Just me and the drill instructor now.

All the guys I trained with for the past 2 months are off going to find out which fresh hell awaits them in front-line infantry. But me – I’m held back… Can you flunk out of the army?

Two eyes dominate my field of vision – the same two eyes that have been in my face, dreams, and nightmares since I got here. He gives me the news; all I hear is the last word, ‘proud’.

He starts telling a story… The story of M-Day… fuck, he was there. And pride swells within me as I realize; these are now my brothers and sisters. I tune back in just as he finishes.

“But GOD DAMMIT, WE GOT IT THROUGH! That was the day I got this…” He points to his chest where a medal nobly hangs.

“Lost this.” He lifts his sleeve, showing the stump.

“But we all got this.”

He lifts his sleeve higher, and on what remains of his left arm is a tattoo; the devil riding a flaming stamp with a shot gun, and the third line of the motto: Nor Hail of Bullets.

“PRIVATE JOHNSON, WELCOME TO POSTAL COMPANY!”