“You moved,” I said. “When somebody grabbed you and told you where to go, you moved. That’s all courage is, Jimmy. It’s moving when somebody’s got their hand on your shoulder.”
I stood up.
“And someday,” I said, “you’ll be the one putting your hand on somebody else’s shoulder.”
Three weeks later, I got the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for the fire. For pulling a plane clear of a burning hangar bay under extreme danger. The citation didn’t mention Jimmy Carrick. Just a junior sailor.
Jimmy transferred off the ship in September. I never saw him again.
I never knew what happened to him.
Part Five: The Morning
The morning of the breakfast, I got up at five.
I showered. I shaved. Twice. The way the Navy taught me.
I put on the white shirt. The trousers. The black socks.
Then I sat on the edge of my bed with my old leather shoes and a tin of Kiwi black polish.
