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As undesirable as my situation was now, I was still alive, and although I still didn’t know why, it was better than the alternative.

I soon tired of reviewing the movie of my life, but with no other pressing engagements, I relaxed, tried to focus on the sea’s soothing motion, and just let sleep come.

I AWOKE WITH the words Lucky Louie stuck in my head. From high school on I’d always accepted the nickname with a certain smugness. Now I desperately needed it to remain so. Neither Phil, Mac, nor I were regular churchgoing guys; we never prayed before heading into combat. But because we’d survived the crash I had to at least consider the possibility of some kind of divine intervention. Just to be on the safe side, I thanked God for saving our lives. My buddies prayed with me. Of course, on life rafts that’s what you mostly do: you pray.

FOR THREE GUYS used to looking down at the ocean, we now found ourselves always looking up. Hours passed, the sun slid toward the horizon, the air grew damp, our stomachs growled. No rescue plane had appeared, so I portioned out some chocolate and resigned myself to a night at sea.

In the dark it quickly grew cold, and the chill penetrated our bones, making it almost impossible to sleep. Using the sea anchor, a hollow, collapsible piece of canvas a lot like the feed bag you put over a horse’s mouth, we scooped six inches of water into each raft and let our bodies warm it like a blanket. It worked. We finally drifted off into an exhausted, deathlike slumber.

The next morning we dried out in the sun and scanned the sky hopefully for planes. No one wanted to spend another night on the ocean.

For breakfast I figured we’d each have a little more water and some chocolate. We had enough for a week if we took it easy, but when I went for our rations the chocolate was gone.

I didn’t understand. I’d secured our supplies the night before, and the ocean had been calm; the chocolate couldn’t have washed overboard. I knew I hadn’t eaten it, and Phil, in the other raft, was too weak to move.

The obvious hit me: Mac.

“What did you do?” I hissed. “What did you do?” Phil stared at me. Mac said nothing, but his eyes opened wide and his expression turned pathetic. Almost funny.

“Why?” I asked.

Again, no response. But what could he say? Mac had no excuse for his actions. “I don’t know anyone who would do something like that,” I said. “We’re three together; we must cooperate and pull together, work together.” I wanted to crack him in the face again, but I didn’t. I turned away, disgusted. Mac was a weakling, a kid who’d broken something and didn’t want to take responsibility. What could I do with someone like that, kick him in the head? Sure his problem was psychological, induced by stress, but we were all under stress. Mac seemed helpless. He was numb and he knew he’d done wrong, no question. But why get angry? Besides, I truly believed we’d be picked up in a day or two. For a moment I even worried about him: Who knew what eating six bars of fortified chocolate would do to your insides?

I partly blamed myself for not anticipating his panic and his impulses. Mac never took proper care of himself. On the base he skipped our physical-fitness program. He chain-smoked. Drank. Spent his nights in Honolulu doing who knew what. He also missed meals. We had pretty good food in the dining room, but he’d come in, eat whatever was sweet, and leave. You couldn’t make him listen. Several cups of coffee and three pieces of pie? No problem. Mac had developed a sweet tooth long before he met our chocolate. I should have known I couldn’t trust him. Instead, I was like the guy who puts his hand in front of a rattlesnake expecting not to get bitten. Only a fool does that.

Everybody in the service gets the same combat training. We go to the front line with the same equipment. When the chips are down, some will panic and run and get court-martialed. Why? Because we’re not all brought up the same. I was raised