“I’ve got the list, Colonel.” Sergeant Hobbs said, entering the tent. Cigar smoke hung in the air, swirling with the draft.

Colonel Jons looked up from the papers on his desk. It was a slow, labored movement. The kind you make when the Doctor’s about to break the news. “Thank you, Hobbs.”

He perused the list carefully, recognizing some of the names. He tried to remember some of the faces. It was hard. He’d lost so many.

“It was a bad day, Sir.” Hobbs breathed as he continued to stand there at parade rest. “They hit us with mortars from the tree-line. There just wasn’t much cover. Air support cooked the bastards, but not before…” he trailed off, staring at the list in the Colonel’s hand.

“Expensive.” said the Colonel. Then he noticed a name: Tom Swanson. “Awe jeez” He muttered, placing the paper on his desk a little too carefully.

“Problem, Sir?” Hobbs said, a little shocked at the Colonel’s demeanor.

“No. Start with the notifications. Except this one, Swanson, I know his father.”