Blocks the breeze at night, but keeps out them dang pesky mortars.

Matt’s bed in FOB Ramadi.

Wylie Newt**** was a ruddy-faced, beefy-handed, roly-poly, smiley nice guy, one whom you would like instantly, who livened up a room by walking into it, exuding optimism and cheerfulness. Seriously, always smiling. He was pudgy, but watch out—it was a kind of like bubblewrap around a concrete pillar. Musta been forties, but seriously, seriously now, he looked late twenties, until you got up close to his eyes, twinkling, bright eyes surrounded by little lines of age. Or maybe all that smiling added to age wrinkles. After he left, one of the other guys says to me, “He’s a legend in the 5^th SF Group.”

—Yeah, I says back??in a way that asks for more, not that smart-alecky way that seems to mock or deny.

—Yeah, he says. He and his spotter would go out for five or six days, dropped off by chopper out in the boonies, and picked up by chopper, and he would have to—they would have to give their report. He’s probably killed more enemy troops than any other guy in the Group. He was a sniper over there, and the best. But he’ll never say anything about it.

It took a while to find out why he would never say anything about it. What’s going through your mind right now? He’s messed up in the head? Hates to think about it? Can’t deal with the memories of killing? After observing, listening, after a while, I found out. He would never talk about it because he was so good, and that would mean that to say anything about it would be boasting. And Wylie, if anything, was humble, and deferential, and would always give credit to others, even when they barely deserved it, whilst deflecting any praise away from him. Just a humble guy.

He came into the little teeny town with only two churches: The First Baptist Church for the old establishment stodgies and snooties, and the Memorial Baptist Church for the modernists, the liberals, the new people. (Oh yeah, the Methodist church was just on the outskirts of town, only an old house converted to a church.) So Wylie, not a particularly churchy guy, walks into the pastor’s office and says, “D’you need anybody to work with Scouts?” The Memorial B-Church, of course. “Well, actually, we just lost our Scoutmaster, he moved.”

—I’m your man”, says Wylie. And volunteered. Do you think he told killing stories around the campfire? The Scout boys never knew. But he sure could teach them woodsy skills.