My first year in the navy, I got sent to barracks duty, cranking on this crew of fat bodies and rejects and psychopaths. Nobody did any work except for one guy. Seaman Sherwood. Not his real name, a joke name because anything you asked him to do, he sure would. Lanky dude. Acne scars. Everyone hated him but I kind of liked him. Once, the toilets flooded in the brig and Sherwood and I got sent to clean it. Sewage everywhere. Only had a small wet vac and hazmat gloves, but Sherwood laughed, chasing the turds. “Here, fishy fishy!” he shouted. Eventually all our leadership was fired and a new inspector general deemed the barracks “beyond the unlivable.” As a result, we stayed in hotels out in town where Sherwood did not thrive. I found him often in the bar chewing his nails bloody. Then, twice, crumpled on the bathroom floor. Who knows what would have happened if not for that open deployment billet. Sherwood volunteered, was selected for Iraq, got assigned to a riverine boat, and died by friendly fire somewhere near Al-Faw. But I didn’t. I got out. Ended up back near base, but it's not the same place. Been decommissioned ten years now. The barracks is a swamp, but it always was, I suppose. Drive past it most mornings and saw researchers out there today. Thought about this Sherwood stuff for the first time in a long time. Thought about calling his family, but I don’t think he had one. Shit. Don't even remember his real name. B-something. Brian or Billy? Or I don’t know. Maybe it's something else entirely.