Mason returned from the commandant's office looking ashen-faced. The other prisoners were playing cards. He gestured discretely to Brinkley to come outside.
It was a humid night. Moths fluttered around the lights. The guards were cheering and celebrating in their barracks.
Checking they were out of ear-shot, Mason leaned on the railing and started rolling a ciagarette.
"I have bad news, Brinkley," he said, without looking up. "News on the comms. Brock. KIA."
Brinkley stumbled and fell against the post. Mason reached out to help him, but his hand was pushed away.
"Damnit to hell, keep your hands off me!" Brinkley hissed.
Mason noticed that the soldier looked old, truly old.
"How? Why?"
Mason lit a cigarette. He spoke the three letters with distaste.
"O.P.G."
Brinkley composed himself, and fixed his shirt collar. He stood upright. His stare was hard and cold.
"By all that is holy, Mason, you better get started on a plan to get us out of here. I don't care what it takes, or who dies. But by heavens, I'll fight my way out of here with my fists if I have to."
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