Matt helped McNally to his feet, then took hold of the straps on his vest, just the way McNally had done the day he made Matt clean the latrines. "Sarge," he said, "it wasn't your fault."

McNally gripped the straps on Matt's vest and looked him in the eye. "And Duffy." His voice was firm, as if he were giving an order. "What happened in the alley, that wasn't your fault, either."

THEIR SQUAD-WHAT WAS LEFT OF IT-WAS ON REST AND recovery that day because of what had happened to them in the market. Sometime around lunchtime, Mitch.e.l.l had gotten up to pee, then went straight back to sleep. Figueroa was reading recovery that day because of what had happened to them in the market. Sometime around lunchtime, Mitch.e.l.l had gotten up to pee, then went straight back to sleep. Figueroa was reading Let G.o.d Handle It Let G.o.d Handle It and writing down what he would say at the memorial service later on. And Matt was staring at the bare wall where Wolf's mementos had been when McNally walked in. He was holding a yellow form of some kind, about to give an order, but he stopped at the doorway at the sight of the empty beds. and writing down what he would say at the memorial service later on. And Matt was staring at the bare wall where Wolf's mementos had been when McNally walked in. He was holding a yellow form of some kind, about to give an order, but he stopped at the doorway at the sight of the empty beds.

Matt got up, went over to him, and gestured to the form. "What's this, Sarge?"

McNally shook his head slightly, as if he were waking up. "I, uh, I have to go on a supply run," he said. "Anyone want to go with me?"

Matt grabbed his helmet and stood up. Anything was better than sitting around the barracks and thinking.

MCNALLY DROVE THE H HUMVEE AS M MATT STARED OUT THE window. They weren't going far, only to a makeshift warehouse where the army stored spare tires, extra sleeping bags, that sort of thing. They weren't even going outside the wire, the area of the town that the army had secured months ago and cordoned off with concrete blast walls and razor wire. window. They weren't going far, only to a makeshift warehouse where the army stored spare tires, extra sleeping bags, that sort of thing. They weren't even going outside the wire, the area of the town that the army had secured months ago and cordoned off with concrete blast walls and razor wire.

It was one of the more peaceful parts of town. There were a handful of restaurants where the men sat at outdoor tables, sipping tea and reading newspapers. The women milled around in the market, gossiping and squeezing the produce. And the children went to school carrying backpacks decorated with American cartoon characters. There was even an ice-cream vendor.

But all Matt saw as they drove along were threats. Every tea seller was an enemy soldier. Every woman was a spy. Every backpack held a bomb.

McNally pulled up in front of the warehouse and cut the engine. "You coming?" he said.

Matt shook his head. "I'll wait out here."

He got out, slung his weapon over his shoulder, and leaned against the back of the Humvee. A good place to keep an eye on anyone who went past.

It was a quiet morning, but Matt noticed an Iraqi man with a big belly strolling by on the other side of the street, talking on a cell phone. Slowly, Matt's finger sought out the trigger pad of the rifle at his side. He squinted at the man, keeping him in view until he turned down a side street. A few minutes later, a gang of young men came by, guys Matt's own age, wearing Western shirts and sweaters, carrying books. They were arguing in lively, animated voices, jabbing one another now and then to make a point. Matt straightened up, planted his boots on the ground, and glowered at them. One of the boys spotted him and pointed to the others. Their voices fell silent as they scurried past.

Then the door to the school across the street flew open with a clang. clang. Little girls in blue jumpers and crisp white blouses and little boys in navy trousers and white shirts came spilling out into a dusty lot ringed by a tall fence. The everyday sounds of the street faded and the air was filled with the sounds of shrieking and laughing as the kids raced around the lot playing. Little girls in blue jumpers and crisp white blouses and little boys in navy trousers and white shirts came spilling out into a dusty lot ringed by a tall fence. The everyday sounds of the street faded and the air was filled with the sounds of shrieking and laughing as the kids raced around the lot playing.

