Sam Schiro Sam and I ambled into the clubhouse for a cold drink. My back ached and my hands were blistered from filling sandbags and stringing razor-sharp concertina wire along the outer perimeter of LZ English. We trudged past the empty pool tables and dropped our sweaty bodies onto the barstools. I pulled off my worn leather gloves and tossed them onto the counter. Greg Deperio was behind the bar, stacking boxes. He stopped, straightened up, and cracked, “Hey! No shirts, no service!” “Boyson, how’d you get such…