Wilson followed his unit's progress from Walter Reed. He wrote sympathy cards to the families of every soldier in his company who was killed. But there was one thing he couldn't do, and that was face those families at the funerals. He felt too guilty, too ashamed. He had survived. Not because he was special or brave, he had just been lucky enough not to die: How could you look mothers and fathers in the eye while they lowered their sons into the earth, when you knew there was no good reason why you were alive while their boys--perhaps better soldiers and better men--were not? Sgt. Lucas Wilson, combat veteran of two whole minutes, was safely back stateside, eating steak with four-star generals who wanted to shake his hand, getting calls from reporters who wanted to wrap him in their b.s. stories about plucky amputees. They didn't get it. The real heroes--the guys who gave everything they had to give--were dead. Or they were still in Iraq, exhausted, dirty, and scared, knowing there was no way to defend against a lucky mortar round, a roadside bomb, or a sniper's bullet.