"Fifteen and a wake up for me," I said, draining the last of my brew.
"You're really a wise-ass," Grover growled at me. He had six months to go.
Lt. J.G. Wilks stalked by, cursing under his breath as always. We gave him a wave, which he returned with a grim grin. Three other guys came stumbling toward us, heading for the hooch with the beer supply. They didn't look at us, but stared straight ahead, their eyes filled with the shock and mystery of what they had just been through. We knew what they knew: No matter how much booze--or whatever else--you put in your system it wouldn't blot out the memories of something as numbing as the witnessing of sudden death.