Dickman holds out the bottle of whiskey to me. Or at least I think it’s whiskey. We’re not one hundred percent sure, but he got it from someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows our translator, and despite alcohol being illegal for us, we have it anyway.

Maybe that’s why I’m hesitating taking it. The last thing I want is to get caught by our commanding officer and put on burning-the-shitter detail as punishment.

However, I reach over, take the bottle, and tilt it to my lips for one long, deep swallow. I wince as the burn fires down my throat but Jesus, it’s welcome if only to help me forget for a few goddamn minutes where I am and what we’re doing.

“A bar?” Richard asks.

“Yep. The four of us will buy a bar together and call it FUBAR as a silent ode to this once-in-a-lifetime experience we’re enjoying right here.” Shotgun’s sarcasm rings loud and clear, and we all laugh.

“I can get on board with that,” I say with a nod, the alcohol hitting faster than I expected. “Jesus, that’s some strong shit.”

Dickman laughs like a crazed loon, and we all shush him so we don’t get in trouble. “It definitely has a higher alcohol content than the shit we have back home.”

“Home,” Shotgun murmurs. We all fall silent, because we know his girl just dumped him and he’s taking it hard. Hell, we’ve only been here a month, so she didn’t even let his sheets grow cold before doing it either.

He may have lost his girl, but I lost my dream.

Fuck. That definitely hurts.

“What is it you guys can’t wait to get back to?” Richard asks as he hands the bottle back to me.

“Pussy,” Dickman deadpans, and we all burst out laughing.

“No shit,” Richard says, punching him in the arm. “I’m serious. Like we’re here and shit, but what are you hoping for when you get back?”

“We should just kiss our old lives goodbye,” Dickman says, “because nothing will ever be the same again.”

“C’mon,” I mutter. “That’s not true.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Dickman says, and of course, we all pay more attention when he speaks because this is his second tour.

“No, I’m dead serious.” He points to me. “Don’t you get it? You’re no longer PFC Ryan Camden. You’re a faceless number among many. When the brass looks at you, they see a guy who mans the gun. Now to them, you’re simply Gunner.”

“Whatever.” I wave a hand at him and dismiss his I-know-more-than-you bullshit.