Among other things, they call him a friend.

There is a secure reckoning in Tony Ferrell’s tread; every turn in the golf shop leads him to something –- and in this case, someone -– familiar.

Happy Valley Country Club — population 235 — is not a vast continuum of old money, privilege or status. By contrast, the sharpest points of its spectrum are found in dollar bets, the last few hands played on a Wednesday evening and the speakeasy nature of its membership.

Most of the club’s longstanding bourgeois have parted ways with their given name –- some enthusiastically, some reluctantly -– in favor of a moniker truly befitting their disposition.

Glide. Skeeter. Candy. Nokahoma. Rickonite. Canted faces, built on the backs of grandiose tales, on a mocked-up Rushmore.

“It’s the people. There’s a brotherhood here,” Ferrell says.

Indeed. They are one against all comers, more than capable of marking each other’s shadow in a darkened alley. Furthermore, and perhaps most important, is their ability to know when that grayed figure, albeit out of reach, is in need of a helping hand.

And Ferrell’s bearing –- whether as acting presider of the men’s golf association, or tending bar, or splitting trees after a hurricane, or telling a member to “call home, immediately” — is not obligatory, nor the genesis of a debt left unpaid.

It is the spirit of camaraderie.

Perhaps brothers best define this force; riding atop the crest of time together in the tide, well beyond inside jokes, and settled in the merriment of an emergency nine holes.

This is Tony Ferrell’s home, and his second Happy Valley -– one markedly different from the first.

Among other things, they call him honorable.

He watched, as did the naivety of America, and waited.

“They (the United States Army) were drafting so many in such a short period of time,” he recalls, “and I applied for the National Guard. But there was a list. A long list.”

Vietnam –- the irony still mocks him.

“By the time I was eligible,” he said, “I already had three weeks in boot camp.”

Grueling five-mile runs, homesick. Classroom sessions, homesick. Weapons training, homesick. Pick up the man around you, soldier –- he is homesick, too.

“It was scary,” he says, “I grew up on a farm. And in four months, everything changed. I got married in September of ’65, and I was in the Army by February of ’66.”

Basic training, his crude goodbye to adolescence, was in Fort Gordon, Ga., -– just a stone’s skip from Alister MacKenzie’s famed architectural masterpiece, Augusta National.

But, as he recalls, “I didn’t know anything about golf, and didn’t care. When the Masters was played, they let us take a vacation.”

Any furlough, however, was short lived.

Happy Valley, a nickname given the rugged terrain southwest of Qu?ng Nam Province –- and a primary North Vietnamese tactical position -– lay in wait.

And along with countless young men who looked just like him –- green, jittery on the trigger, and full of dreams otherwise –- Tony Ferrell began a descent into madness.

Among other things, they call him dedicated.

Someone kicked the rail of his bunk.

“Hey, Ferrell,” the man said, “Congratulations. You have an eight-pound, 10-ounce boy.”

He doesn’t recall who told him the news; not that it mattered. In two years, and still a month shy of his 21st birthday, he had traversed life in total –- farm boy, husband, soldier and now, father.

“I’m from Lucama, N.C.,” he said, “just as far away from home as you can get.”

His voice trails.

“I thought, I’ll probably never see him,” he said.

A soldier’s intuition.

It is a valuable part of infantry life, a way to preserve those closest to you — and very much a natural by-product of watching dreams explode, the daily threat of jungle rot and love letters sent home by dead men.

But even by Hell’s new standard, something was wrong. He knew it. With only 45 days left in the broiler plate, an eerie premonition settled over him -– one that would not relent.

“The night before all this, I told a friend of mine, another squad leader, ‘Something’s going to happen to me tomorrow,’” he recalled.

The next morning, as Ferrell’s men organized a position necessary to relieve a weary night patrol, a Viet Cong soldier ran through the perimeter’s post.

Charlie blinked, and his goal -– part concentrated chaos, part death en masse — was achieved.

“We took fire,” Ferrell recalls, “And I got lucky; the first bullet that hit me knocked me down.”

He never felt the impact. The crossfire entered just underneath his breastplate; it seared through his skin, glanced down the collar bone, and exited near the fold of his right arm.

“I was face down on the ground,” he said. “Trembling. Every time my heart beat, blood came out of my mouth.”

It was eight in the morning. It was his 21st birthday, and his son had been alive just three weeks.

Among other things, they call him loyal.

He was in the wrong pile.

Amongst a litany of the dead, wounded, and those not expected to survive their maker’s call — he attempted to move, to highlight for anyone that his life, though in jeopardy, remained loosely intact.

