1 Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C. December 27, 1967, 2:00 a.m.   The room was brightly lit. Pale blue walls shone white and the black floor tiles shimmered and rippled like water. Paper chains and tired snowflakes hung from the ceiling and a Christmas tree sat unhappily in the corner, leaning forward but somehow not tipping. In the middle of the room was a flimsy Formica table and, on either side, sat two men, neither of whom wanted to be there. Jack Miller was relaxed but wary, his eyes alert and clear despite the hour. His clothes well cut. He clenched and unclenched his right fist, which was large and heavy and stiffened with arthritis. The weight of it made the table look flimsier still. He rubbed his knuckles to ease the pain then looked from the blank piece of paper in front of him to the man opposite. Private Connor Murphy. His face and hands were covered in bandages and the parts of his scalp that showed through were either pink and raw or black and charred. It made you hurt just to look at him, Jack thought. Poor bastard. The nurses said feeding him was like…