Author's Note: Hey everyone who's read this far! Hope you're enjoying it. Just like to repeat again that I do not own Psych. I also don't own the reference to any of these actors that I mention, El Dorado, or Catch-22 (if you caught that reference). I'd like to say again that I'd love some reviews! I don't care if they're nice or super critical—any review is helpful! If any facts are wrong (especially about the military stuff), if my story isn't engaging you enough, if something needs to be added or removed, if you want something to happen—just tell me! Thanks again!

Update: I re-edited this chapter because I did some more research on army organization and order of ranks and found that in a squad, the highest-ranking member would have been a sergeant, not a captain. So, I switched everyone's rank accordingly. Also, it appears that there was only one combat-related death during the Bosnia-Herzegovina war, so I am having to edit the setting to accommodate accordingly. I am now putting Lassiter in the Gulf War. This is what I get for not editing my story right? Thanks for your patience!

"Nah, man, I'm telling you. John Wayne could whip both Humphrey Bogart's and Harrison Ford's sorry butts without even blinking an eye."

"You kidding me? John Wayne was so out of shape he could've killed himself blowing out a candle. Didn't you see El Dorado?"

"What about Chuck Norris? That dude could take them all on and still be ready to take on all of Bosnia if he wanted to."

"Bruce Lee was a pretty good fighter."

"Bruce Lee was Japanese."

"Chinese, you idiot."

The men were sitting in the empty mess hall playing poker. The mess hall was practically wilting in the desert heat. Despite the fact that it was two in the morning, ht heat was still potent enough to break the cheap mercury thermometer in the corner of the room, something the men often made bets on during the day. A package of ice cold beer sat on the metal table in front of them—a gift from a Iraqi villager who was probably hoping the Americans would leave if he gave it to them. They didn't, though they wished they could.

The men had just gotten off a grueling patrol an hour ago. Nothing interesting had happened, except for a few distant mortar shells and a jet flying overhead—normal occurrences in the war zone. When they came back, the men were still too on edge to sleep, so they had mutually agreed to blow off steam with a low-stakes game of poker.

Corporal Lutz threw down his cards. "C'mon, Shirley! You've dealt me crap every hand! You're cheating, you lying scum."

PFC "Shirley" Farrell—a name he acquired for always carrying two grenades in his front shirt pockets (even when he slept), giving him two miniscule lumps that did not go unnoticed by his buddies—merely smiled and bet a few poker chips. Lutz scowled but picked up his cards again, knowing he was about to lose all his money but embracing his inevitable loss.

PFC Daniels—"Pi" to his buddies—took a swill of his ice cold beer and wiped the foam from his mouth. "So, whaddya guys think the new squad leader's gonna be like?"

Corporal Merrillson threw in a few red chips and commented, "Probably a lot like all these other officers—like a middle-aged housewife with a stick up his butt." A few of the guys chuckled at the amusing yet oh-so-accurate description.

"Remember that one colonel that came through here a few months ago?" Shirley bit into a ham sandwich and recounted the rest of the story through a mouthful of bread and meat. "Comes up to me and asks me why I ain't wearing my stripes on my shoulders. After all, I weren't no general or anyone else high up, so snipers wouldn't pick me off.

"Well, I didn't want to tell him that I ripped 'em off 'cause they kept fallin' off anyways. That corporal's a terrible tailor. Anyways, so I look him right in the eye and I say, 'I'm a major, sir.' Well, he looks at me and says, 'You're a major?' and I say, 'Yes, sir.' And he thinks on this for a minute, and then he's like, 'Then why you diggin' this latrine?' 'Cause see that's what I was doin' when he came up. Diggin' that new latrine over by the showers with Bigmouth and Skittles.s

"Well, I looked at him and I said, 'Because, sir, I like to work with my men. Let 'em know I care about 'em and wanna help 'em. I ain't above 'em.' Well, this colonel didn't know much because he just told me to carry on and keep being the leader I was and walked outta there like I was actually a major. How's that for a field promotion?"

The rest of the group laughed raucously at Shirley's story—always the class clown. His stories were often the only respite during their tour. The only exception to the jocularity was Private Carlton Lassiter— "Lassie" to the rest of the guys. He hadn't had the best experiences with the previous squad leaders—they'd been through five already.

The first guy probably wouldn't have been too bad, but a tank shell took him out (and three other squad members) in the first week. Lassiter chalked it up to a stroke of bad luck, but his next squad leader went out the same way—tank shell—and was gone before anyone got a chance to know him. From then on, Lassiter learned not to form emotional attachments to any of his superiors, or any other squad members for that matter. He'd gotten used to the consistent badgering over the years to buck up and truly join in with the squad and become a team member, but he still hadn't changed.

Twenty-two. He'd watched as twenty-two young men with hopeful eyes had been destroyed like little paper men by bombs and bullets and grenades. He'd known every one personally, and each one had felt like a stab straight through his stomach, killing him slowly as their blood colored the desert sand around them, their eyes no longer hopeful, but glassy and unseeing. Since then, he'd hardened himself. No longer would he feel that stab of pain every time a man died. He would be impassable to all emotion.

