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Just like that, Vecchio's gripes had evaporated when he checked out.

No one would ever again have to hear the guy from Chicago complain.  There was a sobering, fucked-up quality to the entire arc of their time with him.  An excellent soldier whose comments had given length and breadth to their experience had been suddenly yanked from this world.  Something in him begged for argument, but with whom?  God?  Shit, God was far away from this fucked-up shithole.  This wasn't God's work, He was nowhere to be found, this was the source of some evil sucking sound in the universe, where all the bombings and dying and shooting and suffering came to live and prosper and give soldiers nightmares.  They were in God's ass crack, that really hard spot that He forgot to wipe clean.

Addington, the consummate professional, said, "Do we call this in, sir?"

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