I met him in the train station bar. Sgt. Griffin (I never called him by his first name; he called me SIR), E-7, damaged by cruel and senseless wars, drinking himself into oblivion. An abandoned soul. Twenty-seven years old with a heartless destiny of death—two tours of duty in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and going back. Lost three of his men. He told me if I would buy him a bottle of tequila, he would do whatever I wanted; he knew how to follow orders. I took him home. That night, in his drunken sleep, he kept crying out THE BASTARDS! I assured him I was there, his rock in a tumultuous emotional sea. The next morning, I didn't obtain his phone number. I have regrets.