The man stood over the vast stretches of the wasteland, holding his service rifle close to his side. A wind in the night brushed sand over he and his fellow companions of war. The man, being set on watch, stared into the moon. His helmet rested gently on a nearby rock, and his short, light brown hair was exposed to his surroundings. He gripped his dog tags tightly. "James Hormell," he read quietly out loud, examining the dog tags. He tore them from his neck, dropping the worn steel onto the cold sand of the nightly desert. He looked back at his squadron one last time, knowing he'd hopefully never see them again. He turned, facing the wind, as he began shifting quietly away from the troops. "James Hormell," he said to himself, "relieved of his duties."