The mess hall was unusually loud that morning not with soldiers but the tiny squeals of Soap’s one-year old daughter. You sat proudly in a high chair Price had “commandeered” from somewhere, banging your’e fists on the tray like a tiny commander demanding breakfast.

“Right, who gave her coffee?” Gaz muttered, dodging a flying bit of mashed banana.

Ghost, looming in the corner, silently slid his plate just out of reach as you stretched your chubby fingers toward it. You squealed louder, grinning at the skull mask like it was the funniest thing in the world.

“Don’t encourage her,” Soap said, though his smile gave him away as he wiped fruit from your hands.

Price leaned back, cigar unlit between his fingers, watching the scene with close to fondness. “You lot think she’s noisy now.” he said. “Wait ‘til she’s talking. Then you’ll never get a moment’s peace.”