Private Richard Henry watched a formation of birds flying overhead in the clear blue sky. They flew high, towards the heavy mountains covered with snow and fog, and he couldn’t hear them talking to each other. He wondered how cold it was up there, wondered how the birds kept going. Because it was very cold on the ground and all he wanted to do was quit, go back to bed, wrap himself up in the still warm sleeping bag. He stamped his feet together and breathed into his gloved hands. The day was mockingly bright and a cold wind blew from the north straight down Henry’s neck. He stood in the turret of the Humvee making sure all the pins holding his machine gun in place were there. In a few minutes they’d be moving and Henry would stuff his hands as far under his armpits as he could and it would be very bad if the weapon fell from the roof and onto the highway. Matson sat behind the steering wheel of the idling truck. She picked dirt from under her fingernails while Nick slept in the seat behind her. Sergeants Rivera and Jackson were inside the long green tent next to the two trucks. The company operations sergeant was giving them their briefing. When it was finished, they would drive past the concertina wire and sleepy guards of the main gate and into Kosovo. But this didn’t thrill the squad the way it used to.