumpled up the letter and threw it aside. I was incredibly angry then; more than feeling betrayed,

I felt as if she'd crushed everything that had any meaning in the world. I hated her, and I hated the nameless, faceless man who'd stolen her from me. I fantasized what I would do to him if he ever crossed my path, and the picture wasn't pretty.

At the same time, I longed to talk to her. I wanted to fly home immediately, or at least call her. Part of me didn't want to believe it, couldn't believe it. Not now, not after everything we'd been through. We had only nine more months left—after almost three years, was that so impossible?

But I didn't go home, and I didn't call. I didn't write her back,

nor did I hear from her again. My only action was to retrieve the

letter I'd crumpled. I straightened it as best I could, stuffed it back

in the envelope, and decided to carry it with me like a wound I'd received in battle. Over the next few weeks, I became the consummate soldier, escaping into the only world that still seemed real to

me. I volunteered for any mission regarded as dangerous, I barely spoke to anyone in my unit, and for a while it took everything I had not to be too quick with the trigger while out on patrol. I

trusted no one in the cities, and although there were no unfortunate “incidents”—as the army likes to call civilian deaths—I'd be

lying if I claimed to have been patient and understanding while dealing with Iraqis of any kind. Though I barely slept, my senses were heightened as we continued our spearhead to Baghdad. Ironically, only while risking my life did I find relief from Savannah's image and the reality that our relationship had ended.

My life followed the shifting fortunes of the war. Less than a month after I received the letter, Baghdad fell, and despite a brief

period of initial promise, things got worse and more complicated as the weeks and months wore on. In the end, I figured, this war was no different from any other. Wars always come back to the

quest for power among the competing interests, but this understanding didn't make life on the ground any easier. In the aftermath

of Baghdad's fall, every soldier in my squad was thrust into

the roles of policeman and judge. As soldiers, we weren't trained for that.

From the outside and with hindsight, it was easy to second-guess our activities, but in the real world, in real time, decisions weren't always easy. More than once, I was approached by Iraqi civilians and told that a certain individual had stolen this or that item, or committed this or that crime, and was asked to do something about it. That wasn't our job. We were there to keep some semblance of order—which basically meant killing insurgents who were trying

to kill us or other civilians—until the locals could take over and handle it themselves. That particular process was neither quick nor easy, even in places where calm was more frequent than chaos. In the meantime, other cities were disintegrating into chaos, and we were sent in to restore order. We'd clear a city of insurgents, but because there weren't enough troops to hold the city and keep it safe, the insurgents would occupy it again soon after we cleared out. There were days when all of my men wondered at the futility of that particular exercise, even if they didn't question it openly.

My point is, I don't know how to describe the stress and boredom and confusion of those next nine months, except to say that

there was a lot of sand. Yeah, I know it's a desert, and yeah, I spent a lot of time at the beach so I should have been used to it, but the sand was different over there. It got in your clothes, in your gun,

in locked boxes, in your food, in your ears and up your nose and between your teeth, and when I spat, I always felt the grit in my mouth. People can at least relate to that, and I've learned that

they don't want to hear the real truth, which is that most of the

time Iraq wasn't so bad but sometimes it was worse than hell. Did people really want to hear that I watched a guy in my unit accidentally shoot a little kid who just happened to be in the wrong

place at the wrong time? Or that I'd seen soldiers get torn into pieces when they hit an IED—improvised explosive device—on the roads near Baghdad? Or that I'd seen blood pooling in the streets like rain, flowing past body parts? No, people would rather hear about sand, because it kept the war at a safe distance.

I did my duty as best I knew how, reupped again, and stayed in Iraq until February 2004, when I was finally sent back to Germany. As soon as I got back, I bought a Harley and tried to pretend that I'd left the war unscarred; but the nightmares were endless, and I woke most mornings drenched in sweat. During the day I was often

on edge, and I got angry at the slightest things. When I walked the streets in Germany, I found it impossible not to carefully survey groups of people loitering near buildings, and I found myself scanning windows in the business district, watching for snipers. The psychologist—everyone had to see one—told me that what I was going through was normal and that in time these things would

pass, but I sometimes wondered whether they ever would.

