"Fuck..." Harder, faster, something he could control, something he could give. Gratitude and hatred and brotherhood all warred together, made coherent speech impossible, and he was reduced to the language of the field as his hand moved, lightning-quick, feeding off of Sanderson's moans like a benediction. This was the closest to God any of them would ever get.

Lovely story, and the above paragraph was completely inspired.

I was a bit afraid of being squicked because I know the real Capt. (now Col.) Steele. Yeesh. He was my brother's CO in Bosnia. He had a handshake like steel and I was scared to death of him. However, my brother heard a rumor that Col. Steele liked to play classical piano, so one day he screwed up his courage and asked him. Steele looked at him hard for a good long time, looked around, then whispered, "I fuckin' love Mozart. But if you ever, ever tell anyone, you will die a long and painful death." Hee.

Here's hoping the man always has access to a piano!