Across the aisle from my hooch, Private Ricky Sullivan sat on his stoop in full battle rattle clinging tightly to a set of dogtags that weren’t his. Rubbing them back and forth between his fingers, he gently wiped the blood from the name that lay stamped into its silver face. He lowered his head, the dogtags firmly in his palm. He pressed his closed hands to his forehead, the metal chain of the dogtags dangling down, almost touching the grated step. I didn’t say anything to him, not because I didn’t care or because I couldn’t find anything to say. I said nothing because nothing would’ve comforted him in the fact that he was holding the dogtags of a dead soldier, his friend.