Murdock didn't cry when he received the letter.
He just discarded it on the table like the unwanted debris from the rest of his breakfast.
Stared into his water as if it could force the world to make sense again
Gave a half hearted greeting to the rest of the unit as they joined him in the Mess tent.
Didn't stop Hannibal from picking up the letter and reading through it, gave him a nod and a wave of permission.
"Captain Murdock, we regret to inform you..."
He hated letters that started like that.
He didn't get angry when he realised his grandmother's death coincided with his time in the camps.
Didn't feel cheated when he saw the letter was censored, thick black lines obscuring parts of the text.
Didn't want to tear the world apart for denying him the right to attend her funeral.
He just sat and stared at his water whilst Hannibal stared at him.
He didn't panic when he got behind the controls of the Huey for the first time since recovering from THE ORDEAL.
Didn't care that it was all capitals in his mind, labelled as one thing, like a sickness, something he'd had to endure for a while but which had now gone away.
The camps had gone away and he knew they would stay away, as long as he buried them in the darkest part of his mind. Didn't care that it probably wasn't healthy to do that.
The night brought the camps back anyway.
He swung the chopper through the sky sharply, narrowly avoiding the enemy he'd almost collided with, too lost on the brink of nightmare to concentrate properly.
He regained his wits, locked in on the target and aimed.
He'd blow them all from the sky.
Get them before they got him.
Before they got Face, or BA or Hannibal.
Again.
No, there was definitely no anger.
That wasn't rage clouding his vision.
Just a red mist blowing up from the banks below as he came to land, following the falling aircraft into the village below.
He took his knife, his rifle and set off trying to find survivors.
Murdock found the old man in one of the blazing huts, his body lifeless, the picture by his outstretched fingers charred and torn, two smiling faces, all the promise of youth staring back at him as the fires consumed it, flames licking at the Vietnamese letters for "Grandfather" scrawled across the back.
And then he cried.
He startled when Hannibal found him some time later, still hunched over the remains of the photograph. Wiped his face roughly, something akin to embarrassment burning hot on his skin. But Hannibal just told him the smoke got to everyone, with a consolatory pat on the shoulder as he steered him out of the nearly demolished hut.
And it was at that moment Murdock knew he'd be one of Colonel Smith's guys until the day he died.
End.
