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Scars - Chapter 7

After paying respects to Harlow and carrying him back to the base camp to be shipped back Stateside, we sat down to contemplate what had just happened. Morgansson was in the field hospital and I had been appointed the leader of the squad for the time being. As we sat around the table with our minds full and our shot glasses empty, we pondered what to do next. Just then, a man with a perfectly trimmed handlebar moustache hopped off of a white stallion across the camp. His eyes locked with mine as he moved across the outcrop of tents and sat down with us. "General Montgomery." His voice was low and gruff, and he was obviously a heavy smoker, judging by the ambient smell of cigarettes and the lighter and cigars tucked behind the band of his flat-brim slouch. "I've got an assignment for you boys."

Immediately, I took the papers from his hands as the rest of the squad looked down in sadness at their failure to drink away their memories. Their shot glasses had been relieved of alcohol, and filled with tears. I surveyed the map. "Tesoro Azul. It's a stronghold for the Mexican Army..they took it from some rebels a week ago." I sighed. "Sir, all due respect, we've had a loss in our squad recently. We're just--" His gruff voice interrupted me as the smell of cigarettes seeped out of his mouth. "I'm not asking, Marston." He stood and began to walk away as Moorcock knocked his glass off of the table and quickly stood. "We're not doing it, jackass."

The General quickly spun around to face us again. "I suggest you watch your mouth, Sergeant." Ty looked up at him and stood aswell. "He's right. We're not doing it, sir." The General looked suddenly startled, before his face descended to anger. "So you fucked up on a raid and someone died. That doesn't interfere with your duty. He was obviously the weakest--" His thought was interrupted by a drunken punch from across the table. Before anyone knew what was going on, the General was on the ground with a broken nose as six soldiers attempted to pull Moorcock off of him.

As the General rose, his face was stern and emotionless. Everyone stood in anticipation, waiting for him to speak. Sweat rolled down my face, created by a combination of fear, agitation, and the warm sun beating down on the camp. The General then pulled out a small parchment from his pocket, which we all quickly identified as our squad papers, and ripped it in half before speaking.

"Disavowed. All of you."

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