The cold wind howled outside the mess tent.
I was sitting inside, half-spaced out, staring at my coffee. Beside me sat Nox, Anchor, and Reaper—each buried in their own silence. Tonight wasn't a scheduled dinner hour, but Greybell had called us back to welcome Buzz and Bolt, who had just returned from their first solo op. A minor mission, really—more like assisting another unit—but a milestone for them nonetheless.
Anchor held a dented metal kettle and asked, "Anyone else want coffee?"
Castor, ever the clown, flashed a grin. "Top me off!"
Anchor shot back, "Get your own cup."
Then he turned to me. "Specter, using this one?"
I shook my head. Anchor didn't wait for a full answer and disappeared into the back, returning with extra mugs. He filled them all and handed me one.
"Warm up, man."
Castor raised his cup. "What's this, favoritism? We're all your brothers, bro. Not just Specter."
Nobody answered. Castor took a sip—and nearly choked.
"Holy crap, this is lava! Hey Specter, wanna trade?"
Anchor squinted. "You looking for trouble?"
Nox tugged at Castor's sleeve. "Let it go."
"Just playin'," Castor muttered. "Too damn quiet in here."
Quiet it was. Since our first real ops, each of us had at least one confirmed kill. I tried to tell myself it was duty, part of the job. But every night, the same faces haunted me—rage, fear, shock, grief—like shadows behind my eyelids.
After each mission, we got mandatory sessions with shrinks. Even Greybell sat us down now and then, trying to keep the darkness from digging in too deep. But no matter how many times someone told you to move on, the unease never really left.
Reaper had his head buried on the table, probably dozing. Nox was fidgeting with his fingers. Anchor sat upright like a poster soldier. And I... I was just trying to disappear into my chair. Only Castor couldn't sit still.
"God, this vibe is grim. Somebody say something."
Silence.
"Wanna sing something?"
Still silence.
"When's dinner anyway? We really waiting on those two rookies?"
More silence.
"Come on! Say something. Let me know I'm not alone here."
"Then sing," I muttered.
Castor sprang up with theatrical enthusiasm. "Hell yeah!" Castor stood up, lifting his cup like a mic. "Reaper, give me a beat!"
Reaper lifted his head. "Wasn't sleeping."
"Then what the hell were you doing?"
"Just tired."
We didn't have much entertainment up here. Singing had become our thing.
[Campfire Song – Improvised by Castor]
Castor took center stage like a lounge singer with a rifle.
"This one goes out to my one and only love…"
He winked at Anchor. Reaper tapped the table rhythmically.
🎶"I saw you at chow, in your muddy boots, Your face so rough, your temper so loose. You yelled at me like a grumpy dad, But deep inside—I know you're sad..."🎶
Missouri nearly choked laughing. Anchor frowned, face darkening.
🎶"Oh Anchor, you're my thunderstorm, Cold as Alaska, but damn you're warm. You shout out orders, and I obey, But I dream of you in a steamy café."🎶
Anchor muttered, "You better stop."
"Hold up, here comes the chorus!" Castor grinned.
🎶"I kissed you goodnight—on your weathered cheek, But your lips were dry, like old canned meat."🎶
Reaper started pounding the beat, grinning wide
I couldn't help it—I laughed. Reaper cracked a full smile. Castor always found a way to turn even our worst days into some kind of joke. Maybe it was his way of surviving.
Then came the sound. Low, deep, unmistakable.
Whup-whup-whup.
A chopper.
"They're back?" Castor leapt to his feet.
I glanced toward the tent entrance. Just as I was about to get up, Castor darted ahead and blocked the way.
"Specter, don't move. Nobody say a word. Not a damn sound."
He turned to everyone, grinning like a maniac, and put a finger to his lips.
Reaper stayed slumped. The guy never did get along with Buzz.
I sat back down. Anchor silently refilled my cup.
A few minutes later, a bright pink blur appeared in the tent doorway.
Buzz.
Wearing a neon-pink puffer jacket, mirrored sunglasses, and a grin that practically screamed "punch me." Behind him trailed Bolt—same pink jacket, same sunglasses, same ridiculous yellow sneakers.
Buzz looked around. "What the—what day is it again?"
Nobody answered.
"Wait, what's going on? It's not chow time. Why are y'all back?"
Bolt crouched low, squeezing in behind him. "Whoa, full house tonight!"
Buzz pulled him close. "So this is a surprise party? For me? You shouldn't have."
They stepped in confidently, only to be met with a wall of stone-faced silence.
Buzz slowly set down his rucksack and muttered, "What, you all freeze up or something?"
Bolt's smile faded as he looked around. "Specter… Did something happen?"
I lowered my gaze, sipping coffee.
"Where's Greybell?" Buzz asked.
Suddenly, Castor collapsed onto the table in a fit of loud sobs.
Buzz blinked. "Greybell... died?"
Bolt looked stricken. "He… He's gone?"
I didn't respond. Let them sweat.
Buzz reached for Castor's shoulder. Castor flung him off, still sobbing.
Bolt squatted, tears brimming. "He can't be dead… You didn't even go on a mission…"
Buzz scowled. "You forget how he hit you last time? Scar on your cheek, remember?"
Bolt started crying for real.
That's when I figured it was going too far. I opened my mouth—
Too late.
Castor grabbed Buzz in a tight hug. "You came back too late, man… we didn't even see him go…"
"Hey, hey, back off! This jacket's brand-new!" Buzz tried to squirm away.
Castor tightened his grip, wailing. "No body, no remains… It's our fault!"
Bolt let out a heart-wrenching sob.
"You guys suck at acting," Buzz said, his voice cracking as he scanned Anchor and me for confirmation.
Then—
"Why the hell are you crying?"
Greybell's voice boomed from outside.
The room went dead quiet. Even Reaper sat up.
Greybell strode into the tent, files in hand and frost in his gaze.
Buzz exhaled in relief—but didn't dare smile.
Greybell walked straight up to Castor. "Who died tragically and left no body? Huh?"
He glared at all of us. "You call this a team? You look like clowns. You are clowns."
Outside, I saw our commanding officer—stone-faced, arms crossed.
Greybell barked, "You! Up!"
Castor scrambled to his feet.
Buzz bit his lip, trying not to laugh.
"Three thousand push-ups."
"Sir!" Castor dropped immediately.
Greybell turned to me. "Specter! What the hell are you doing? Leading this circus?"
"Sir." I dropped beside Castor, no argument.
Anchor tried to interject. "Sir, actually—"
"Did I say you could speak? You wrong or not?"
Anchor hesitated. "Wrong, sir."
"Three thousand."
"Sir."
Buzz chuckled under his breath. Greybell's boot met his thigh.
"You forget who you are out there? Ten seconds. Get changed. Three thousand."
"Sir!"
"Up!"
Bolt froze. Greybell stormed up and kicked his shoulder.
"You too. Move!"
Bolt stammered. "Sir—yes, sir!"
"Five seconds. Change or get the hell out."
Bolt scrambled for his duffel.
Nox, ever the shadow, silently dropped and began his push-ups without a word.
Greybell locked eyes with Reaper. "What are you looking at? Got a problem?"
Reaper licked his lips, saying nothing.
Greybell kicked his chair out from under him. Reaper hit the ground, rolled, and started doing push-ups without a word.
Our CO stepped inside slowly. Greybell fumbled for his lighter, but the flame wouldn't catch.
The CO handed him a light and muttered, "Keep it professional. We don't encourage yelling or beatings."
Greybell lit up and growled, "These little punks don't move unless you yell. Can't shoot for shit, but eat like damn pigs…"