After I left Iraq, my time in Germany felt almost meaningless. Sure, I worked out in the morning and I took classes on weapons and navigation, but things had changed. Because of the hand wound, Tony was given a discharge along with his Purple Heart, and he was sent back to Brooklyn right after Baghdad fell. Four more of my guys were honorably discharged in late 2003 when their time was up; in their minds—and mine—they'd done their duty, and it was time for them to get on with the rest of their lives. I, on the other hand, had reupped again. I wasn't sure it was the right decision, but I didn't know what else to do.

But now, looking at my squad, I realized that I suddenly felt out

of place. My squad was full of newbies, and though they were great kids, it wasn't the same. They weren't the friends I'd lived with through boot camp and the Balkans, I hadn't gone to war with them, and deep down, I knew I'd never be as close to them as I'd been to my former squad. For the most part, I was a stranger, and

I kept it that way. I worked out alone and avoided personal contact as much as possible, and I knew what my squad thought of me when I walked past them: I was the crusty old sergeant, the one who claimed to want nothing more than to ensure that they got back to their moms in one piece. I told my squad that all the time while we drilled, and I meant it. I would do what it took to keep them safe. But like I said, it wasn't the same.

With my friends gone, I devoted myself to my dad as best I could. After my tour of combat, I spent an extended leave with him in

spring 2004, then another leave with him later that summer. We spent more time together in those four weeks than we had in the previous ten years. Because he was retired, we were free to spend the day however we wished. I fell easily into his routines. We had breakfast, went for our three walks, and had dinner together. In between, we talked about coins and even bought a couple while 1 was in town. The Internet made that far easier than it had once

been, and though the search wasn't quite as exciting, I don't know that it made any difference to my dad. I found myself talking to dealers I hadn't spoken with in over fifteen years, but they were as friendly and informative as they'd ever been and remembered me with pleasure. The coin world, I realized, was a small one, and when our order arrived—they were always shipped via overnight deliverymy dad and I would take turns examining the coins, pointing

out any existing flaws, and usually agreeing with die grade that they had been assigned by die Professional Coin Grading Service, a company that evaluates the quality of any coin submitted. Though my mind would eventually wander to other things, my dad could stare at a single coin for hours, as if it held the secret of life.

We didn't talk about much else, but then, we didn't really need

to. He had no desire to talk about Iraq, and I had no desire to talk about it, either. Neither of us had a social life to speak of—Iraq hadn't been conducive to that—and my dad ... well, he was my dad, and I didn't even bother asking.

Nonetheless, I was worried about him. On his walks, his breathing was labored. When I suggested that twenty minutes was perhaps too long, even at his slow pace, he said that the doctor had

told him that twenty minutes was just what he needed, and I knew there was nothing I could do to convince him otherwise. Afterward, he was far more tired than he should have been, and it usually

took an hour for the deep color in his cheeks to fade. I spoke

to die doctor, and the news wasn't what I had hoped. My dad's heart, I was told, had sustained major damage, and—in the doctor's opinion—it was pretty much a miracle that he was moving as well as he was. Lack of exercise would be even worse for him.

It might have been that conversation with the doctor, or maybe

it was just that I wanted an improved relationship with my dad, but we got along better on those two visits than we ever had. Instead of pressing him for constant conversation, I'd simply sit with him

in his den, reading a book or doing crossword puzzles while he looked at coins. There was something peaceful and honest about my lack of expectation, and I think my dad was slowly coming to grips with the newfound change between us. Occasionally I caught him peeking at me in a way that seemed almost foreign. We would spend hours together, most of the time saying nothing at all, and

it was in this quiet, unassuming way that we finally became friends. 1 often found myself wishing that my dad hadn't thrown away the photograph of us, and when it was time for me to return to Germany, I knew that I would miss him in a way I never had before.

Autumn of 2004 passed slowly, as did the winter and spring of 2005. Life dragged on uneventfully. Occasionally, rumors of my eventual return to Iraq would interrupt the monotony of my days, but since I'd been there before, the thought of my return affected me little. If I stayed in Germany, that was fine. If I went back to Iraq, that was fine as well. I kept up with what was going on in the Middle East like everyone else, but as soon as I put down the newspaper or turned off the television, my mind wandered to other things.

