The sun was high over the desert as the Troll’s crew stood to the side of the burial site for the three homeless veterans who had died in the fight the day before. The veterans, many wounded and patched by the crew, stood before the graves. The man Gerrin had spoken to right after the fight delivered the makeshift eulogy.

“His name was Frank Syrus. Former first sergeant. Say his name. He was one of us”.

“Frank Syrus”, the veterans murmured.

“He looked after us during the war, he looked after us since”, he continued. “Say his name”.

“Frank Syrus”, the veterans murmured again.

I never even knew it, Gerrin thought to himself while wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“He was Jeff Stimple, sergeant. He was Phil Zoberman, first corporal. Say their names”.

“Jeff Stimple”, the veterans responded. “Phil Zoberman”.

“Their bodies will rest here while their souls go out beyond the black. Remember them”.

“Frank Syrus . . . Jeff Stimple . . . Phil Zoberman”.

Twelve assembled veterans moved to the sides of the graves, came to attention, and saluted as all assembled began to hum Taps. Six of the men beside the graves climbed down into the holes, two per grave, while the remaining six picked up the bodies and handed them to the men in the graves. When the last of the grave tenders stood and climbed from the graves they all came to attention. The officiator continued ”Rest easy, comrades. We have the watch”.

“We have the watch”, the assembled repeated.

The ceremony concluded, the veterans moved to the graves and began shoveling. The officiator moved toward Gerrin and his crew. “It’s done”, he commented. “We’ll take it from here”.

“Thanks for your help”, Gerrin said.

“Thanks for the food. By the way, where’d yo