“Sergeant,” he finally said, “I believe that you shall never again find a mission as intriguing-or easy. You are used to digging out half-ton bombs that have plummeted from great heights deep into the earth; these bombs flitter and float to earth via balloons. Thirty-some pounds, tops. Carting one off is like carrying groceries, and about as dangerous.”

We began walking back to the terminal. I wondered what Sergeant Redes would have had to say about Gurley's dangerous-as-groceries bombs. “ Your Jap bombmaker… he's ready to lose a man here and there…”

“And if it weren't all obvious enough,” Gurley said, “there is even a film. A training film. Didn't sit through all of it myself, but it looks helpful enough.”

We'd reached the door of the terminal, and he paused. “One more thing, Sergeant. Examine your heart while I'm gone. Examine your hands, for that matter. If you feel you're not up to this task-if you're not up to tackling alone what bombs we do find, tell me when I get back. Because I don't want to face another scene like I did with that Harvard man. He didn't die immediately, you know. Lasted long enough to ask me to put a bullet in him. Put him out of his misery.” Gurley grimaced. “Can you imagine such a thing? Good Lord, there was hardly enough left of him to shoot.”

With that, he opened the door and stepped inside.

THERE IS PLENTY of Ronnie left to shoot.

But they don't allow guns in the hospice. It doesn't matter; I have an equally efficient weapon in my hand. Ronnie's Comfort One bracelet. It is pretty, in its way. A heavy gold chain with a green and gold charm featuring the program's curious logo: the two words, plus two restroom-sign-style humanoids, a gold person standing behind a white one. Is the white one the patient, and the gold the comforter? Or is the white the soul, the gold the body? Unfortunately, what it resembles most to me is a mugging, the gold man about to pounce his hapless white counterpart.

It cost twenty dollars, as predicted, but I know it's worth much more than that. They are precious things to those who have them, and I find that more of the elderly and dying I visit in the hospital or hospice these days do. They're meant to spare patients pain and everyone else second-guessing. Ailing parishioners usually try to hide the existence of Do Not Resuscitate orders from me; they know the Church stands against euthanasia and worry that their DNRs might run afoul of such beliefs. As it happens, they need not be concerned, but that doesn't keep the patients who have DNRs from prizing them.

I marvel at some of those I visit here, so desperate to die. I think of those Japanese soldiers on Kiska, surrounded by the enemy, with no hope of survival. I think of their wounded, the Japanese soldiers in their field hospital, committing suicide. The doctor doled out grenades, gently laying one on each man's chest. Those who could, pulled their own pins. He pulled the pin for those who could not. Three hundred died this way; the doctor wrote as much in his diary. Then he put down the pen, closed the book, and picked up the grenade he'd reserved for himself.

I'm surprised Ronnie ordered the bracelet. It means he had to get the paperwork, have a doctor sign it, and send it off. It suggests planning and foresight that he never seemed capable of nor interested in. More to the point, it suggests he's going to die, and that he knows this. It makes me realize that I may be the only person who doesn't think he's going to die. Or, for that matter, the only one who doesn't want him to die. Not now. Not yet.

Which is why I'm keeping the bracelet, for the time being, in my pocket. I'm keeping it safe-I've tucked it inside a pyx. I'm sure the bishop would be horrified; the pyx is for carrying communion to the sick and homebound. But I shudder to think what Ronnie would do if I presented him with the Host. Better to let the bracelet rest in the pyx for now, where God can keep an eye on it.

Bad idea? We'll see. It's not like I had the best of models for hospital ministry.

“KILL ANYONE YET, Sergeant?” Father Pabich surprised me with a clap on my back. I jumped; his hand had hit a bruise I hadn't known was there. He'd found me walking back from the airfield terminal.

I wanted to tell him about the morning's conversation with Gurley but didn't dare. After that first encounter with Gurley in the bar, I'd done a bit of whimpering to Father Pabich. It didn't go over well. This was an army for fighters, not whiners, Father Pabich had told me, and urged me to shoot someone as soon as I could, preferably Japanese.

Thus his question: Had I killed anyone?

But before I could answer, Father Pabich wheeled me around so I was walking in his direction. “I've not seen you at Mass for a few mornings running, and I was putting two and two together. You've been out, on a mission? What's the good word?”

“No, Father.”

“Sergeant Belk,” Father Pabich said. “This won't do. The meek are gonna inherit the earth, God willing, but not until men like you and me take care of a little business.”

I nodded.

“Kill some Japs,” Father Pabich said. I nodded again. Father Pabich coughed and looked at me. “What's the matter, son? Shouldn't you be at work, defusing some bomb, blowing something up?”

“Got dismissed early, sir,” I said.

“Father,” Father Pabich reminded me, and I repeated the word. “And I can see why you were dismissed early,” he said. “You're drunk?” He leaned in so close I thought I could smell alcohol on him. “Hungover?”

“I almost killed someone,” I said quietly, thinking of the glass I'd shot out of Gurley's hand-and the belt I'd tightened around the neck of that sailor at Lily's.

“Well, almost ain't going to do anyone any damn good-” Father Pabich started, and then stopped walking to study me a moment. “We're not talking about a Jap, are we?” He picked up my hands, which bore some evidence of the scuffle with the sailors. “Bar fight,” he said, making a sour face. I hesitated, and then nodded because it was easier, and almost true. “Come with me, son,” he said. He didn't say another word until we'd reached the base hospital.

Once there, he told me to wait outside while he made his rounds, but then changed his mind and ushered me in by the elbow. The hospital was fairly new, but it was already showing signs of overuse. One or two soldiers were lying in cots in the hallway. One ward had spaces for twenty beds, but two were missing, their places taken by a tarp and buckets that were trying to do the job of the roof that had failed above.

Father Pabich visited with each man. He shared a joke with ones who could talk, and mumbled prayers over the ones who were sleeping, including one man whose chart indicated that he was Jewish. When Father Pabich finished making the sign of the cross over him, a man in a neighboring bed said, “He's, uh, not that way, Father,” and Father Pabich blessed him, too. “Baptist, that one,” Father Pabich whispered to me as we walked away.

I thought we'd seen the whole of the hospital, but then he eased open a door that led into a small vestibule and paused.

“You still feeling okay, Sergeant?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Say yes, son, so I know you're not just pressing your lips together to keep from puking.”

I said yes.

“Right. Now, be a good man in this next room. No staring, but no looking away, and no being sick. These are good men.” And then we went in.

In this room, there were only eyes.

Five of the six beds were occupied; the nurses were changing the sheets on the sixth. And from each of those five beds, two eyes watched Father Pabich and me enter. The rest of their bodies were swathed almost entirely in bandages or covered with sheets. I'd been told not to stare, so I couldn't confirm what my mind kept insisting- things were missing. Arms, legs, hands. Sheets lay flat in impossible places. Some of the eyes peered out of unbandaged faces that were a dirty pink, skin rubbed raw but somehow still flecked with black.