I was twenty-eight by then, and I couldn't escape the feeling that even though I'd experienced more than most people my age, my life

was still on hold. I'd joined the army to grow up, and although a case could be made that I had, I sometimes wondered whether it was true. I owned neither a house nor a car, and aside from my dad, I was completely alone in the world. While my peers stuffed their wallets with photographs of their children and their wives, my wallet held a single fading snapshot of a woman I'd loved and lost. I

heard soldiers talking of their hopes for the future, while I was making no plans at all. Sometimes I wondered what my men thought of

my life, for there were times I caught them staring at me curiously. I never told them about my past or shared personal information. They knew nothing of Savannah or my dad or my friendship with Tony. Those memories were mine and mine alone, for I'd learned that some things are best kept secret.

In March 2005, my dad had a second heart attack, which led to pneumonia and another stint in the ICU. Once he was released,

the medication he was on prohibited driving, but the hospital

social worker helped me find someone to pick up the groceries he needed. In April, he went back to the hospital, where he learned

he'd have to give up his daily walks as well. By May, he was taking

a dozen different pills a day, and I knew he was spending most of

his time in bed. The letters he wrote became almost illegible, not

only because he was weak, but because his hands had begun to tremble. After a bit of prodding and begging on the phone, I persuaded a neighbor of my dad's—a nurse who worked at the local

hospital—to look in on him regularly, and I breathed a sigh of relief while counting down the days until my leave in June.

But my dad's condition continued to worsen over the next few weeks, and on the phone I could hear a weariness that seemed to deepen every time I spoke with him. For the second time in my life, I asked for a transfer back home. My commanding officer was more sympathetic than he had been before. We researched iteven got as far as filing the papers to get me posted at Fort Bragg for airborne training—but when I spoke to the doctor again, I was told that my proximity wouldn't do much to help my dad and that

I should consider placing him in an extended care facility. My dad needed more care than could be provided at home, he assured me. He'd been trying to convince my father of that for some time—he was eating only soup by then—but my father refused to consider it

until I returned for my leave. For whatever reason, the doctor explained, my dad was determined to have me visit him at home one

last time.

The realization was crushing, and in the cab from the airport, I tried to convince myself that the doctor was exaggerating. But he wasn't. My father was unable to rise from the couch when I pushed open the door, and I was struck by the thought that in the single year since I'd seen him last, he seemed to have aged thirty years.

His skin was almost gray, and I was shocked by how much weight he'd lost. With a hard knot in my throat, I put down my bag just inside the door.

“Hey, Dad,” I said.

At first, I wondered whether he even recognized me, but eventually I heard a ragged whisper. “Hey, John.”

I went to the couch and sat beside him. “You okay?”

“Okay,” was all he said, and for a long time we sat together without saying anything.

Eventually I rose to inspect the kitchen but found myself blinking when I got there. Empty soup cans were stacked everywhere. There were stains on the stove, the garbage was overflowing, and moldy dishes were piled in the sink. Stacks of unopened mail flooded the small kitchen table. It was obvious that the house hadn't been cleaned in days. My first impulse was to storm over to confront the neighbor who'd agreed to look in on him. But that would have to wait.

Instead, I located a can of chicken noodle soup and heated it up on the filthy stove. After filling a bowl, I brought it to my father on

a tray. He smiled weakly, and I could see his gratitude. He finished the bowl, scraped at the sides for every morsel, and I filled another bowl, growing even angrier and wondering how long it had been since he'd eaten. When he polished off that bowl, I helped him lie back on the couch, where he fell asleep within minutes.

The neighbor wasn't home, so I spent most of the afternoon and evening cleaning the house, starting with the kitchen and the bathroom. When I went to change the sheets on his bed and found them soiled, I closed my eyes and stifled the urge to wring the neighbor's neck.

After the house was reasonably clean, I sat in the living room, watching my dad sleep. He looked so small beneath the blanket, and when I reached out to stroke his hair, a few strands came out. I began to cry then, knowing with certainty that my dad was dying. It was the first time I'd cried in years, and the only time in

my life I'd ever cried for my dad, but for a long time the tears wouldn't stop.