“Everything was moving in slow motion,” Ferrell noted. “I couldn’t hear anything. I kept going in and out.”

He would die there, by God’s grace, with the rest of them. Back home, family would tell stories. His widow would receive an impeccably folded flag. Taps would be played.

His son would have only pictures.

“They just happened to see me trying to get up,” he said, “and got me inside a medic tent. I could see a great big, white light, and people with masks on around me.”

A squadron helicopter circled back for the farm boy from Lucama. Time was on the vine, dangling.

“Those choppers had nothing but wall-to-wall radios,” he said. “I remember seeing the equipment, everything turning red –- and I kind of knew what that was.”

One rotor blade after another, he rose into the azure sky, high above the blood-stained floor of Conrad’s darkness.

He thought of his friends; there were other farm boys, too.

Among other things, they call him fearless.

His return home was met with no ticker tape parade; the main street of America -– at least for Ferrell –- was closed. Public opinion was divided, and our soldiers fodder for its ranging passion.

America had become immutable.

“If you ever saw the movie ‘We Were Soldiers,’ when one of our guys was pushing his buddy in a wheelchair, through the airport, the people wouldn’t walk close to them,” he says.

The film’s facsimile is all too clear.

“One lady grabbed her daughter,” he said, “and pulled her to the other side of the terminal. That’s the feeling you had -– that all of us had.”

Like many others, he pondered life anew. There were endless days of wracked silence, fury, guilt and visions of mind-numbing horror that would never be erased.

“I tried to wipe out everything,” he says, “I drank. Never mentioned anything about my company. Never looked at my pictures.”

He pauses, wearing the long look of the dead pile.

“My friends weren’t with me,” he recalls, “and I didn’t have my rifle.”

Among other things, they call him grateful.

No. 15 at Happy Valley Country Club prefers a gentleman’s fade from the tee; measuring only 315 yards, it hardly qualifies as a task insurmountable.

Here, bets are doubled; salty verbiage flies, as one might expect from names like Glide, Skeeter, Candy, Nokahoma and Rickonite.

The perfectly struck drive can, however, receive the proper bounce and with any luck, leave the deserving author a bid for eagle.

In an instant, things can change.

Ferrell’s round that Sunday resembled many he has played at Happy Valley Country Club. It was a charted study in normalcy, complete with the ridiculous and splendid.

There were fairways hit, three putts, bogeys and birdies — marks of layman’s golf on the card.

His cell phone rang.

“It was my wife,” Ferrell recalls, “she said I had a very strange message — from a guy who said he was in Vietnam with me.”

Thirty-seven years. He was scared again, just like Fort Gordon. Just like the night before his birthday. Just like coming home.

“What if this guy is real?” he asked himself.

It was nearing midnight.

Ferrell clutched the piece of paper. Looked at the phone number for an eternity, each time hoping the numerals would disappear. If they did, he wouldn’t have to go back.

“I’m trying to picture this guy,” he recalls of the moment. “But I just couldn’t remember. I had wiped all of that stuff away.”

The voice wasn’t instantly recognizable -– too many years had now passed, and too much time had been spent parting with his deeds done for God and country.

“Look at your pictures,” the man said.

Piece by fragmented piece, it came back to him. LRP rations. An Khe District. Night patrol. The matrix laden, earsplitting burst of a Claymore mine. His first trip through Happy Valley.

He longed for his rifle; that would make him safe.

But the boys of Delta Company, 2nd Battalion, 12th Brigade, First Calvary Division –- Ferrell’s unit -– had survived the mayhem of his birthday in the jungle.

And to a man, at every reunion since, they had asked about him.

Among other things, they never call him a hero.

Sgt. Tony Rose Ferrell, United States Army, is not the flowing, regal cape of a graphic novelist’s inkwell. He is not the ninth inning grand slam we dreamt of hitting as teenagers, nor a jersey canonized in the rafters of a gymnasium.

He is more, and unfortunately, often what we take for granted — a father’s timely counsel, an easy smile, an honest day’s work in the golf shop, and the corner chair of the Wednesday night poker tournament.

“Life has been great to me,” he says, “really great to me. I have a son, a daughter, and five of the prettiest grandchildren you’ve ever seen. I’ve been rewarded to the max.”

He shifts in his chair. “Blessed,” he says.

The jungle still echoes, still prowls his dreams. But its cacophonous hymn is somewhat softer now –- he knows they made it.

This weekend, the 10 o’clock crowd will gather in its usual regalia at Happy Valley Country Club. Dollar bills and barbs will be exchanged. The same stories, about the same exploits, will be given new life.

And Tony Ferrell will be there –- he’s a company man.