Eversmann's Chalk Four was part of a force of U.S. Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death, amen. It was the first time the lanky sergeant had been put in charge, and he was nervous about it.

They had been training for a moment like this. Or lack of same, driven out in the middle of the night from Fort Benning to retrieve each other from some diner or strip club out on Victory Drive after getting drunk and falling asleep or pissing off some barkeep. On forest floors, jumped out of airplanes, climbed mountains, shot down foaming rivers with their hearts in their throats, baked and frozen and starved together, passed countless bored hours, teased one another endlessly about girlfriends They'd been drunk together, gotten into fights, slept they knew each other better than most brothers did. They had traveled the world, to Korea, Thailand, Central America. Through basic training, jump school, and Ranger school. The older guys on this crew, like Eversmann, a staff sergeant with five years in at age twenty-six, had lived and trained together for years. He knew their faces so well they were like brothers. Young men in flak vests over tan desert camouflage fatigues. Before him, jammed on both sides of the Black Hawk helicopter, was his 'chalk,' twelve

He was curled into a seat between two helicopter crew chiefs, the knees of his long legs up to his shoulders. At liftoff, Matt Eversmann said a Hail Mary.

Black Hawk Down by Mark Bowden