I knew that my dad was a good man, a kind man, and though

he'd led a wounded life, he'd done the best he could in raising me. Never once had he raised his hand in anger, and I began to torment myself with the memories of all those years I'd wasted blaming him. I remembered my last two visits home, and I ached at the

thought that we would never share those simple times again. Later, I carried my dad to bed. He was light in my arms, too

light. I pulled the covers up around him and made my bed on the floor beside him, listening to him wheeze and rasp. He woke up coughing in the middle of the night and seemed unable to stop; I

was getting ready to bring him to the hospital when the coughing finally subsided.

He was terrified when he realized where I wanted to take him. “Stay ... here,” he pleaded, his voice weak. “Don't want to go.”

I was torn, but in the end I didn't bring him. To a man of routine,

I realized, the hospital was not only foreign, but a dangerous place, one that took more energy to adjust to than he knew he could summon. It was then that I realized he'd soiled himself and the sheets again.

When the neighbor came by the following day, the first words out

of her mouth were an apology. She explained that she hadn't cleaned the kitchen for several days because one of her daughters had been taken ill, but she'd been changing the sheets daily and making sure he had plenty of canned food. As she stood before me on the porch,

I could see the exhaustion in her face, and all the words of reproach I'd been rehearsing drained away. I told her that I appreciated what she'd already done more than she would ever know.

“I was glad to help,” she said. "He's been so nice over the years.

He never complained about the noise my kids made when they were teenagers, and he always bought whatever they were selling when they needed to raise money for school trips or things like

that. He keeps the yard just right, and whenever I asked him to watch my house, he was always there for me. He's been the perfect neighbor."

I smiled. Encouraged, she went on.

"But you should know that he doesn't always let me inside anymore. He told me that he didn't like where I put things. Or how I

clean. Or the way I moved a stack of papers on his desk. Usually I ignore it, but sometimes, when he's feeling okay, he's quite adamant about keeping me out and he threatened to call the police

when I tried to get past him. I just don't. .." She trailed off, and I finished for her.

“You just don't know what to do.” Guilt was written plainly on her face.

“It's okay,” I said. “Without you, I don't know what he would have done.”

She nodded with relief before glancing away. “I'm glad you're home,” she began hesitantly, “because I wanted to talk to you about his situation.” She brushed at invisible lint on her clothing. “I know this great place that he could go where he could be taken care of. The staff is excellent. It's almost always at capacity, but I know the director, and he knows your dad's doctor. I know how hard this is to hear, but I think it's what's best for him, and I wish ...”

When she stopped, letting the rest of her statement hang, I felt

her genuine concern for my dad, and I opened my mouth to respond. But I said nothing. This wasn't as easy a decision as it

sounded. His home was the only place my father knew, the only place he felt comfortable. It was the only place his routines made sense. If staying in the hospital terrified him, being forced to live someplace new would likely kill him. The question came down to not only where he should die, but how he should die. Alone at home, where he slept in soiled sheets and possibly starved to death? Or with people who would feed and clean him, in a place that terrified him?

With a quiver in my voice I couldn't quite control, I asked, “Where is it?”

I spent the next two weeks taking care of my dad. I fed him the

best I could, read him the Greysheet when he was awake, and slept on the floor beside his bed. He soiled himself every evening, forcing me to purchase adult diapers for him, much to his embarrassment. He slept most of the afternoon.

While he rested on the couch, I visited a number of extended

care faqilities: not just the one that the neighbor had recommended, but those within a two-hour radius. In the end, the neighbor was

right. The place she mentioned was clean, and the staff came across as professional, but most important, the director seemed to have taken a personal interest in my dad's care. Whether that was because of the neighbor or my dad's doctor, I never found out.

Price wasn't an issue. The facility was notoriously expensive, but because my dad had a government pension, Social Security, Medicare, and private insurance to boot (I could imagine him

signing on the insurance salesman's dotted line years before without really understanding what he was paying for), I was assured

that the only cost would be emotional. The director—fortyish and brown haired, whose kindly manner somehow reminded me of Tim—understood and didn't press for an immediate decision. Instead, he handed me a stack of information and assorted forms and wished my dad the best.

That evening, I raised the subject of moving to my dad. I was leaving in a few days and didn't have a choice, no matter how much I wanted to avoid it.

