Free Full Measure: A Novel by T. Jefferson Parker Page B

were good and important things. He found himself arranging the salt and pepper shakers and the bottle of hot sauce in the same relative positions as Myers and Zane and himself at 2200 hours on December 10 on the night patrol up to Outpost Three, wondering for the thousandth time, at least, how it was that Myers—touching down in Patrick’s footprints while Patrick followed those of three other men ahead of him, and all of them behind Bostic with the Minehound and Zane with his splendid nose and instincts—had tripped the IED. How was that even possible? How had Zane failed to detect it? Bostic?
    “So, are you going to stay in Fallbrook and work the ranch?” asked Iris.
    “For now. I’m delivering pizza, too.”
    This seemed not to faze Iris. “Do you like growing things?”
    “Not really. I don’t seem to have farming blood. I want to guide anglers on the bay in a boat. But now, I’m trying to do what’s right.”
    “I heard you lost almost all the trees.”
    “Just a few left for sure, out of eighty acres.”
    “You don’t have to talk.”
    “I want to talk.”
    “If you say so.”
    Patrick returned from some far place. “Want to get a table and have dinner?”
    “I’d like that. Can I ask you something?”
    Patrick nodded and drank. He felt the strength of the liquor. After a year of almost no drinking, even a small amount hit him hard.
    “Can you tell me three words that will help me understand you?”
    Patrick thought for a moment. “I miss it.”
    Her expression went from concern to astonishment, which she quickly dropped. “That’s … three words, all right. You do want to talk. Let’s get that table. The osso buco here is terrific. Oh, can I just say one thing to you?”
    “Please don’t say thank you.”
    “Welcome home.”
    *   *   *
    After dinner Patrick drove them out to Oceanside and they walked the pier to the end and watched the fishermen bring in mackerel and bonito from the flood-lighted sea. The landed fish spasmed wildly against their plastic buckets. Patrick nodded at some of the Marines in and out of uniform, and some of them acknowledged him. In town he took Iris to the Galleon, a bar popular with his fellow Pendleton Marines. They got two stools at the bar and Patrick bought a round for them and for the four Marines who were already there. The jukebox played a country song, then some metal, then “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” the opening notes of which brought shouts of “I can’t get no!” and raised glasses all up and down the bar. Patrick knocked back the bourbon and signaled for another round. Iris gamely drained her lemon drop, sat up straight, and took a deep breath. “Don’t let me get too stupid tonight. I have work in the morning.”
    “I’ve got your back.”
    She smiled at him and Patrick saw the doubt in it. The bourbons seemed strong to him. He ordered beer backs with the next round and Iris declined. The alcohol kicked in and Patrick felt calm and alert. He knew he was drinking for all the good things he missed, and he wondered what it said about him that what should have been the worst thirteen months of his life were in fact months of excitement, purpose, and selfless loyalty. Good things. Two rounds of drinks later the young Marine next to him asked where’d he’d been and Patrick told him Helmand, the Three-Five, and the boy nodded respectfully. Patrick’s Third Battalion, Fifth Regiment had suffered more casualties than any Marine battalion in the war. They were known through history as the Dark Horse Battalion, and their motto was “Get Some.”
    “I wondered if that low fade made you a Dark Horse,” said the young Marine.
    “Yes,” said Patrick, the low fade referring to his haircut—long for a Marine, and permitted only to grunts who had seen action. The low fade was not to be worn by new Marines, who were relegated to shaves or the traditional high and tight worn by most officers.
    “You guys kicked serious ass,” said