He was one of two original members of the squad—Sergeant Maxwell Mann ("Macho" to his former squad members—who were all gone now) was the other. Macho was five years Lassiter's senior—making him about twenty-eight. He was much too skinny to truly look like a soldier, but he more than made up for it with his bushy black beard which he never shaved, as it doubled as camoflauge. He always wore his tan, canvas-covered helmet, as two of his buddies had been shot in the head when they had wandered off to take a leak without their helmets. He was often made fun of by the younger members of the squad, but he had seen too much death and suffering to pay them any attention. Like Lassiter, he didn't form relationships with his team anymore—too much liability and heartbreak. It was easier to go through the war without buddies.

Lassiter and Macho made eye contact and solemnly nodded at one another, both thinking the same thoughts. All these men will be dead in a matter of months. They better laugh it up now because their days are numbered.

Suddenly, the mess hall door swung open and hit the wall behind it with a loud thud. As soon as the group saw who it was, they immediately jumped to attention.

"As you were, men," a surprisingly high voice instructed. The men looked at each other uneasily and slowly sank back onto the metal benches of the tables. They picked up their cards again, but no one looked at them or payed any attention to the game anymore. They all waited for their new squad leader to speak so they could see what he was like, who he was.

The three yellow stripes sewed to his shoulders indicated he was a sergeant, like all the others before him. However, he was much younger than all the others before. Or maybe the substantial lack of facial hair just made him look younger, as his stubble was no more than a slight brownish shade to his face, only visible if you squinted. His eyes had crow's feet around them, indicative of much smiling over the years. As if to accentuate this feature, the man smiled warmly and surveyed his new squad.

"Good evening," he greeted in that tenor voice. "Little late for a card game, isn't it?" He checked his brand-new, Army-issued watch. "It's 0220."

Lutz, always striving to be teacher's pet, spoke up. "We just got off patrol an hour ago, sir. It's how we blow off steam." He kept his head down, as if ashamed to look the captain in the eyes. Lassiter wondered if subconsciously he also knew how little time this man had left.

"Understandable," the sergeant agreed amiably. "Well, men, we're gonna be together for a while, so we might as well get to know each other. My name is Sergeant Thomas Rich, named after the late great Thomas Jefferson. Or Tom Cruise. Whichever you prefer to believe."

The men nervously laughed. Sergeant Rich shook his head and giggled at their timidity. He probably couldn't believe that these men were some of the most lethal in the Army. "Let's clear the air, men. I know you're all nervous about having a new squad leader, getting used to my quirks and how I like things. But let me set your minds at ease: I don't intend to change things here. I simply intend to carry out orders from the powers-that-be and try and keep you guys alive at the same time. I'll only yell at you if you really screw up. Like if you die or something." The men laughed a little more comfortably now, with smiles creeping onto their faces. "But, other than that, I'm going to let you men continue being who you are: one of the top special squads in the Army. No reason to fix something that ain't broken."

"I'll drink to that," Shirley drawled as he clinked beer cans with Merrillson. Pi whooped and took a swig from his own can.

Sergeant Rich chuckled heartily and, picking up his own can from the gathering on the table, took a generous gulp of the ice cold drink. He smacked his lips and spoke again. "I'd also like you guys to know that I understand this position has a high turnover. Five squad leaders in the past year and a half. Those aren't good odds." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So, I want you guys to know that I am aware of the risk I'm taking. But I'm okay with that. I knew that when I joined the Army there was a chance I wouldn't come home alive. But that's okay. Better to live on your feet than to die on your knees, right?" The men murmured assent and sipped their beer in silent contemplation of their mortality.

His statement struck a chord with and immediately won Macho's respect. "Hear hear," he whispered and, standing to leave, clapped Sergeant Rich on the shoulder as he left. Sergeant Rich struggled to restrain the pride in his eyes, as he understood how important it was to earn the respect of such a man.

The men continued their friendly card game, exchanging dirty stories, war stories, childhood stories, heartbreaking stories—anything to break the ice and keep the night going. Everyone was getting along swimmingly and no one wanted it to end. The game went into the wee hours of the morning and, by the end of it, every man felt that if Sergeant Rich had asked him, they would have walked straight through the bullets of a thousand rifles into a lake of fire. He was their savior, the man they loved, the man they would follow anywhere. He just got it. He knew what they were going through, and he didn't want to change them. He was going to help them, to be their buddy, to be their father. All of them were ready to walk into battle with this man.

All except Private Lassiter. He wasn't about to let himself get that close to anyone again. He'd been hurt too much by this war, by this cruel world, to ever let himself feel anything but hate and indifference for anyone ever again. With a heavy sigh, he picked up his rifle, put on his helmet, and left the chattering, laughing men in the mess hall.