Bush remembered meeting Hornblower when Hornblower was a corporal. He was skinny enough that it was almost astonishing that he could meet the physical training requirements; he was just this side of being unacceptably sloppy in dress, and Bush was, despite the immediate sympathy that had sprung up between them, wary. It was impossible to trust a Marine who had more books than magazines in his possession, who didn't listen to music, who didn't like drinking, who didn't like going to lift weights or take extra rounds at the range.

Still, though, it was hard not to respect the man to some measure. One of the men in Hornblower's squad had caught Sawyer the wrong mood, and Sawyer had punished the boy with laps on the blacktop. Hornblower was set to stand and watch and make sure that Wellard did them and didn't skimp.

"No water for him until he's done, Corporal," Sawyer had said. "I'll know if you give him, Hornblower. I have my ways of knowing."

In Arizona, in July, it was a hundred degrees at midnight, and Bush was still awake, lying on his back, in barracks when Hornblower came staggering at two in the morning and start sucking down water, desperately, from the water fountain.

Out of solidarity with Wellard, Hornblower hadn't had any water either.