Matt pulled a cigarette out of his pack and tried to light it, but it didn't catch. He tried again with no luck, then tossed the cigarette into the gutter and grabbed another one. His head was bowed, his hand cupped over the flame, when he heard it. The soft pock of someone kicking a soccer ball. He looked up and saw the black-and-white ball as it flew over the fence and bounced into the middle of the road.

He inhaled and narrowed his gaze. Coming down the road, a few hundred yards away, was a bus.

A few of the kids ran to the fence and shouted at him. They pointed to the ball and jumped up and down.

But Matt couldn't seem to move. The ball had rolled to a stop. And the bus was getting closer. And all he could do was watch the scene unfold as if it were one of Meaghan Finnerty's test questions: If the bus is going thirty miles an hour, how long will it take to reach the soccer ball?

The teacher came to the fence and yelled angrily at him. The bus driver honked his horn. And all the kids in the yard gathered at the fence, screaming and pointing frantically.

All except one. She was smaller than the others and she'd had to crawl under their legs to get to the fence to see what was going on. Her dark hair hung down in two little braids tied with yellow ribbons.

While all the others were shrieking at him, she'd stuck her arm through the fence to give him the thumbs-up.

When the other kids looked at him, they saw just another American soldier. But the little girl with the yellow ribbons in her hair seemed to be saying I see you. you.

And so Matt dashed into the street, gave the ball a gentle kick, and watched as it sailed into the crayon-blue sky.

Acknowledgments.

My deepest thanks go to the families of Army Sergeant Sherwood Baker, Army Specialist Joshua Justice Henry, Marine Lance Corporal Patrick B. Kenny, Army First Lieutenant Neil Anthony Santoriello, and Marine Lance Corporal William Brett Wightman. These families were generous, kind, and brave in sharing the stories of their sons and brothers with me. The shape of this story changed many times since we sat in their living rooms, looking at sc.r.a.pbooks and revisiting cherished and sometimes painful memories, but it was in their honor that this book was written.

I would also like to thank Gunnery Sergeant Armando Felciano, Headquarters and Support Company, First Battalion, 25th Marines, for the diligence and attention to detail he brought to this book. He checked and challenged the facts in the story so that the book would be a faithful rendering of life in Iraq.

I would also like to thank Gene McMahon and the volunteers at Vets Journey Home, for allowing me to staff a remarkable workshop that helps returning vets vanquish the ghosts of combat; the American Friends Service Committee, whose exhibit "Eyes Wide Open" moved me to investigate the civilian casualties in the war in Iraq; Veterans Against the War, a group of brave and dedicated soldiers who let me camp out with them on their march to New Orleans; and the staff at the McClellan Memorial Veterans Hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas, for their patience in educating me about posttraumatic stress and traumatic brain injury.

My editor, Alessandra Balzer, once again guided me through tough terrain with intelligence, care, and poise, and my writers group, Mark Millhone and Andrea Chapin, supported and inspired me every step of the way.

Lastly, thanks to my family, who makes it possible for me to do the work I love.

About the Author.

PATRICIA MCCORMICK is a former journalist who has won much acclaim for her compa.s.sionate approach to hard-hitting subjects. To research is a former journalist who has won much acclaim for her compa.s.sionate approach to hard-hitting subjects. To research PURPLE HEART PURPLE HEART, she traveled all around the country to interview soldiers as well as the families of soldiers who went to Iraq and never returned. She also took part in a peace demonstration with veterans from the war in Iraq. There was a pair of boots for every soldier who'd died and a pile of shoes to represent the civilian lives that had been lost. "I remember the sight of a pair of little boy's sneakers in the pile," she said. "And I instantly had an image of a child being struck by a machine gun bullet. It was an image that has haunted me ever since."

Patricia is also the author of the National Book Award Finalist SOLD SOLD and the bestseller and the bestseller CUT CUT. She lives in New York City. You can visit her online at www.pattymccormick.com.

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