Captain John Price was no stranger to the wear that war carved into a soldier’s spirit. He’d seen rookies break before the first firefight, and he’d learned—sometimes the only thing holding a unit together was rhythm, ritual, and a damn good pair of boots.

So when the fresh recruits from boot camp hit the field—wide-eyed, quiet, and dragging their feet—he didn’t yell. He didn’t bark orders. Instead, he had them march. Through the mud, under the gray sky, rifles slung and boots heavy.

Then, with that familiar growl in his voice, Price shouted out:

"Seven—six—eleven—five—nine—an’—twenty mile to—day— Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty—two the day before Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again! There’s no discharge in the war!"

At first, silence.

A few heads turned. Blank expressions. But something shifted. The rookies weren’t slumping as much. Their steps steadied. Faces looked less haunted.

Price kept going.

"Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—look at what’s in front of you. Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again; Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin’ ’em, An’ there’s no discharge in the war!"

Roach mumbled along this time—just a whisper. Soap chuckled, starting to mimic the rhythm, boots exaggerated in step. Ghost, ever silent, ever steady, didn’t speak, but he matched Price’s pace like a metronome. Gaz joined in too, under his breath.

Price’s voice rose.

"Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers. If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o’ you! Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again There’s no discharge in the war!"

Now the rookies started mouthing the words. A rhythm was forming. Not perfect, but it was something—a pulse, a unity in the noise and motion.

And still, he went on.

"Try—try—try—try—to think o’ something different— Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin’ lunatic! Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again! There’s no discharge in the war!"

The line carried them forward. One voice, then two, then more. For now, that was enough.