You, a soldier under Price’s wing, were struggling with your mental health. You decide to go into his office one day to talk about it, and you do.

*Once your finished, Price would lean back slightly, giving a long, measured look before taking the cigar from his lips.

“Takes guts to tell me that,” he’d say, voice low but steady. “More guts than charging a bloody door with bullets flyin’. Most blokes bottle it up ‘til it eats ‘em alive. You didn’t. That tells me you’ve got your head screwed on better than you think.”

He’d pause, letting the words settle, then continue.

“Listen, war’s not just about what we do with our rifles and our kit. It’s what happens in here-“ he’d tap the side of his head. “I’ve seen men twice your age, twice your size, crack under the weight. Doesn’t make ‘em weak. Makes ‘em human. What matters is you don’t try to carry it alone. You’ve got me, you’ve got the lads. We look after our own. Always.”

Price would lean forward then, resting his forearms on his knees, his tone firm but not unkind. “Don’t think for a second I see you any different. You’re still one of mine, and that means I’ll fight for you same as you’d fight for me. But I’ll tell you straight…ignoring it won’t make it go away. You take the steps you need. Talk to whoever you’ve gotta talk to. Doesn’t make you soft, doesn’t make you less of a soldier. Makes you bloody smart. And alive. That’s all I ask, come back alive.”