James B. Stewart - Heart of a Soldier

Praise for Heart of a Soldier

Stunning Soldier of fortune, rugby star, big game hunter, decorated U.S. Army officer, vice president in a major financial firm, patriot, writer, singer, poet, and friend to all who ever knew him, Rick Rescorla was a character out of Hemingway or Kipling. Stewart brings this bona fide hero to life in ways small and large.

Jim Haner, Baltimore Sun

Excellent Stewart has chosen a subject that is riveting in itself, and rendered it with glass-clear prose that leaves the reader with an intimate understanding of the story and its people. Stewarts description of Rescorlas war experiences in Vietnamblood, sweat, and terroris gripping in its heroism as well as its horrors. Stewart gives the reader a monument more enduring than the towers: a mans sacrifice, an act of love that saved thousands of lives and made the dark wickedness of that day a backdrop for the triumph of heroic virtue.

Christopher E. Baldwin, National Review

Stewart weaves together an almost Forrest Gumplike tale of a man who would touch history and make history.

Lynn Bronikowski, Rocky Mountain News

James B. Stewart writes with such unblinking honesty about Rescorla that what you are left with is not the portrait of a hero (although if that word has any meaning, Rescorla deserves the title) but that he was one decent guy, a funny thing to conclude about a man whose life was devoted for so long to killing.

Margo Hammond, St. Petersburg Times

Stewarts painstakingly gathered accounts are crafted into a narrative that reads like fiction, letting the richness of events, personality, and anecdote do their work. A meticulous account.

Diane M. Bacha, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

Stunningly detailed movingly rendered.

Dorothy Rabinowitz, The Wall Street Journal

Stewart writes with enviable precision and careful foreshadowing. His battle scenes are riveting.

Stephen J. Dubner, The New York Times Book Review

A fast and compelling story of duty, love, and devotion. Through the eyes of Rick Rescorla, Stewart shows the magnitude of the loss of Sept. 11, both in its effect on the nation and on the thousands of people with an immediate connection.

Ray Locker, Associated Press

ALSO BY JAMES B. STEWART

Blind Eye

Follow the Story

Blood Sport

Den of Thieves

The Prosecutors

The Partners

Second Lieutenant Rick Rescorla in the Vietnamese Central Highlands, 1965. (Courtesy of Susan Rescorla)

SIMON & SCHUSTER
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New York, NY 10020
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Copyright 2002 by James B. Stewart

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

First Simon & Schuster trade paperback edition 2003

Simon & Schuster and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com

Book design by Ellen R. Sasahara

Manufactured in the United States of America

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Stewart, James B.

Heart of a soldier: a story of love heroism, and September 11th / James B. Stewart; epilogue by Susan Rescorla.

p. cm.

1. Rescorla, Rick, 1939-2001. 2. Police, PrivateNew York (State)New YorkBiography. 3. HeroesNew York (State)New YorkBiography. 4. September 11 Terrorist Attacks, 2001. 5. World Trade Center (New York, N.Y.) 6. Rescue workNew York (State)New York. I. Title.

HV8291.U6 S748 2002 974.71044092dc21 [B]

2002029427

ISBN 0-7432-4098-7

ISBN 978-0-7432-4-4596

eISBN 978-1-4391-8-8279

0-7432-4459-1 (Pbk)

EPILOGUE: YOULL REMEMBER ME
by Susan Rescorla

SUSAN GREER HEARD footsteps approaching from behind. She instinctively pulled on the leash to bring her golden retriever, Buddy, closer beside her. It was just after six oclock on a Saturday morning in July 1998. Susan wasnt used to seeing anyone on these early morning walks, especially on a weekend, when most of her neighbors in suburban Morristown, New Jersey, slept late and lingered over their coffee.

The sky that morning was clear and a soft blue, and already Susan could tell it would be a hot, humid day. She had gotten into the habit of rising early to walk Buddy, and she found that she liked the cooler air, the quiet, and the early morning light. On their walks, she and the dog rarely strayed from Dorado Drive, the street that wound through the complex of Spanish colonial-style town houses where Susan lived. She had moved there five years earlier, after her second marriage ended in divorce.

Susan was blond, attractive, and in good shape for a woman who was fifty-six years old. She jogged regularly, watched her diet, and shopped for stylish clothesnot that anyone would have guessed that from the way she looked that morning. After getting out of bed, Susan had pulled on a loose T-shirt and shorts, barely pausing to brush her hair. She wore no makeup or jewelry. Her mother would have been appalled, but her mothers world of formal lunches, afternoon teas, and antique doll collecting seemed to have vanished.

Susan wondered sometimes what had happened to that world during the years she spent raising children and working to support them. Unlike her mother, who had never held a job in her life, Susan worked as assistant to the president of a bank. She enjoyed foreign films and often went to the Roberts cinema in Chatham, either with women friends or, as was often the case, alone. She had begun venturing into Manhattan on weekends to visit art galleries and antique shops. She visited her daughters but didnt want to intrude on their busy lives. On most Friday evenings, like the night before, she came home from work, had a light supper, settled in with a book, and went to bed early. She didnt like to acknowledge it, but she knew it to be true: she was lonely.

Susan hadnt had a date in the five years since her divorce. She didnt encourage anyone, didnt go anywhere single men congregated, and no one had asked her out. At her age, twice divorced and with three grown children, she knew the odds of meeting an eligible man were so remote that she was better off not thinking about it.

Susan heard the footsteps coming closer. There was something odd about the sound of the steps. Then a jogger passed her. He was tall, a big man, about her age, wearing a knit shirt and tan slacks with the cuffs rolled up. But what really caught her attention was his feet. It wasnt like her to say anything to a stranger, but curiosity overcame her. What are you doing jogging in your bare feet? she asked.

The jogger kept running but slowed down. He said that he was writing a play set in Africa. I need to know what it feels like to run without shoes, he said.

How intriguing, she thought. There werent many writers in the neighborhood; most of the men commuted to Wall Street or the many corporate headquarters in suburban New Jersey. Susan thought she should leave it at that, but there was something in the mans voice that threw her off balance. Lately she had been thinking she had to take more risks. All her life shed done the safe thing, the right thing, exactly what was expected of her. She had been told never to talk to strangers.