They gather in lodges, these unflinching, gray-haired men in caps with unit insignias. The meat loaf and gravy on styrofoam goes mostly untouched. Their nourishment comes from camaraderie, the sharing of all that family cannot understand. Bonds formed in foxholes are for life — just one of many lessons they teach me, the newcomer with buzz-cut hair who scans the corners of every room he enters. No one asks about nightmares or promises things will get better soon. They, too, know of horrors but choose to speak of gleeful hijinks by comrades now fallen. Thinking of my friend Anderson, I imagine him alive. It’s a warm day in the desert, and he perches atop a camel, the squad cheering as he lurches in circles, clinging to its mane.