Two mornings out of every week, Radar rises with the sun and staggers to Colonel Potter's tent, bearing coffee. Once roused and alert, the Colonel parts with the Company Clerk, silently striding to the stable tucked behind the motor pool. There, brush in hand, he tells his silent audience of the war's worries; the Private who would never again see home, the General who killed freely, the morale no one could locate.
Two mornings out of every week the sun meets a man and his horse. Seven evenings out of every week it sets on a man and his patient.