As half the platoon made a wary descent towards fields of dangerously high corn below an explosion echoed from behind the hill.

Small arms fire cracked through the air and over the radio, “We’re good…Johnson, you okay? Hey…shit…Shit! King’s been hit. He’s hit!” Eyes wide and radio mic still in hand, Hunter bounded back up the rocky slope, parched fatigue now forgotten. He crested the hill to a smoky chaos as the rear half of the platoon returned fire from what scant cover they could find.

Hunter froze. King wasn’t just hit and down; he was dead, no room for doubt. In his mind hours passed as immobile and mute he attempted to process the loss amidst the din of war—a friend, a brother, a father figure with a penchant for swiping his dip when he wasn’t looking.

Hunter took a breath. In reality that was the only pause he took before bounding towards open ground to get a clear signal, bullets whipping by and RPG’s impacting barren rock, “OP6 this is TF2 calling in a 9 line medevac, over.”