He said nothing while I spoke. I explained my reasons, my worries, my hope that he would understand. He asked no questions,

but his eyes remained wide with shock, as if he'd just heard his own death sentence.

When I finished, I desperately needed a moment alone. I patted him on the leg and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When I returned to the living room, my dad was hunched over on the couch, downcast and trembling. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.

In the morning, I began to pack my dad's things. I went through his drawers and his files, the cupboards and closets. In his sock drawer,

I found socks; in his shirt drawer, only shirts. In his file cabinet, everything was tabbed and ordered. It shouldn't have been surprising, but in its own way it was. My dad, unlike most of humanity, had

no secrets at all. He had no hidden vices, no diaries, no embarrassing interests, no box of private things he kept all to himself. I found nothing that further enlightened me about his inner life, nothing

that might help me understand him after he was gone. My dad, I knew then, was just as he'd always seemed to be, and I suddenly realized how much I admired him for that.

When I finished gathering his things, my dad lay awake on the couch. After a few days of eating regularly, he'd regained a bit of strength. There was the faintest gleam in his eyes, and I noticed a shovel leaning against the end table. He held out a scrap of

paper. On it was what appeared to be a hastily scrawled map, labeled “BACKYARD” in a shaky hand.

“What's this for?”

“It's yours,” he said. He pointed to the shovel.

I picked up the shovel, followed the directions on the map to

the oak tree in the backyard, marched off paces, and began to dig. Within minutes the shovel sounded on metal, and I retrieved a box. And another one, beneath it. And another to the side. Sixteen heavy boxes in all. I sat on the porch and wiped the sweat

from my face before opening the first.

I already knew what I'd find, and I squinted at the reflection of gold coins shimmering in the harsh sunlight of a southern summer. At the bottom of that box, I found the 1926-D buffalo nickel,

the one we'd searched for and found together, knowing it was the only coin that really meant anything to me.

The next day, my last day on leave, I made arrangements for the house: turning off the utilities, forwarding the mail, finding someone to keep the lawn mowed. I stored the unearthed coins in a safe-deposit box at the bank. Handling those details took most of the day. Later, we shared a final bowl of chicken noodle soup and soft-cooked vegetables for dinner before I brought him to the extended care facility. I unpacked his things, decorated the room with items I thought he'd want, and placed a dozen years' worth

of the Greysheet on the floor beneath his desk. But it wasn't

enough, and after explaining the situation to the director, 1 went back to the house again to collect even more knickknacks, all the while wishing 1 knew my dad well enough to tell what really mattered to him.

No matter how much I reassured him, he remained paralyzed

with fear, his eyes tearing me apart. More than once, I was stricken with the notion that I was killing him. I sat beside him on his bed, conscious of the few hours remaining before I had to leave for the airport.

“It's going to be okay,” I said. "They're going to take care of you.

His hands continued to tremble. “Okay,” he said in a barely audible voice.

I felt the tears beginning to form. “I want to say something to you, okay?” I drew breath, focusing my thoughts. “I just want you to know that I think you're the greatest dad ever. You had to be great to put up with someone like me.”

My dad didn't respond. In the silence, I felt all those things I'd ever wanted to say to him forcing their way to the surface, words that had been a lifetime in the making.

“I mean it, Dad. I'm sorry about all the crappy things I put you through, and I'm sorry that I was never here for you enough. You're the best person I've ever known. You're the only one who never got angry with me, you never judged me, and somehow you taught me more about life than any son could possibly ask. I'm sorry that I can't be here for you now, and I hate myself for doing this to you. But I'm scared, Dad. I don't know what else to do.”

My voice sounded hoarse and uneven to my own ears, and I wanted nothing more than for him to put his arm around me. “Okay,” he finally said.

I smiled at his response. I couldn't help it. “I love you, Dad.”

To this he knew exactly what to say, for it had always been part of his routine.

“I love you, too, John.”

I hugged him, then rose and brought him the latest issue of the Greysheet. When I reached the door, I stopped once more and faced him.

For the first time since he'd been there, the fear was almost gone.

He held the paper close to his face, and I could see the page shaking slightly. His lips were moving as he concentrated on the words, and

I forced myself to study him, hoping to memorize his face forever. It was the last time I ever saw him alive.