DOG OF WAR


He ached. All the time, not just after fights, though it was certainly stronger then. Though he might not carry the visible marks of every battle he'd fought, the remains of each blow plagued him every day—stiff joints, aching muscles. His right pinkie finger couldn't straighten all the way, and unless he stretched it every day, he had only partial range of movement in his left shoulder. Seven of his toes had no toenails anymore. He'd lost about twenty percent capacity in one lung, and his fingers had been broken too many times to be quite straight anymore.

But that was just part of the job. Eventually, he knew that all those little aches and pains would be enough to make him too slow and broken to keep protecting the team, but until then, he'd keep taking the punishment.

It was worth it to see his family happy and safe.


Old soldiers never die; they just fade away.

Douglas MacArthur