There is a man standing by the railing. He is much thinner than his build seems to indicate, and he stands ramrod straight against the wind. That he used to be a soldier is obvious from his stance, even if we weren't on an Army ship.

I walk over to the rail. The storm is building, and all passengers must get below. I notice the way the man holds his left shoulder stiffly, and carefully walk to his other side, before touching his right shoulder. He swiftly turns and looks at me. At once I am struck by the haunted look in his hazel eyes, a look that speaks all too clearly of a place far away, and the horrors of war there. This man seems to be my own age, only twenty six. What horrors must he have seen to have such spectres lurking in his eyes?

Seeing me, the haunted look recedes, replaced by a careful blankness. The shadows are still there, but they hide behind a careful mask of nothingness. I sense that this is a man with a fierce pride, who will not accept any special treatment.

I shout over the wind. The storm is picking up, and even at close quarters it is hard to hear a word.

"I'm sorry sir, you'll have to get below!"